Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

Gen

Fandoms:

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

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Hayden Pike, Patrice Drapeau, Gilbert Comeau, Jean-Jacques Boiziau | J. J. Dagenais, Original Characters, David Hollander, Yuna Hollander

Additional Tags:

Making Stuff Up About Hockey, Making Stuff Up About Rich People, Making Stuff Up About Finland, Shane's Rookie Season, Autistic Character, Slurs, Ableism, Ableist Language, coming of age story, Family Drama

Language:

English

Series:

Part 2 of Hope You're Not Waiting For Me to Wait For You

Stats:

Published: 2026-08-30 Completed: 2026-10-03 Words: 20,180 Chapters: 4/4

Informed Consent

Summary

Shane Hollander's first year as a Voyageur, from another rookie's point of view.

Chapter 1

Chapter Notes

I outlined this thing to be "10k" words lmao.

This is the first two scenes. I do know how it ends though, but I won't pretend to know how many chapters at this point. I just wanted to get something out before my vacation.

Also, greatest challenge of my writing "career": can I make a billionaire's son a sympathetic character🤔🤔

Henrik Wynn didn't spend time at Elisabet's Wynn's manor very often, so Kalle couldn't miss this chance. He'd already overcome the first obstacle and managed to shake Veiko, his attendant, for the evening by convincing the man that he was tired and wanted to take a nap. Kalle was not a good liar, and he certainly didn't take "naps", but Veiko had nodded and left his chambers. Maybe it was one of those signs his mother Elisabet kept talking about.

He walked towards Henrik's wing of the manor with his back straight, practicing what he planned to say in his head over and over. It's just servants, he told himself. Just look them in the eye and speak firmly. You are Kalle Wynn and you are entitled to speak with your father.

Elisabet also said that he should never displease his father, so it was best to stay away from him. Kalle usually did, and it was not hard. He doubted Henrik thought of him often, if at all, much less mentioned him to his servants. So there was a strong possibility that he would not be recognized by his father's staff.

Such anxious thoughts swirled in his head as passed by the manor's wide hallways. What would he do if he wasn't recognized? He looked at the portraits of his ancestors hanging on the walls. Most of them were blonds, not redheads. His own brother Alvar, who spent a lot more time with Henrik and was in line to seize control of Wynn Enterprises someday, was also a redhead, but a much more subdued hue than Wynn. Closer to a dark blond. He didn't look like Kalle at all.

What if Kalle got into an altercation with Henrik's attendant?

No, he couldn't think like that. It wouldn't do to work himself up into a state before he even made it to his father's wing.

"I will speak to my father," Kalle said to the secretary when he arrived at the anteroom to Henrik's study. He started walking past the oak desk before getting a response.

The secretary--a tall, thin man wearing a suit that looked slightly off paired with a military-style haircut, got up from his chair. "Sir, I have to announce you."

"No, you don't," said Kalle, staring at him. "I am entitled to speak to my father."

The secretary stared at him with narrowed hazel eyes. Kalle held his gaze. He knew he looked odd, not obviously related to Henrik since his hair was a red that seemed "unnatural", according to his mother, and his eyes a glittery shade of green. Kalle had looked in the mirror many times and his eyes looked plain green to him, but a girl in school had said "glittery" once, and he'd liked it. It made him sound special.

"I need to announce you, sir," repeated the secretary.

Ugh. As always, eye contact was bullshit. Kalle turned around without responding and took two quick steps that led him to his father's office. The secretary grabbed his elbow when he walked in and Kalle wrenched away.

"I'm sorry, sir!" the secretary said.

"Kalle?"

Kalle towards the voice and found his brother Alvar.

No. Was Henrik not here? Kalle looked to the side and--yes! There was Henrik.

"He says he's your son," said the secretary.

"He is," said Alvar, much to Kalle's relief.

"You can go," Henrik said to the secretary, with a light wave of his cigar.

The man vanished without another word and, more importantly, without so much as a glance towards Kalle.

Alvar paused and his lips twitched. With a smile? Maybe. He looked more like Henrik--not just because of his hair, but around the face. His eyes were blue, which was more common than green, at least according to Kalle's research on human phenotypes. Henrik's eyes were also blue; the same shade as Alvar's, or so their mother liked to say.

Their beards were similar too, but Kalle supposed that was just grooming. Their mother had tried to make Kalle grow a beard of his own, but facial hair made him want to peel his own cheeks off. Thank goodness he could hardly grow any. Alvar still teased him about it, never mind that Kalle didn't want a beard.

Alvar's figure cut closer to Henrik's as well. He was short, stocky, and had the same famous sweet tooth as their father. Once, he'd complained that it wasn't fair that Kalle had an "effortless athlete's build".

What do you mean effortless? Kalle had said. I am an athlete.

"This one looks like your mother," said Henrik, drawing Kalle's attention back to the present.

"That's because he is my mother's son," said Alvar. "This is Kalle, Father. My younger brother."

"The special one?" said Henrik, raising and eyebrow. "Haven't seen that one in a while."

Three years and a handful of weeks, to be a little more precise. Probably best not to bring that up.

"Come closer," said Henrik.

Kalle listened and came to stand in front of the larger oak desk and held his head high. Hopefully not too high, but high enough that he looked confident. Kalle always felt confident, but he'd learned that it would signal the opposite if he hunched in on himself. Besides, it wasn't good for his posture.

He also learned that if he picked a spot close to someone's eyes--their cheekbones, their ear, their nose--it would look like was staring straight at them. Confidently. The trick was not to spend more than a couple of seconds in one specific spot, because then it was somehow too confident. Or creepy. It was also a bad idea to stare behind someone, even if whatever was behind them was more interesting, like the fancy books on Henrik's bookshelf.

"You've gotten taller and broader," said Henrik.

"Thank you," said Kalle, in case it was a compliment. "Sir."

"He's almost eighteen, Father," said Alvar.

"Good," said Henrik. "I had wondered if he would make it that far."

An insane, utterly incomprehensible thing to say, but Kalle didn't have time to dwell on it now. He opened his mouth.

"How are your studies, boy?" asked Henrik, interrupting Kalle's train of thought.

Kalle blinked carefully. He had to answer the question. He had to be polite. Up until politeness made him look weak. "They are going very well. I am close to finishing my bachelor's degree. Thank you for asking. I'm here to discuss another matter, if I could trouble you for a few minutes of your time."

"Go ahead," said Henrik.

"I would appreciate your support and permission to take a trip to Montreal, Canada in September," said Kalle. "I've been drafted to play professional hockey for the MLH."

"Really?" said Alvar.

"Yes," said Kalle. "The draft occurred thirty-six hours ago and I was invited to the Voyageurs' development camp. If I perform well, I would be offered a provisional three year contract to play for the team."

"But I've been told that you're frail," said Henrik.

"I. . . am not, sir," said Kalle. He couldn't recall anyone ever saying such a thing in front of him, and people often talked about him as though he couldn't hear them. In fact, his attendants often complained that he was too strong, certainly that he was swift. He needed to be to play hockey at the level that he wanted.

"I can confirm, Father," said Alvar.

"Still, a professional sports league. . ." said Henrik.

What? What about it?

"I will not buy you a spot on the team, boy," said Henrik.

"All right," said Kalle. "I ask only for support for the trip in September. If I'm good enough, then I will be hired by the MLH and I'm confident I will make do with the small salary provided for their players."

"And your mother knows of this?"

"No, sir," said Kalle. If he thought she would approve, he would have gone to her. "But I will be eighteen soon and I believe myself capable of making my own decisions."

Henrik looked at Alvar. Some kind of nonverbal communication occurred between them, and then Henrik looked back at Kalle. "I suppose every man deserves an opportunity to prove himself. Tell Veiko to bill me for any expenses. Be sure not to embarrass me, boy."

"Kalle, if you insist on doing this, does it have to be in September?" his mother Elisabet asked him later in a despairing tone. She was a slight woman with hair as red as Kalle's, though it was going white and so she dyed it closer to Alvar's tone. Her eyes, much like Kalle's, were an off-putting green. "The month is crucial for my philanthropic organizing. I simply can't take any time off."

"There's no need, Mother," said Kalle, without looking up from his laptop screen. "I will go with Veiko."

Elisabet went on to protest that it was simply too dangerous for him, like he was going to an active war zone instead of a famous North American city. Kalle rarely knew who she was talking about when she went off about his supposed "difficulties". So he was a little awkward around people (disinterested was a better word, in his opinion, which hardly anyone asked for). With Veiko's assistance, he was perfectly capable of handling his own affairs.

Kalle suffered from stomach pains, but only if he strayed away from the meals that Veiko prepared for him, which he supplemented with plain protein supplements designed by a team of dietitians Elisabet herself had contracted. The feeling of unusual material rubbing against his skin bothered him, but that was why he stuck to the same fabrics in the same styles. He disliked unpredictability, so he followed the schedules he had designed with his coaches.

As for his academic development, that offered no real difficulties, though it was very boring. He'd eliminated his primary educational requirements by the time he was fourteen, hoping to have more time for hockey, but Elisabet had insisted that he needed a university degree. Kalle chose statistics in order to get through his hockey analysis faster and completed the degree in three years.

"And how will you make friends?" Elisabet asked him.

"I don't need friends, Mother," said Kalle, as he scanned a detailed map of Montreal.

He'd managed to play hockey for years in Finland without learning much more than his teammates' names, and even that had been mostly superfluous. He needed to know their positions, and whether or not they were any good. There had been friction occasionally, of course, but no coach wanted to offend Henrik Wynn's son. It was at least part of the reason Kalle was so determined to go to North America and play for the MLH; he suspected his father's money would mean less there. Not nothing--money never meant nothing--but less.

It would help him learn if he was any good. Kalle had assumed so since he won so often, but then another player had spat at him that everyone in the country was afraid to beat him in case it made his daddy mad. Something about the way he'd said it made Kalle wonder if it had been more than just another empty chirp. It'd been the last push he needed to declare for the MLH draft.

As much as he hated to admit it, his mother's concerns were not entirely unwarranted. Kalle did not like new places, new people, or new rules. He certainly didn't like his teammates, not in any team he'd played for, but unfortunately he couldn't play hockey on his own.

And Kalle loved hockey, especially the MLH. He watched every game religiously, compared his own performance to their metrics, and asked his mother to contract former MLH players and coaches to train him. All of them had said he could potentially play professionally, but like his mother always pointed out, of course they would say that. And then they added that he would need their unique, invaluable training. They just wanted his father's money. Wasn't that more likely?

Yes, Kalle hated to admit.

Even his point production was suspect in an environment where other players were afraid to beat him. The only way to know for sure if he was any good was to go somewhere far away. Like the MLH. So Kalle had declared for the draft.

He'd been drafted by Henry Theriault in the later rounds, new head coach for the Montreal Voyageurs. The man had won led three teams to the Stanley Cup during his long career. He was known to be quite picky about which players he selected, but also prone to making wilder choices in the draft itself. Once a rookie made it past his training camp, though, Theriault tended to hold on to them for so long as the MLH salary cap allowed. In interviews, he insisted that building a winning hockey team was impossible without the patience necessary to let players develop their talent.

He was independently wealthy, though not in the way Henrik Wynn was. Few people in the entire world were. Famously, he'd taken a significant salary cut to coach the Voyageurs since he was a Montreal native. In multiple interviews, he'd said that he considered it his life's calling to bring the Stanley Cup to Montreal.

At this point in my life, more money is not what I'm looking for.

In other words, if Theriault said that Kalle was good, then it was true.

Training camp was extremely hard, the hardest thing that Kalle had ever gone through in his entire life. There had been rough moments in the past with the doctors who'd try to figure out why he was such a picky eater, why all sorts of food made him gag and vomit, but nothing quite like this. By which he meant the stink of the locker room and the . . . atmosphere of the communal showers in Montreal.

When he arrived at camp, Kalle had decided to "fit in". Not socially, of course. That was a lost cause. But he was trying not to make too many demands that set him apart from the other players in a negative way, like refusing to use the communal showers or asking for a private room to change in and out of his gear. He was even wearing the same gear that the rest of the players were using, not the custom made versions he'd been using since his early teens. Luckily, the Voyageurs forked over the money for good quality cloth.

The first week had been rough, to the point that Kalle's agility had taken a hit. The coaches had noticed; Kalle was sure of it. Coach body language was the only type he could interpret, and they had not been happy with him.

It was better by now, near the end of week two. Though the stink of body odor and rising steam in the showers was still miserable, at least Kalle knew what to expect. More or less. He made sure to rush to the showers right after practice so he could get the shower head at the farthest end--the one next to the wall--so that he only had to worry about someone taking the one on his other side. If he was lucky and showered quickly, he might make it out of there before the majority of the team filed in.

The first week, Kalle had gone for the shower head closest to the exit, but he'd had to contend with the guys walking past him. Once, one of the veteran players had reached over to pat his shoulder.

"Nice pass today, kid," he'd said. Or something like it.

Kalle had hardly heard it. The feeling of a sweaty hand on the bare skin of his shoulder, no matter how brief, had felt like being prodded with an electrified cattle prod. So. The shower head at the end of the communal showers was the better option, even if it exposed him to faint droplets of liquid when he was making his way out to the locker room proper. It was okay. It had to be okay. Kalle always took a supplemental shower the moment he made it back to his apartment. A proper one.

"You're doing well, Master Kalle?" asked Veiko, the man who'd been taking care of Kalle for as long as he could remember, one evening at the beginning of the third week.

He'd been hired by Elisabet shortly after Kalle learned to walk since, according to her, his nannies hadn't been able to keep up with him. You were always a stubborn boy, clever and mean, and prone to hiding. We just needed someone strong enough to manage you.

"Yes, everything is fine," said Kalle, sparing Veiko only a glance as he kicked off his shoes and ran to his personal bathroom. Everything had to be okay. Kalle had no plan for his life if it turned out that he couldn't play hockey.

He was as calm as he could hope for about an hour later, when he finally made it out to the dining area. Kalle would've preferred to stay in his room, but he absolutely needed to eat no matter how much his belly protested. He needed the calories for tomorrow's drills and--perhaps more importantly--he didn't want Veiko reporting to his mother that he might be having a gastrointestinal flare up.

"Master Kalle," said Veiko, as he set down a plate of steamed carrots, white rice, and plain chicken breast down on the table. "You remember that we can return home whenever you've had enough, correct?"

Kalle held Veiko's gaze. He noticed that the crow's feet at the corner of the man's pale blue eyes were very prominent and was a little surprised. Whenever Kalle thought of Veiko, he remembered a smooth face accompanying his placid expression. Always placid, whether he was passing Kalle some food or holding him down so other people could force pills down his throat. Or inject him with something.

"I remember," said Kalle, picking up a fork.

He always thought of himself as small when he thought of Veiko, but was he? Still?

Veiko was strong, broad shouldered, and agile. During his free time, he used one of the gyms at the Wynn compound to maintain his health and fitness. When Kalle was strength training, he often served as a spotter and even helped correct Kalle's form. On the treadmill and out on the running trail at the compound, Veiko could still best Kalle's time. He wasn't a faster skater, of course, but that didn't matter off the ice.

It wasn't needed whenever he needed to hold Kalle down.

Which had not happened in years. Kalle knew how to control his reactions now. Certainly, he knew the situations when he wouldn't be able to, and he made sure to avoid them. The last time Veiko had needed to restrain him had been more than three years ago, at a school event that had grown overwhelming.

Kalle had grown into what was probably his full adult height since then, not mention put on significant muscle. He was, or at least was on the verge of becoming, a professional athlete. He wasn't a small, screaming, out-of-control child spitting at nannies or teachers anymore.

Veiko, on the other hand, had wrinkles now. Maybe Kalle would be able to fight back.

In the middle of the third week, Theriault had played him with Shane Hollander and Hayden Pike. No one was more surprised the by call than Kalle himself, but luckily, he had what some people called a "resting bitchface" when they thought he couldn't hear them. Or maybe that he couldn't understand English. Kalle hadn't understood those particular words, not exactly, but he'd liked what he'd learned when he looked up the expression.

"Hollander, center," Theriault barked. "Pike, right." He looked at Kalle. "English?"

"Yes, sir," said Kalle.

Theriault nodded and gestured at the ice. "Left."

Kalle took position and listened carefully. More than usual. Hollander was the Voyageurs' future; his spot on the team was guaranteed barring a freak accident. Pike had been a Voyageur for three years already and was one of the more promising young forwards in the Eastern conference. Being tested on the same line as them was the first clear sign that Kalle might not be wasting his time here.

It was the best day of training camp by far. They practiced against Gilbert Comeau, who had John Beaty and Aubrey Williams as his wings, and manged to score six times; Hollander three times, Pike twice, and Kalle also managed two goals. After the second one, Pike skated closer to him and threw an arm around him. Kalle was so thrilled that the unexpected contact didn't even make him want to throw up. Maybe because Pike hadn't touched his skin.

No, it was because the ice made him feel like his body wasn't a cage.

For the next couple of days, Theriault had him on the same line as Hollander and Pike to similar results. On the night of day three, Kalle stood under the spray of warm water from his personal shower at home and made himself consider the possibility that he was dreaming. Maybe he'd gotten a concussion and his mind was comforting him as he died.

Maybe Veiko had grown tired of this little stunt and put something in one of his meals. Maybe he was on a plane back home, where Elisabet would make sure he never got within ten yards of his father ever again.

No, it was real. Kalle got all the reassurance he needed the next day, when he was intercepted by a pair of CHL players at the rink's gym.

"Well, if it isn't the little retard," one of them said, cracking his knuckles.

Right, so he was angry. Kalle spared him a glance--tall and broad, mid-twenties, this was likely his last chance for a spot at an MLH team and he was not doing well. Jealousy, then. He was flanked by the other draftee Theriault had selected, a large boy who had been trying for a position as D-man. He would not get it, but since he was hardly competing with Kalle for one, it was rather unfair that he also seemed pissed off.

Kalle tried to walk around them.

The older guy grabbed his shirt and opened his mouth. Kalle elbowed him, taking advantage of the brief shock he caused to wrench away and rush towards the weights.

"Fucker!" yelled the wannabe D-man. He would be a much better fighter.

Kalle grabbed the lightest weight and stood behind the rack. The mirror was close, creating a small passageway, which might or might not work out for him. Less room to maneuver, but also less room for them both to grab at him.

"Little bitch," said the vet. "We just want to talk."

"I don't want to talk to you," said Kalle. "And I can defend myself." These assholes were nothing compared to Veiko.

Much to Kalle's relief, he didn't have to test that theory. Shane Hollander chose that moment to enter the gym, followed by his usual entourage.

"What's going on?" he asked.

"Shane!" said the vet. "We're just talking."

Kalle committed the guy's face to memory, set down the weight, and walked out from behind the rack. He left the gym without a word, not looking at anyone in the face. His resting bitchface had likely morphed into a full blown scowl. Success attracts envy, he told himself. Inside his head, he sounded like Alvar.

That day, Theriault had him play as Hollander's right wing. Kalle hated to start at any position besides left wing, but it wasn't one of the things that made him freeze up. Thank God. He didn't want to imagine how Theriault would react if some low tier prospect started arguing with him in the middle of practice.

Though starting in a different spot than usual threw him off his game a bit, the day still went well. Hockey was so fast, even during scrimmages, that Kalle had no choice but to be drawn into the rhythm of it. He wanted to be; it was the only time that being a group didn't feel like torture. It was, he bet, what most people felt like all the time.

By now, he was used to how Pike and Hollander moved. When they moved. Pike liked passing--yes, right then, he accepted a pass. Kalle skated past the D-man hopeful who'd tried cornering in the gym, passed to Hollander. And score! He arranged his face into a grin and looked at his bully.

Sometime later, Theriault called for a thirty minute break. Players broke off into their little groups. Kalle skated to the edge of the rink and fell to his knees, intending to stretch. Honestly, he wanted to take off his helmet and lay flat on his back so the ice could help him cool off, but he'd been told that it was a weird thing to do.

A few minutes later, none other than Shane Hollander himself skated over. "Hi," he said, smiling down at Kalle.

"Hi," Kalle responded automatically, looking around for Hollander's friends.

They were not with him. Pike was play wrestling with J. J. Boiziau while Patrice Drapeau and John Beaty looked on with bored expressions. At least Kalle assumed it was play wrestling. Gilbert Comeau was trying to separate them, but he was also chuckling.

"Listen," said Hollander. "The guys and I are gonna watch a movie tonight and I was wondering if you'd like to join us."

"Why?"

"Uh. . ." Hollander seemed to taken aback. He stared down at Kalle with furrowed eyebrows. "What do you mean?"

"Why were you wondering?" said Kalle.

"Uh. . ." Hollander closed his mouth. They stared at each other for a few moments. "I mean. . . it's like. . . a thing that you say. In English, it's a way to invite someone to hang out."

Kalle kept looking at him.

"I mean, do you want to hang out with us?" said Hollander.

"No," said Kalle.

It was almost funny, the way Hollander's mouth fell open. Shock. Kalle could recognize expressions sometimes.

"Um," said Hollander, raising a gloved hand, as if to touch his face. Then, he looked at the glove let his hand drop. "Wow, okay. I'll just go back to my, uh. . . group."

"No, wait," said Kalle, getting up. In all honesty, he wanted to go home and stand under his shower head until his usual headache eased, but he'd drawn some bullies' attention. If possible, he should stick with a crowd. "I misunderstood." Let Hollander think Kalle wasn't fluent in English. "What movie?"

"I don't know," said Hollander. "Comeau said something about Vikings. Or ninjas. Something like that."

"Okay," said Kalle. "Where?"

"I'll come find you after practice," said Hollander.

Hollander Family

Yuna Hollander
honey how did it go?
did you invite that boy to the movie?

Shane Hollander
yeah
it was fine

David Hollander
great
I hope you're less worried about him

Shane Hollander
yeah I think I was fretting for no reason
Drapeau looked him up and it turns out his family is ultra wealthy

Yuna Hollander
most MLH prospects come from well off families

Shane Hollander
no I don't mean well off
he's from the third richest family in Finland

David Hollander
in *all* of Finland?

Shane Hollander
yeah like third or second
something crazy like that

Yuna Hollander
is he a Wynn as in from Wynn Enterprises?

Shane Hollander
looks like
he doesn't talk much but he's mentioned an "attendant"
he said that MLH players get a "small salary"

David Hollander
that sounds wild
what does his family do?

Yuna Hollander
a lot of things but I imagine most of their money comes from owning a majority Finland's supermarkets and grocery stores

Shane Hollander
that checks out
anyway Comeau says he's probably weird because he's like modern royalty or something

David Hollander
I hope he's not rude

Shane Hollander
nah
I mean kind of?
but he's not mean or anything just really quiet
and *really* good at hockey

Yuna Hollander
he is?
I'm surprised we didn't see more of him in junior majors

Shane Hollander
I asked him about that and apparently his family made him go to college
he has a degree in statistics

David Hollander
how old is this boy?

Shane Hollander
18
anyway I think Theriault is gonna pick him
hopefully for my line because it's insane how good he is
I can't wait to face off against Rozanov with this guy on my left

Chapter End Notes

I'm latigrat at tumblr

Chapter 2

Chapter Notes

I'm back from vacation!!!!

And I'm overwhelmingly behind in answering comments and trying to figure out how to approach them atm, but I am reading your comments and I think I will start by answering the ones that have questions in some type of order. I'm happy to have so many readers but realistically, I need to examine my policy of answering everyone because I have a full time job and only so many hours of free time unfortunately.

Content notes at end notes.

"I will be going with you to the Pikes' home," Veiko said two days later, on the Saturday morning that Kalle announced he had plans.

For a brief moment, Kalle considered arguing against it. He would bet. . . something important, maybe a spot on the team, that none of the other guys would not have an attendant with them. It would be weird. Kalle was weird, but there were levels to these things. 'Needs an attendant with him at all times' was next level. An extreme level. One that he had yet to reach in Montreal.

It'd been a challenge to convince Veiko (or his mother, to be more accurate) to stay at the suite while Kalle was off at training. What if Kalle had an episode surrounded by North American jocks who had no idea who he was? What if Kalle was injured and taken to some random hospital in Montreal to be pawed at by common students? What if he had a bad reaction to some electrolyte concoction passed to him by a poorly educated MLH coach?

Kalle had been adamant that he knew exactly what to expect and that none of it would hurt him. They would give him water, Gatorade, and plain whey protein to supplement rice, chicken, and salmon meals. The whey protein was the most concerning, but Kalle had emailed MLH staff prior to even going to his father and confirmed that he would be allowed to bring his own protein supplements. They'd even asked the relevant nutritional information so the team dietitians could incorporate it into his meal plans.

Interacting with the other players and prospects had worried him more, but Kalle couldn't control that. He'd taken a leap of faith, both in his own skills and everyone else's determination to treat the month like the most important job interview in their lives. He didn't need to make friends, just to be ignored. He preferred to be ignored, most of the time.

It'd played out like that while he'd been struggling with. . . the usual stuff with his sense of smell and his sensitive skin. Everyone had assumed he would wash out, Kalle included, though he'd forced himself to ignore a growing sense of despair. He knew himself by now, and what sorts of things he could push through. Weird smells at the locker room and the occasional frisson of unwanted touch. Stray droplets of water hitting him--those things, he could ignore. Eventually.

And he had gotten used to them. Faster than he'd hoped, actually. The fact that Theriault had noticed his skills and started playing him with Hollander and Pike was proof enough. Since he had kept doing it, Kalle could say without pride that he'd been doing really well.

He was good at hockey. That was something he knew the same way he knew when he needed to wear a thin layer of fabric because the feeling of wind on his arms felt like sand paper rubbing against his skin. The real challenge began now. Bullies had already noticed him. He would either have to join a pack, or spend the rest of his time with the Voyageurs watching his back.

But Veiko would have to come along to the movie, of course.

Kalle couldn't help but worry about it. Back home, around the time he turned twelve or so, other kids had stopped inviting him to things once they realized that no matter what, Veiko would be hanging around him like a shadow. His mother insisted that it had to be that way because Kalle's father was an important, wealthy man, but no attendant followed Alvar everywhere.

Regardless, Kalle hadn't pressed the issue. The truth was that he hadn't liked being around his stupid classmates anyway and if Veiko's mere presence kept them away, then good riddance. Now, he wasn't sure he wanted the same thing to happen with the Voyageurs.

"I think I can do this by myself," he said to Veiko when they were both in the car.

"No, Master Kalle," said Veiko. "This is a new, strange place."

It's a hockey player's family home, Kalle didn't say. It didn't matter how safe and boring Pike's home was supposed to be. Some innocuous thing or other might send Kalle into a fit, and then he would be glad that Veiko was around to get it under control. To get him under control.

It turned out that the Pikes' home was rather small--three floors total and maybe a little over two acres for a backyard. Whoever had decorated the place had simple tastes and preferred soft colors that didn't clash with creams and white. There weren't flowers everywhere stinking up the place. A tour of the place, assuming chitchatting was kept to a minimum, could be done in a few minutes. No cart would be needed.

It was cozy, though. Warm in every corner, loud in a way that was probably welcoming for people who liked to hear guys roughhousing. Jackie Pike, Hayden's beautiful wife, had led Kalle and Veiko to what looked like a mini entertainment chamber facing the backyard. The outermost wall was made of floor-to-ceiling glass doors that gave them a stunning view of the setting sun. Pike had drawn light-blocking curtains before Drapeau started the movie.

It was set in feudal Japan. Some version of it, anyway. Kalle watched, more interested than he'd expected he would be. There was a samurai that might be dressed in a period-accurate way and also a really cool ninja character. The two met at a Japanese garden at night and battled under the light of the full moon. The only splash of color came from pink cherry blossoms all around them.

From what (admittedly little) Kalle knew of Japan, if ninja had indeed existed, they had not dressed in all black outfits. He wondered if the guys knew that.

"Shane, have you ever been there?" asked Comeau, gesturing at the screen. Much to Kalle's annoyance. He'd been enjoying the relative silence since the movie started.

"A couple of times," said Hollander. "But I don't remember much because I was little. My grandparents wanted me to go more often, but it was hard to find time once I got serious about hockey."

"Can we put subtitles?" asked Kalle. If they were going to start chitchatting, then he would need them.

The movie's big twist turned out to be that the samurai and the ninja were brothers being tested by their father, the shogun of the region. He was evil, of course, and by the end of the film, the brothers had joined forces to remove him from power. The final shot of the film showed food and supplies being delivered to the small village that the ninja brother had been protecting.

"Aw man, that sucked," said Comeau, when the credits rolled.

Kalle didn't think so. It'd been beautiful, and the music and subtitles meant that he was rarely confused about what the characters were saying to each other.

"I thought it was cool," said Pike. "Those fight scenes were awesome. Fuck, I wish I could be a ninja."

"I think the samurai was cooler," said Drapeau. "I liked his outfits. Sometimes I get a little jealous that chicks get to wear cool clothes and we have to stick to boring suits all the time now."

"Bro, chicks are not the ones stopping you from developing a sense of style," said Boiziau. "How about you try a burgundy suit with some silver cufflinks next time you take one of your classy bunnies to the opera or whatever?"

"I would look like shit in burgundy," said Drapeau.

"Besides, who would want to look like some flamboyant clown?" said Thompson, one of the veteran Voyageur D-men.

"I mean it sucked that the ninja stole the geisha from his brother," said Comeau.

She had not been a geisha. Kalle opened his mouth to correct Comeau, but Beaty jumped in. "The ninja was cooler," he said.

"He was a dick," said Comeau. "Of course the chick would go for him."

"Stop projecting, Gil," said Pike. "I don't think the samurai cared about the geisha anyway. He just wanted to get his dad's approval, and his dad was dick. He needed to grow up and help the people of the village."

"The shogun was in an impossible situation," said Thompson. "The village's crops failed and they had no back up plan, so how was it his fault that they started robbing everyone? Was he supposed not to send the ancient police after them?"

"Yeah, but were they supposed to starve?" said Pike. "He was their leader; he should've helped."

"What about all the other villages that handled their business better?" said Thompson.

"And this ninja fuck stole his brother's girl," said Comeau, before Kalle could jump in to point out that letting an entire village collapse would destabilize a region, as had happened in the film.

"The samurai was into his ninja brother's sidekick anyway," said Drapeau.

"There was a ninja chick?" asked Mitch Denk, one of the rookie forwards.

The conversation was moving too quickly for Kalle, as it often happened in groups, so he couldn't participate. Why did they keep changing the subject and talking over each other? Was no one else bothered?

"No, the little short ninja dude," said Drapeau. Everyone turned to look at him. "What?"

"You saying the samurai was gay?" asked Comeau.

"It was strongly hinted by the framing of their scenes," said Drapeau. "Like when the little ninja dude was introduced, the scene was from the main samurai's point of view--the camera was looking at what he was seeing--and it was panning over the little ninja while he handled that. . . canoe thing, and the sun was behind him. And the camera panned over his sweaty neck and his mouth when he sipped the sake."

"Bro," said Pike.

"Are you saying the little ninja was hot?" demanded Thompson.

"I'm saying the movie obviously wants the audience to recognize that he's intended to be hot," said Drapeau.

Yes, Kalle saw the logic. He often struggled to identify what exactly made someone "hot", but he understood that professional actors usually were.

"Why are you guys looking at me like that?" asked Drapeau. "Do you idiots not know how to interpret a pretty basic film? Visuals were okay and the actors were trying, but the dialogue was shit and the plot was extremely predictable."

"The dialogue was in Japanese, so how would you know?" said Beaty.

"Because of the subtitles, dumbass!"

"That's just the subtitles; you can't assume it's a good translation," said Beaty. "Shane, how did the dialogue sound to you?"

"Same as you guys," said Hollander. "I don't speak Japanese."

"How do you know it was sake?" Kalle asked Drapeau.

"What?" asked Drapeau.

"Dude," said Comeau, before Kalle could restate his question. "Why would the director make it gay?"

"I don't know," said Drapeau, shrugging. "But you have to understand, there's a lot of people in film production who are very gay so all movies have a bunch of gay stuff in the background. It's easy to see, if you know what you're looking for."

"That's true," said Thompson. "Hollywood is completely overrun by the alphabet mafia."

"Bro, this was a foreign film," said Boiziau. "It was made in Japan, duh."

"Whatever, guys," said Hollander. "Movie was cool, but I'm getting hungry."

"Oh, right," said Pike, jumping to his feet. "Let me go check with Jackie to make sure the food's ready."

That seemed to end the conversation about the film. Kalle was a little disappointed that he didn't get to ask his clarifying questions, but he knew better than to try and force the guys to go back to a subject they all decided to drop, for some strange reason. Maybe it really was a simple as shifting their attention to their upcoming meal. Kalle himself couldn't help but fret about the food.

Was it worth it to risk trying something on the table? The scents weren't too strong, sans a meat dish at the center, and there were a few plates that showed simple-appearing foods. They would be intended as dipping material, or small side dishes, but Kalle might get away with eating them by themselves. He hoped that no one would try forcing him to try something "just to make sure" he wouldn't like it.

"I have food allergies," said Kalle, when Mitch Denk's wife tried to cajole him into eating Jackie Pike's homemade yogurt with some fresh berries.

"Oh," she said, retreating a bit. She laid the plate of berries on the table, giving Kalle hope that she would stop trying to serve him the fruits. "I'm sorry. Are there any fruits here you can eat?"

Kalle tried not to frown. He wasn't actually allergic to anything--his doctors had checked--but fruits were dangerous. Even the ones he could eat, like grapes, had to be just right. They couldn't be too soft or too watery, and God help Kalle if they hadn't been washed property. The feeling of microscopic grains of something on the surface would make him vomit all over himself. And if there were any seeds. . . Kalle felt himself getting nauseous just imagining it.

It was just safer for him not to eat fresh fruits.

"Allergies can be really complicated so let's give him some space, okay?" said Jackie Pike, sparing Kalle from having to come up with an excuse. "Just let him pick what he wants to try."

Kalle could have kissed her. He meant metaphorically, of course. It wasn't worth imagining what it my feel like to touch such a wet part of another person's body. The point was, Jackie Pike's declaration worked like a magic charm to keep people off his back about what ate: only yogurt, which was not a popular dish. Not by itself. The taste was unobtrusive, likely to allow for the fruits and granola that were supposed to go with it to shine through.

Most importantly, at least for Kalle, was its smooth, even texture and density throughout. There were no granules or sudden burst of flavor to surprise Kalle and once he was confident of that, he kept getting additional servings.

"I'm glad you're enjoying it," said Jackie Pike, after he went for a fourth plate.

"It's good," said Kalle.

"Isn't bland by itself?" asked Daryl Grant, another of the veteran D-men.

Kalle shrugged. "I like it." It wasn't every day he could squeeze in extra calories so easily. He looked towards Jackie Pike. "Could I ask for the recipe?"

"Yes, of course," she said, smiling. "I'm always experimenting with my recipes and yogurts are my specialty. I'll definitely let you know if I come up with any other variations too."

"Thank you," said Kalle, turning slightly to get Veiko's attention. The man stepped forward and Kalle switched to Finnish. "Please ask her contact information before we leave."

"Yes, Master Kalle."

Kalle only noticed the awkward silence when he turned back to his plate and saw that everyone was looking his way.

Right. Most people didn't have an attendant with them at all times. Kalle scanned the table, trying to interpret if anyone was offended or angry, or just confused. He might as well try to become telepathic.

Damn it. Why had he drawn attention to Veiko? The man had done a remarkable job of disappearing into the background shortly after Kalle had introduced him to the Pikes.

"Anyway," said Jackie Pike, with a big smile. "I also have three flavors of ice cream for dessert." She went on to describe them with flourish and within the minute, everyone seemed to forget about Veiko again.

Later in the evening, Kalle had a chance to speak with Jackie Pike a little more. She told him that cooking was one of her great passions, which was great, but Kalle mostly wanted to know more about her yogurts. There weren't many foods he could eat in large quantities without issue. He hesitated for a moment, then said as much to Jackie in case he was coming off as rude.

"I understand," said Jackie, which was what most people said even though they never did. "I have a younger sister with. . . uh, she has a lot of issues with food texture and flavors, which is why I got into cooking in the first place."

"She does?" said Kalle, trying not to get too hopeful. People had claimed to understand before, and then almost immediately insisted that he ought to be able to 'ignore' the occasional slightly-sour slice of mango or something and then somehow, magically, he would get 'used' to trying new foods.

"Yes," said Jackie. "I know how unpredictable and annoying this whole thing can be, but I also know how great it is to find a safe food."

A safe food, yes. Kalle didn't think he'd used the term before, but it felt perfect. The foods that were bad couldn't be 'ignored'. They weren't safe.

In any case, Kalle made sure to avoid Jackie Pike after that. The last thing he needed was to give Pike the impression that he was trying to steal his girl, which he'd done in the past with other teammates' girlfriends by talking to them all evening during a group activity. Kalle only wanted the yogurt recipes.

A few days before the end of camp, one of Theriault's assistant coaches intercepted Kalle on the way to the showers. "Theriault wants to see you."

Kalle gritted his teeth. He wanted to shower immediately; now that he wasn't focused on maintaining his speed at the treadmill, the feeling of sweat drying on his skin was like acid. It was itchy, disgusting; he was sure his skin would be red and raw whenever he finally managed to clean himself.

No, he knew it wouldn't be. He needed to calm down.

Pull yourself together, he told himself and nodded at the assistant coach. They'd been at the gym today, working on cardiovascular conditioning, so he didn't even have the excuse of needing to remove his gear. What did a little sweat matter at a time like this?

Had he done something wrong during practice? Kalle didn't think so. He'd been linemates with Hollander and Pike all week and did a few runs with Hollander and Boiziau in a PK unit. His point production, though not where it'd been back home, had risen above the eightieth percentile among the prospective players, trailing third to Hollander and Pike. Going by the numbers alone, he was basically guaranteed a spot of the team.

Going by other metrics, such as integration with the team social dynamics, well. . . that was more difficult for Kalle to assess. He thought he was doing quite well. Movie night at the Pikes' had felt like a success, at least to Kalle, and since he'd been drawn into Hollander's little group afterwards, he figured it had been successful. No one had tried to bully him since.

As the assistant coach held the door to Theriault's office open for him, Kalle wondered if he hadn't failed in some arcane social ritual that was beyond him. He'd been trailing Hollander's group around, sure, but had he been too quiet? Had he failed to manufacture follow up questions to vapid small talk one too many times? Had he insulted someone? Had he made too much eye contact? Not enough eye contact?

Theriault wouldn't care about any of that, only about his skills. Mentally squaring his shoulders, Kalle entered the office. The assistant coach did not go in with him.

The first thing he noticed, even before Theriault himself, was the tall, broad man standing next to him. Kalle scanned him for an ID and spotted one hanging by his belt. He was too far away to make out the name, but he spotted 'MD' next to whatever it was. One of the team doctors? Kalle looked at his face. It wasn't one he recognized.

Theriault spared Kalle a glance and gestured at him to sit. The Voyageurs' coach was long and thin, with a posture that tended to fold in on itself as the day went on. His hair was solid white, but far from thinning. He had a thick white mustache that made Kalle squirm with discomfort--how was the man not constantly scratching at his upper lip?--but overall, Kalle liked him.

Though Theriault yelled like any coach, he wasn't the type to get physical. He didn't grab their necks or get close to their face to scream at them when they messed up, nor did he ruffle their hair or pat their shoulders when they did well. His critiques were detailed, pointed, and useful, while his praises were brief. Comeau complained that they only knew they were doing well when Theriault ignored them, but Kalle liked that.

"So, is the autism going to be a problem?" Theriault asked without preamble.

Kalle looked up, trying to process the question. Was it directed at him? Whose autism?

"Answer me, boy," said Theriault.

"I . . . don't know," admitted Kalle.

Theriault made a noise that might signal frustration; Kalle couldn't tell. His heart was pounding in his chest. Inside his sneakers, his toes curled. All his muscles were bracing themselves for a fight.

"Why did you lie on your draft form?" asked Theriault.

"I did not," said Kalle. Not intentionally, at least.

"You said that you had no medical conditions that would hinder your ability to do this job," said Theriault.

"And I don't," said Kalle. He was particular about certain things; true, but he could fucking play hockey. Had he not proved that over the last few weeks?

"Then why do your medical records from Finland say you're autistic?" demanded Theriault.

Kalle recalled that he'd signed a release form allowing the Voyageurs' team doctors to petition for his medical records. At the time, he'd worried that the hospital would not be cooperative.

"Sir," said the doctor. "It's entirely possible that he did not know. Some parents choose not to disclose the diagnosis to their children."

"Why not?" asked Theriault.

Good fucking question.

"Only his parents would know," said the doctor. "He is low-to-moderate support needs, so they might have thought not informing him would help him integrate with his peers. Perhaps they didn't believe the diagnosis."

No, they'd believed it. Elisabet had believed it, at least. Henrik might not have been informed--no. He knew too. What had he called Kalle the last time Kalle saw him? The special one.

"Whatever," said Theriault, to the doctor. "The important thing now is if this going to be a problem in the future."

"In what way, sir?" asked the doctor.

"You're the doctor; you tell me," said Theriault. "Doesn't autism make them retards?"

"Sir, we don't use that word anymore," said the doctor, wincing.

"Fine, doesn't it make them special needs?" said Theriault.

Special. Kalle was special.

"I don't want players with special needs," Theriault continued, sneering. "But so far, this one doesn't seem to have any. He's a little quiet, sure, but I prefer the quiet ones."

Veiko definitely knows, thought Kalle.

"Sir, the coaches haven't indicated that he requires any specific accommodations," said the doctor.

First call to the private shower, Kalle thought, through the fog threatening to overtake him. He didn't require, though. It would just be nice to have it.

"My oldest daughter has a son with autism," said Theriault. "I told her not to marry the loser she married--he plays for Winnipeg. Winnipeg! His point production is abysmal! They haven't made the playoffs in a decade."

"Terrible, sir," said the doctor, like that was relevant to the conversation at hand.

"The kid bangs his head against the wall any time he's mad," said Theriault. "He needs to wear a helmet all day long, but he hates the helmet. Is this one going to pull some kind of nonsense like that?"

"Unlikely, sir," said the doctor. "I've discussed the matter with your assistants, and he hasn't tried to self harm or shut down during camp, at least not in a noticeable way. And they tell me camp is quite demanding."

"True," said Theriault, stroking his chin. "But it's nothing compared to a full season of professional hockey. I can't risk one of my players having an episode in the middle of a game."

"That's a risk you take with all of us," said Kalle, right as the doctor opened his mouth.

Theriault looked at him and Kalle forced himself to look back. He had to get through this. Nothing had changed--it wasn't like he hadn't been autistic three minutes ago and now he was. If he was; Kalle would look into it later.

"Any player can become injured during or between games," said Kalle. "Last season, seven percent of rookies did not return to the league, either by choice or because they were not signed. There were a total of three-hundred-and-four injuries that put players on injury reserve, seven of them for the entire season."

"That's all different than ending up in a psych ward," said Theriault.

Kalle didn't see how, but he sensed it wasn't a viable route to take the argument. "I've never been in a psych ward."

Theriault made a noise that Kalle didn't bother to try and interpret.

"I know I can do this," lied Kalle. He was reasonably certain he could do this, but people didn't appreciate precision of language like he did. "I'm an exceptional hockey player. You've seen it yourself."

Theriault turned back to the doctor. "I want him properly evaluated by the right kind doctor. Run all the blood tests and scans necessary to verify how much of an issue this is."

"Sir, there are not blood tests or scans," said the doctor. "He had a physical at the start of camp and was as healthy as all the other prospects."

"Is he healthy or is he autistic?" demanded Theriault.

"Autism is not that type of disease," said the doctor. "It's a classification of neurodevelopmental and psychiatric conditions."

"What the fuck--" Theriault paused. "Wynn, you're dismissed."

"Permanently?" asked Kalle. He couldn't leave this office not knowing if he was out of the running or not.

"No, be here tomorrow at seven hundred hours like usual," said Theriault.

Kalle nodded, stood up, and walked out of the office, careful not to rush. He couldn't look like he was prone to "episodes".

But he was, wasn't he? That was why he needed Veiko with him at all times, in case something set him off and he scratched his own eyes out. Kella had never "banged his head against a wall", but. . . Or maybe he had, when he was younger. There had been many times when something had happened and Veiko held him down until he either passed out, or the doctors got to him. A memory--multiple memories--of Alvar hit him like lightning.

Did you hit your head again, Kalle?

It didn't matter what he'd done before, only what he was doing now. And he sure as fuck wasn't banging his head against a wall.

Hollander Family

Shane Hollander
tomorrow we know who made the roster

David Hollander
we know you'll make it, son!

Shane Hollander
yes of course
I'm a little nervous about who else will
I wish I could tell Theriault my opinion

David Hollander
couldn't you?

Yuna Hollander
of course not
he's a rookie honey
but Theriault is experienced so I'm sure they'll be the best of the group

Shane Hollander
yeah me too
I hope I get Wynn though

Yuna Hollander
didn't you say he's one of the best prospects?

Shane Hollander
yeah but he seemed weird yesterday

David Hollander
and you noticed?

Shane Hollander
yeah
I don't know why but a lot of the guys don't like him
he's just quiet
not sure what their problem is

Yuna Hollander
jealousy probably

David Hollander
has anyone said anything to you Shane?

Shane Hollander
no
kind of
just that he'd really weird and stupid
not regular stupid like the r-word

Yuna Hollander
that's terrible honey
but I would've thought hockey players say that to each other a lot

Shane Hollander
yeah but it's different with him

David Hollander
different how?

Shane Hollander
I don't know
maybe I'm just imagining things
I'll let you guys know how it goes

Chapter End Notes

Not sure how to describe this, except lots of medical gaslighting and withholding of medical information from Wynn by his family. About his autism diagnosis and who exactly Veiko is and what he was hired for.

Thompson's here too.

I'm latigrat at tumblr.

Chapter 3

Chapter Notes

I'm back! Just needed some time to get situated after my vacation.

I forgot to say, I decided I'm going to approach comments on a case by case basis. I used to answer them one by one, but now I have an inbox that's intimidating and I was feelnling rushed and like I was answering everyone mechanically instead of taking care and giving each comment some thought.

So I decided I will answer comments when I think of something beyond "thank you". No particular order or preference, just depending on when I run into them.

Thank you all for understanding.

"How was your day, Master Kalle?" asked Veiko, when he made it to the suite, less than an hour after the meeting with Theriault.
Kalle swallowed a scream and stared straight at Veiko's clear blue eyes. Veiko knew; there was no way he didn't know. He'd known the entire time and let Kalle get on a plane to North America. Had he been confident that Kalle would wash out? Had Alvar? Was everyone who knew him laughing at the notion that he might survive a month competing against people who weren't afraid to beat him?

Do you think I have a shot? Kalle had asked Veiko, when he'd been considering the MLH draft form.

What would it hurt to try? Veiko had said.

He'd known back then, what would happen if Henry Theriault asked to see Kalle's medical records.

"Master Kalle?"

"The day was fine," said Kalle. "Lighter than normal, in fact. I would like to spar before dinner."

"Of course," nodded Veiko.

Moments later, Kalle stood under a spray of hot water in his shower, trying to decide if he should request his medical records as well. Just to see what exactly Theriault had been reading. He was eighteen and had all legal rights and responsibilities of an adult in his country.

Later, after an hour of getting pinned to the mat by Veiko despite his best efforts, Kalle decided against it. He knew that every sentence in his medical records would upset him, or at least remind him of some of the worst moments of his life. If he'd thought to review them before coming to Montreal, when he might have had the chance to push through his discomfort, he might've learned something of value for training camp.

But he hadn't, and now he had a mere three days to convince Theriault that he wasn't a lost fucking cause. Nothing has changed, Kalle told himself. You are the same person you were this morning.

Veiko stopped applying pressure against his shoulder joint and hummed, drawing Kalle's attention back to the threat of pain gnawing at his shoulder ligaments. Kalle grunted and tapped his attendant's shoulder in defeat. Was Veiko his attendant? Or was the man something more sinister?

"Are you all right, Master Kalle?"

"Fine." Kalle rolled his shoulder and looked down at his feet. Veiko was his mother's servant. He'd told Kalle only what she'd wanted him to know. "Have an extra serving of protein supplement ready this evening. I have to shower again."

Next morning, Theriault told the team that they would be running drills for two more days and then he would be meeting with his assistant coaches to select which players would make up the core team for the season. They could have the final day of the month to themselves and everyone who wasn't a Montreal native should go and stroll around in the city in case it was the last chance they got to visit.

Maybe Kalle would do just that. He'd only left his suite to come to the rink and for the party at the Pikes'.

He spent the last two days running drills with Hollander and Pike, which might have made him hopeful if the meeting with Theriault hadn't been playing on loop in his mind since it'd happened. Not while he was on the ice, though, where he had to be so fast and focused that he couldn't spend any cognitive energy on his stupid medical records. Hollander was insanely fast and seemed to expect his wingers to act as extensions of his will on the ice.

Pike had the benefit of two years of experience and gift for passing the puck, which Kalle was at least keeping up with. He'd never played hockey at this level--struggling to keep up with his linemates instead of slowing down to match them. He was trailing behind Hollander in goals and behind Pike in successful passes, but at least he was evading or pushing through more checks. The D-men had identified him as the weak link of the line and were acting accordingly.

Not that they could stop him. Kalle was used to taking hits, to pushing past pain and discomfort. His body hitting the board hardly registered as far as shocks went. The glare of the opposing forwards and sneers of the D-man supporting them would not keep him from chasing the puck.

Which Kalle could only hope was evident to Theriault and his staff. It had to be. They must realize how agile and skilled he was, how he evaded the frantic prospects who could see that they weren't keeping up with him.

"You got plans for tomorrow?" Hollander asked him on the final day, as he was putting on his sneakers as fast as he could in the locker room.

"No," said Kalle.

He realized he should have lied when Hollander kept talking. "Well, Hayden's having another party at his place--something casual, to celebrate that training camp is over. You wanna to come?"

"I. . ." Kalle hesitated. The truth was that life after training camp was gaping blank in his mind. He did have a plan for tomorrow, actually. To stay in his room staring at the ceiling, trying not to panic. "Fine. I'll be there. What time?"

"Not sure yet," said Hollander. "I'll let you know."

In the end, Theriault picked him for the first line, together with Shane Hollander and Hayden Pike. It really shouldn't have surprised him, but Kalle was stunned. So much so that he remained frozen on his seat in the conference room where Theriault made his announcement, missing the rest of the roster altogether, until Pike approached him to throw an arm around him. Hollander was right behind him, grinning. A happy grin, hopefully.

"Boys, we're gonna kill it this season!" said Pike. He leaned back, thank fucking God, before Kalle had to push him off. "I feel it in my bones."

"Yeah, I can't wait until we get some real matches under our belt," said Hollander, gesturing at his phone screen. "The pre-season schedule looks good; we're playing the Kings first--three days from now. Our first MLH game! And against the reigning champions."

The Kings. In Los Angeles? In California? Kalle had prayed it would be a Voyageurs home game, not that it would matter. Sooner or later, he would have to go to Los Angeles. And Miami. And New York City. And Vancouver. And Calgary. He would have to visit every North American city with an MLH team. He had so much research to do.

"Your first MLH game, rook!" said Pike, ruffling Hollander's dark hair.

"You're technically a rookie too," said Hollander, elbowing Pike. "This is only your third season."

"And it's messed up that we're up against the champions," said Pike. "We were a bottom tier team last season!"

"No, it's great," said Hollander. "This is a chance to prove ourselves right off the bat."

"I have to go," said Kalle, standing up.

"Go where?" asked Pike. "Coach said he's sending the guys who didn't make it home, but the rest of us begin 'real training' today."

"Right," said Kalle, blinking. He sat back down, head spinning. "Never mind. It can wait."

He should've started researching every relevant North American city the moment he decided to declare for the MLH draft. The stadiums, their locker rooms, which hotels the MLH contracted. Should Kalle forward the game schedule to Veiko so he could begin making appropriate reservations at the most suitable hotels? Should he call Elisabet and ask her to loan him one of the family private jets?

No. Kalle mentally shook himself. The whole point was to be more independent - to become a person outside of the golden cage that his mother had built for him. He could get on a regular plane with a bunch of MLH players and share a clean--a relatively clean--hotel room with a teammate. He could make use of the communal showers and guest locker rooms in professional stadiums.

He could play hockey.

"You didn't think I'd be able to do it," said Kalle, later that evening, as Veiko served him his plain dinner.

"I couldn't have known one way or the other, Master Kalle," said Veiko.

But he must have made a prediction, just as Kalle had. He'd just had better information.

"Theriault asked for my medical records about a week ago," said Kalle. "He called me into his office to ask why I'd lied about my autism."

Veiko continued to lay out his plated steamed vegetables without a hint of hesitation. If he noticed Kalle staring at him, he didn't acknowledge it.

"All my life, I wondered what was wrong with me," said Kalle. "I used to ask you what was wrong with me. And all my life, you knew the answer."

"If I had told you, then your mother would have dismissed me, Master Kalle."

"Bullshit." Kalle wanted to spit at him. "You could've explained that to me, that it had to stay between us."

"I also agreed with your mother that it would be best not to limit you with the diagnosis," said Veiko.

"Limit me," repeated Kalle.

"The doctors insisted that there would be certain milestones that you would never reach," said Veiko, offering him an indecipherable look. "Look at you now - a college graduate and a successful professional athlete. Little as it might mean to you, I am proud of you. And of myself. I think we can both agree that our efforts have paid of."

Kalle's rage deflated like a popped balloon. He got through his days by relying on all the little things Veiko did for him. And by remembering all the tricks Veiko taught him to make sure he didn't get overwhelmed.

"I'm not successful yet," said Kalle, grabbing his fork. He intended to be.

"The hardest part is over, Master Kalle," said Veiko. "All you have to do now is play. And if there's one thing you can do, it's that."

Yes, that was true. It didn't have anything to do with the fact that Veiko had been lying to him for his entire life, but it was true. Kalle grabbed began to eat mechanically.

No point in wasting time dwelling on anything. He had a scant hour or two to find out as much as possible about the stadium where the Kings hosted their home games. Surely, there were pictures of the locker room online somewhere? He could use them to formulate a plan of action. Pro-sports leagues loved to do promotional videos about their athletes before and after games.

He found some videos of NBA players giving interviews about their pre-game rituals, but none of them were in the showers or even discussed the showers. Kalle groaned in disgust and glared at his bedside digital clock. Time to go to sleep. He would not be crashing out because he'd neglected rest scouring the internet for information about a communal shower in Los Angeles.

Next day, Theriault said that didn't want to exhaust them before the pre-season games so they cut training hours by half. It didn't give them much in the way of free time since they also spent a good portion of the day going over their own tape. Kalle identified the problems Theriault berated them about easily enough: they had the first line down, and John Beaty was doing his best in the second line with Gilbert Comeau and Patrick Mueller as his center and right, respectively. But the rest of their forwards were mostly an unpredictable mess, often falling out of synch for no good reason.

Worst of all, their defense was--to put it bluntly--trash. They had J. J. Boiziau and. . . well, it was mostly him, and he could probably tell that being the only decent D-man in the team would make him look bad in the end. Hockey was a team sport, after all. Wayne Thompson, a newly signed free agent, was not good enough to partner with him, but he was the least bad option. The rest of their defensemen were either low tier rookies or veterans that should have retired years ago.

At least Patrice Drapeau was really good-a gift from the heavens, if some of the more dramatic Quebecois analysts were to be believed. He'd spent the first three years of his career playing for LA and had gone on complete his final season with them as the their starting goalie. The original one had suffered a freak accident while golfing right before the playoffs last season - Kalle remembered how feverishly the incident had been covered in the world of hockey news.

The Kings had won the Stanley Cup last year, much to everyone's surprise. Drapeau had risen to the challenge, to say the least. The consensus was that he was the most promising goalie since Eric Bennett burst into the scene.

Drapeau had been expected to stay in LA, but he was a Montreal native and so had signed with the Voyageurs. I love my hometown, he'd told the press. Some people in said hometown were more excited about him than even Hollander.

"All right, boys," said Theriault, after reviewing a forty-five second clip of the King's first line. The last forty-five second of last year's final game, to be precise. Craig Valenti, their captain and star forward, had scored a tie-breaking goal with nine seconds left on the clock. "The entire worlds expects us to crumble tomorrow. Valenti was MVP for the Western conference and had the highest point production in the league last season. We haven't made the playoffs in ten fucking years."

Kalle thought 'we' was unfair. He had nothing to do with Montreal's decade of humiliation. He'd been seven years old the last time they made the playoffs.

Theriault stopped talking and walked from one side of the room to another, scanning them. His eyes passed by Kalle and his expression didn't appear to change. "I've heard rumblings that if we managed not to get destroyed tomorrow, it'll be a good sign."

Someone behind Kalle fidgeted. The person who'd said that? One of them? Kalle had heard similar sentiments from multiple teammates.

"I will take nothing besides a victory as a good sign," said Theriault, volume rising. "I don't give a shit if they're the current champions and we're the second lowest-ranked team in the league. I expect a victory."

"Yes, Coach!" the team chorused. Kalle had no idea how they'd known it was expected of them.

"I expect a victory tomorrow, and a victory for every pre-season game!"

"Yes, Coach!" Once again, Kalle missed the cue.

"Everyone go home and rest," said Theriault. "I expect you to stretch and do some light cardio, as your coaches instruct, and no bullshit. No drinking, no partying. If you're planning to fuck, be gentle about it. Let your lady be on top for once."

"Yes, Coach!"

Kalle hoped that last part wasn't an order. He wouldn't follow it if it was.

"Move out!"

Hollander signaled to Kalle and, since he had nothing else to do, Kalle followed him. Minutes later, they were outside with Comeau, Drapeau, and Beaty listening to Pike explain that his wife had agreed to have some of them over, but she didn't feel like entertaining the whole team so he'd picked only the guys he was a "tight" with. Kalle worked that over and decided that at some point, Pike most have decided that they were friends.

Well, that was good. And he was confident that Jackie Pike would have something edible at their small house. He agreed to join them and then sat on the backseat of Pike's vehicle.

"You need to call that dude who's always with you?" Pike asked him.

"He's not always with me," said Kalle.

Pike paused fiddling with his car's controls and turned back to look at him, with a hesitant air about him. Even Hollander looked taken aback, so Kalle's tone must have been off.

"I don't need him right now," said Kalle, trying to sound softer. "It's okay."

"Sure, man," said Pike.

He really didn't need Veiko, Kalle told himself, making his shoulders relax. He was an adult, officially a pro athlete, going to a teammate's house. A linemate's house. He'd been there before. It would be fine.

The hotel room in LA was, definitively, the worst place Kalle had ever set foot in. First of all, the colors were. . . they were just horrendous. Green, gray, blue, and cold brown everywhere, like the interior designer had never taken a single class on basic color theory. Kalle would've dealt with that, but the smell. What in the world smelled like that? Like a brand new car that someone had vomited inside.

Thompson, the veteran player who had been assigned to room with him, stepped around Kalle without a word. He didn't even take his shoes off at the door, the fucking savage. Kalle told himself that it was the way Americans went about things, to be culturally sensitive, and slipped off his own own sneakers.

"Mind if I take the bed by the window?" asked Thompson.

"No," said Kalle, walking over to the other bed. He touched the edge of it and suppressed a shudder at the way the cheap bed sheet scratched the pads of his fingers. What was the thread count? Were there threads at all? Was the sheet outright made of plastic?

Luckily, Veiko had packed a set of appropriate sheets for him. His luggage was larger than all his teammates', but Kalle did not care. He would not have been able to lay on the hotel bed, never mind sleep on it.

"Okay, rook," said Thompson, drawing Kalle's attention. "We gotta set some ground rules."

Kalle stared at him. And stared. Thompson was a large man, though not overtly so for a D-man. He was broad in every way - shoulders, jawline, and mouth. His eyes were. . . brown. They matched his hair, Kalle supposed. Maybe he was handsome. Kalle was not a good judge of such things.

"I don't tolerate tomfoolery from my rooks," said Thompson. "You might be a hotshot first liner, but you're still my responsibility. No drinking, no drugs, and if you're looking to do some whoring, it's not gonna be in my room."

"Okay," said Kalle, after taking a moment to translate all that. Not to Finish, but to something coherent.

"And I go to sleep at a reasonable time," added Thompson. "We gotta be rested to do our jobs, so you better turn your phone off at twenty-one hundred hours."

"Okay." Kalle nodded, seeing an opportunity. He pointed at the room's small appliances. "And you will not use this. . . microwave."

"What?"

"I don't like strange smells," said Kalle. "And the bathrooms. I want to use it first on days we arrive before our games. You can use it first on days we arrive after our games."

"What?" repeated Thompson.

"It would be fair," said Kalle.

"What would be fair?"

"If we traded when we get to use the bathroom first," said Kalle. "Unless there will some hotels with separate bathrooms. Surely there will be better ones than this. . ." Kalle looked around. He didn't have the words.

"Dude, we're in LA," said Thompson. "This is one of the nicer hotels we'll get."

Kalle cursed in Finnish. He couldn't help it. How could it get worse than this? Was the help going to take a piss directly on his bed?

"God give me strength," mumbled Thompson.

He didn't say anything when Kalle rushed to the bathroom first, which was so awful and minuscule that Kalle wondered how it had been cleared for commercial use. Thompson would barely fit in the narrow tub. There were plenty of uninspired gray towels, but they felt horrendous against Kalle's skin. He laid one out on the floor right next to the subpar tub before rushing back to his luggage, sighing in relief when he found that Veiko had packed him adequate bathroom supplies.

Not enough for week's worth of showers, though. And Thompson implied that the next hotel might be worse. Maybe Kalle should call Veiko and order him to join them on the road trip so he could take care of having everything ready in between matches.

No. Kalle told himself he would do this. Just all the other guys. He considered the problem, looking around the room. An idea occurred to him when he spotted the phone at his little bedside table.

Not like Veiko's a fucking surgeon, he thought, as he picked up the phone.

"Room service," a pleasant voice said.

"Hello," said Kalle. "Do you have. . . washers available?"

He felt Thompson looking up from his phone.

"Sir, is there anything in your room that needs cleaning?"

His room needed to be torn down and rebuilt from scratch. "No, I will be needing dry cleaning services tomorrow for my personal items."

"I'm sorry, sir," said the pleasant voice. "We do not offer dry cleaning services at this establishment, but there is a laundromat within a mile that might serve your needs."

"I will pay three hundred dollars to any washer that can assist me," said Kalle.

"How. . . generous of you, sir. I will be sending someone from our cleaning staff who might be available."

"You understand that someone thinks you're asking for a hooker," said Thompson, after Kalle hung up the phone.

"What?" Was three hundred dollars too little?

Thompson did not respond despite Kalle's additional attempts to prod. Much to his relief, an older woman knocked on their door within minutes. She couldn't speak English and Kalle could not speak Spanish, but they made do with translation apps. Kalle told her he would leave his used towels and clothes for her in a backpack, together with the detergent Veiko had packed, as well as payment. She would drop off the washed items tomorrow.

"I bet she'll steal your money and your things," Thompson said, after the woman had left.

"Why would she do that?" demanded Kalle. "Why would you say that?"

Thompson only snorted. He didn't even look up from his phone. Kalle gritted his teeth and retreated to the bathroom.

The people at the stands practically exploded in cheers every time one of the Kings was announced. They were loudest for their star player, Valenti, but even the last man named got a standing ovation. Kalle supposed it made sense. This was the Kings' home rink and they were the current champions. Still, he had not considered the noise a packed stadium would make. He was relieved to note that it didn't seem to bother him. Not too much.

The Voyageurs got polite clapping at best, except for Drapeau. He got boos and jeers, which he accepted with a polite wave. Kalle didn't like this part of games - all the fluff before they started playing - but he'd researched enough to be prepared for it. He was grateful when it was all over and the tension blanketing the team shifted into something more focused.

"Ready, guys?" Pike asked, right after Theriault signaled them to head out.

"Yes," said Hollander. He stared straight ahead, expressionless.

Kalle nodded. He felt himself getting a little restless. It would pass only once they got to playing.

The first face off went to Hollander, who passed to Kalle within seconds. The rest of the game was largely a blur. The crowd seemed to disappear behind fogged glass as Kalle skated, attention split between Hollander and Pike and the puck as they pushed against the Kings' defenses.

Their training paid off.

They could read each other with automatic ease and pass the puck across the rink with confidence. They managed three goals in total -- Hollander scored twice and Kalle scored once, all from Pike's precise assists. The refs did not dole out a single penalty against the Kings, though some of their checks were certainly questionable. Thompson got a minor in the end of the first period, but their PK unit pulled through.

Even better than that, Drapeau didn't let in a single puck. And the Kings had taken many shots - the Voyageurs' D-lines were a hot mess. Halfway through the game, Theriault had given Boiziau leave to essentially act as a supplemental forward.

"You fucking dominated, Patrice!" Comeau yelled in the locker room, throwing his arms around Drapeau. "You destroyed them!"

Kalle un-clipped his helmet, eager to begin taking off his gear. Now that the game was over, the sweat drying on his skin felt downright acidic.

"We fucking destroyed them!" shouted Boiziau, knocking Kalle's helmet off. Kalle flinched when it hit the dirty locker room floor. "Beautiful goal, you weird little bastard!" He ruffled Kalle's hair, which was meant to be some kind of affectionate gesture (Kalle knew), but always felt like someone was trying to electrocute him.

"Bathroom," Kalle bit out.

He almost cried with relief when Boiziau nodded and let him rush past the rest of the team. None of them stopped him; they were mercifully too wrapped up in congratulating each other.

Seconds later, Kalle found himself in the bathroom and squeezed into a stall. He wondered why the Kings had such cramped toilets until he realized that he hadn't taken off his gear. The stale stink of the urinals suddenly hit him. Kalle doubled over and vomited bile and red Gatorade into the toilet. Some pinkish specks hit the edge of the bowl and for a terrifying moment, Kalle was certain that he was bleeding.

It will pass. It will pass. Kalle repeated it to himself several more times, until he felt steady enough to walk out of the stall.

He didn't even look at the hand-washing basin before heading back to the locker room. With any luck, the guys were done celebrating and Kalle would be able to sneak into the showers unmolested. He'd taken a peek earlier, before the game started, and he knew which stall he wanted.

Theriault was in the locker room, and he looked sour despite their victory. He was telling Hollander that he'd been too timid throughout the match and failed to take a shot on three separate occasions. He described all three in detail, waiting for Hollander to acknowledge each one, before moving on to tear down the messy showing from the D-men.

Normally, Kalle would be paying rapt attention, but all he could think about was getting to the shower, the shower, the shower. . . He needed Theriault to shut the fuck up already. The man's eyes landed on him. Kalle stopped tapping his finger rhythmically against his hip and stared straight at him. Theriault's lip curled and he looked away.

"Don't let this go to your heads," said Theriault, before finally leaving the locker room.

The guys were more subdued after his departure. Thank God.

Hollander Family

Yuna Hollander
honey we're so proud of you!
you're doing so well!

David Hollander
we are so proud
the entire country is proud, it feels like
I've promised multiple friends at work signed jerseys

Shane Hollander
I'll get you a few
just let me know the sizes

Yuna Hollander
Carla's already talking about a Cup run
remember your auntie Carla?

Shane Hollander
yeah

David Hollander
a Cup run is a little premature
we're three games into the preseason
winning streak or not

Yuna Hollander
it's good to aim high

Shane Hollander
yes Theriault says he'll kill us if we don't make it to the playoffs minimum

David Hollander
and how's the rest of the team handling
they're not too stressed I hope

Shane Hollander
no we're doing pretty great
better to be on a winning streak than a losing streak

Yuna Hollander
although it's on the back of your line honey

Shane Hollander
hockey is a team sport
but yeah
it's basically me Hayden and Wynn right now
and Drapeau

David Hollander
the second line boys are doing well too

Yuna Hollander
they're not messing up as often as the others
but I wouldn't say they're doing *well*

David Hollander
in any case
we're very excited about your next game Shane
your mother and I will make a weekend of it in Montreal

Yuna Hollander
I can't wait to see you boys absolutely destroy the Bears

Shane Hollander
great you guys can come to my condo finally
remember I got the place with the extra room for when you visit

Chapter End Notes

I'm wasting probably too much time on tumblr (I'm latigrat over there).

Recently, I figured out how to make polls!

Chapter 4

Chapter Notes

Finally got this out even though my work has been a trash fire! As usual, ending up not following my outline, but this did get out the stuff I wanted to get out here. Hoping it hits for some people!

Montreal, as whole, was getting a little delusional about their Cup prospects. From what Kalle gathered from the relevant podcasts and sports commentators, the city was talking like the Voyageurs were on the way to the Stanley Cup after three consecutive victories in the pre-season. Granted, one of them had been a shutout against the current champions, but statistically speaking, their chances were not that good.

The Voyageurs were still relying entirely on the first line, and Beaty and Comeau on the second line to a lesser extent, for goals. Drapeau was a great goalie, sure, but he it would be silly to expect him to maintain the numbers he was currently delivering all season. Boiziau was their only D-man worth a damn, and that meant their defenses looked like shit. The man was essentially acting as a supplemental forward.

They were definitely already better than last season's Voyageurs, but that didn't mean they were a winning team. Yet. Kalle bet that Theriault wanted to build them up, make them prove themselves (or himself) for a few years, and then start poaching free agent star players from other teams. The man was also known for an uncanny talent in spotting promising talent, so he was probably planning to snag a few promising rookies from the upcoming drafts.

"Fans are already splicing together highlight reels of the three of you," said Comeau, from his seat in front of Kalle on the plane. "It's been three fucking games. Not that much to highlight!"

"Bro, we've been killing it," said Pike. "My passes are on fire. My rooks are scoring every single game."

"We got some goals in too," said Comeau.

"We gotta keep the momentum, guys," said Hollander. "Have you seen the Bears? They're doing even better than we are."

"They've been playing shittier teams than us," said Boiziau.

Kalle wondered why they'd clustered around him at the back of the plane. They hadn't done that previous flights. What had changed? Kalle needed to figure it out so ensure that it never happened again.

"Either way, Rozanov's crazy good," said Beaty. "Can't believe he got his first hat trick already. And against Eric Bennett."

"Bennett's not that great," said Drapeau.

"Don't be delusional," said Boiziau.

"Everyone has an off day once in a while," said Pike.

"Is there a reason you guys are all back here?" asked Kalle.

Everyone turned towards him and fell silent. Kalle replayed what he'd said to try and figure out if there was another, more polite way to phrase his question. He didn't think he'd been rude, but a group only stopped talking like this when he trampled over some unspoken rule about polite conversation.

"Um, we can go up to the front if you'd like," said Pike.

"Yes, I would like that," said Kalle, jumping on the opportunity.

Drapeau snorted. "This kid's such an asshole."

Kalle frowned, staring at his knuckles. All he wanted was some fucking quiet on the plane. Being in large groups of people was draining. He couldn't just stay quiet in the back and listen without someone spontaneously deciding that he was "creepy". If he tried to join the conversation, he always said something wrong. No matter how often he said 'please', and 'thank you', no matter how much he qualified his statements or ask for clarification, he always made everyone mad.

"Wynn likes to sleep on the plane," said Hollander. "Come on, let's just leave him alone."

Everyone stood up and move away from him and though it didn't feel great, Kalle didn't try to stop them. He resisted the urge to clarify that he actually couldn't sleep in the Voyageur plane's narrow, lumpy seats, and why would Hollander say that? But that wasn't important. With any luck, they wouldn't try to all sit around likeKalle that again.

He spent the rest of the flight watching highlights from the Bears' first three games. They had better defense overall and their goalie, Vincent St. Simon, was very good. Cliff Marlow was a large, agile defenseman who knew how to check without landing himself in the penalty box too often. As far as forwards went, they had Ilya Rozanov and Jake Merrell scoring the majority of their goals. The remainder of their lines would not pose much of a challenge, but they didn't need to. Over three games, Rozanov and Merrell had delivered thirteen goals for the Bears.

Kalle hated to admit it, but he the Bears had the edge. Their victory wasn't a given - the Kings were better and more balanced than the Bears based on numbers alone and the Voyageurs had beaten them - but the Bears definitely had a better shot.

No one tried to talk to Kalle as they exited the plane, much to his relief. He briefly caught Pike's eyes on the way out but couldn't decipher the man's expression. Hollander was glued to his phone screen, watching Bears' games, no doubt. Kalle had spotted him examining the last game of every team they'd played so far. It might be interesting to probe him for his analysis.

Hollander was an excellent player and he seemed a little more thoughtful than their teammates. He was the first one to approach Kalle during training camp too. Maybe he would want to talk with Kalle.

While Kalle pondered on it, Comeau approached Shane with a couple of other guys and invited him. . . somewhere. It wasn't Kalle's business. He wanted to go home and take long shower without worrying about any suspicious rust at the edge of the drain. Veiko had promised to cook all his favorite dishes for dinner too. He'd be seeing enough of Shane Hollander during the rest of the season.

Veiko had offered to pick him up at the airport, but Kalle told him he figure his own way around. It would be his final travel test. Could he go through customs - the expedited version MLH players went through - without losing his fucking mind at all the noise, smells, and people everywhere? How hard would it be? The other guys kept saying that airports sucked and that no one wanted to stay in them for too long. There would be orderly lines everywhere, right?

Yes, it turned out. Kalle felt drained by the time he made it to the condo, but he did make it. He was even sucking on a protein tube on the elevator, relieved that his intestines were cooperating despite how rough the last week or so had been. He'd made it; he'd passed with flying colors! He couldn't wait to gloat about it to Veiko.

The elevator doors slid open. Kalle stepped out and punched in the code to the penthouse's door, smiling to himself. The penthouse doors slid open and the smile faded off Kalle's face as the stink of multiple different foods hit his nostrils. What on Earth had Veiko cooked? Kalle began to slip off his sneakers and looked up--

--to meet his father's eyes.

"Kalle!" said Henrik, beaming. "Welcome back! My triumphant warrior son!"

Beside him, Kalle's mother Elisabet pursed her lips.

"Father, he's hardly been to war," said Kalle's brother, Alvar.

Kalle looked around until he found Veiko, off to the side, standing with a trio of servants. Had he known Kalle's family was on the way? If so, why hadn't he fucking said so? Regardless,

Kalle couldn't help but feel a little relieved to see him.

"Nonsense," said Henrik. "I've had Felix research hockey for me, and it is in fact a form of gentlemanly battle."

Kalle almost rolled his eyes. "Father, please excuse me. I would like to refresh myself before dinner." He ran to his rooms the instant he noticed his mother's shoulders relaxing.

On the way, Kalle checked his phone. Veiko had messaged him with news of his family's arrival earlier in the day and Kalle would have noticed if he hadn't muted Veiko right before his trip. It'd seemed like a good idea at the time; a symbolic barrier to any urge to call Veiko to plead for a rescue if things got too hard. As he stood under a spray of hot water under his shower, Kalle realized that he hadn't been tempted to call even once.

A small victory, Kalle supposed. He congratulated himself for it, telling himself that dealing with his family couldn't be worse than an MLH roadie. That was what the other Voyageurs called the trip as they complained. They all seemed to hate the concept, though not for the same reasons Kalle did. If they could manage, then so could he.

As hard as it was to believe, the meals on the road had been better than his first meal back home. Servants walked around setting different dishes for his father, mother, and brother, all with different pungent smells. Absolutely disgusting, and worse because Kalle had been soothing himself with dreams a quiet meal in his own space.

Thompson had eaten mostly pre-packaged salads delivered by Player Services in their shared hotel rooms, all nearly as scentless as Kalle's nutrition supplements and protein tubes.

They seemed to have somewhat similar tastes. Kalle had even tossed Thompson a couple of extra protein tubes and he'd seemed to like them. Now, Kalle watched as Alvar tore strips of meat off of bone - he was eating some kind of stew - and tried not to gag.

"What are your plans for tomorrow?" asked Elisabet.

"Practice," said Kalle. He didn't elaborate.

"Surely you can skip a day to show us around the city," said Alvar.

"No, I can't," said Kalle. "I'm required to be at practice; it's my job." Theriault and the rest of the coaches had been very adamant about that. People did not simply not show up to their job. Kalle had gathered as much from listening to them complain.

"Kalle, please," said Elisabet, tossing her dyed auburn hair. "You do not work."

"Yes, I do," said Kalle. "Besides, I haven't seen much of the city. Training camp was intensive and we left for our first roadie immediately after."

Elisabet frowned.

"I agree with your mother, Kalle," said Henrik. "You are an athlete. It's not work, certainly not going by the pittance you are being paid."

"A little over a million Canadian dollars," said Alvar, shaking his head.

"But it is a calling rather than a trade," said Henrik. "And you certainly do not need the money. Do call your coach and inform him you have other plans tomorrow."

God, give Kalle patience. "I would rather not, Father. My. . . calling, as you say, is too important. We are facing the Bears next, the Voyageurs' rival team from Boston. Their star forward is excellent and their first line - I'm a first liner - has been outperforming us."

"Really?" said Henrik.

"Yes," said Kalle. "We are hoping to defeat them, which would be significant since the game will be at the Bell Centre." Kalle didn't know why that was significant, but his fellow

Voyageurs insisted it was.

"Hm," hummed Henrik.

An idea struck Kalle. "Veiko can show you around," he said, searching for his attendant's gaze. "Since I've been at my--calling for so long, he's gotten to know the city."

"As Master Kalle says," Veiko nodded. "I am available to show you around the city, sir. Montreal is quite beautiful this time of year."

Later, as he got ready for sleep, Kalle realized that he he hadn't even demanded answers from Elisabet regarding the autism thing. She'd searched his gaze a few times, and he made sure to stare until he felt like something was scratching at the back of his eyeballs. She had known. She had ordered Veiko to keep it a secret. She probably knew that now, Kalle knew as well.

But why fight about it now? The game against the Bears was more important.

Next morning, he ran into Alvar on the way out. His brother wasn't the type to get up so early, but Kalle certainly wasn't going to point that out. He merely nodded at Alvar on his way to the elevator.

"Do the women here know who you are, Kalle?" asked Alvar.

It was such a strange question that Kalle almost paused. "I don't know," he answered, honestly, without looking back. If he had more time, he would have stayed back to ask for clarification.

Theriault was a terror during practice, nitpicking every single mistake they made and nearly making one of the rookie defensemen cry. Even Kalle thought he was going a little overboard with the details, and he'd once screamed because his skates had been laced with light rather than dark gray laces.

That might've been the autism.

"Thompson, what the fuck are you doing?" he heard Theriault shout.

Thompson had checked Mueller, on their vet fowards and Comeau's crappier winger, too hard.

"You save that kind of aggressive play of the actual fucking game!" Theriault gestured at him to get off the ice. "Take ten to calm the fuck down. Boiziau--" The rest was in French.

After practice, Theriault made them review the tape of the Bears' last game before letting them shower. Or tried to. Beaty complained that he couldn't focus while the rancid stink of two dozen men filled the room, so Theriault barked that they had ten minutes to "get the fuck ready". Kalle could have fallen to his knees before Beaty and kissed his feet, but he was sure that would have been weird.

The shower was sub-optimal, to say the least. All the guys rushed in at one, meaning that the noise and the splashing was excessive. Kalle had to squeeze between Beaty and Hollander. He tried not to vomit as little droplets from their shower heads misted near him.

All the water comes from the same source, all the water comes from the same source, he told himself, though he didn't know that for sure and it wouldn't matter if it was true.

He was the first to decide that he was finished, though it made his belly twist into knots to go out to the locker room without properly cleaning himself. The rest of the guys had thrown all their shit every where, with no system to ensure their dirty gear did not mix with their clean clothes. Someone - fuck - had thrown a dirty sock inside Kalle's cubicle. It landed over the bag that held Kalle's change of clothes and though he knew that no sock, not matter how sweaty, could burn through his bag, he still wanted to scream.

Kalle shivered for a few seconds, for longer, until Boiziau walked into the locker room. "You okay, rook?" he asked.

"No," said Kalle.

"No?" Boiziau paused and looked him up and down. "Don't tell me you broke something. We need you tomorrow, man."

"Someone left a dirty sock in my cubicle," Kalle bit out.

Boiziau made a face at him, looked over at his cubicle, then shook his head. "All right?"

"It's not fucking 'all right'!" yelled Kalle. More Voyageurs started walking in from the showers, dripping filthy water everywhere, laughing like it wasn't the worst fucking thing on Earth.

"Why are you all like this? Why!"

"Bro," someone said. "It's fucking a sock."

"Do you see me doing this to you?" demanded Kalle. "Do I put my dirty things over your bags?"

Everyone who had made it back to the locker room stood in frozen silence, staring at Kalle with blank expressions. Kalle heard someone heaving out loud breaths and realized that it was him.

"Wynn." Suddenly, Pike was standing in front of him. "It's okay, man. Sorry about the sock; I think that's. . . I don't know, but we're sorry. It's kinda hectic in here right now."

"Don't fucking baby him, Hayd," said Mueller. "He shouldn't walk around acting like his shit is higher quality than ours."

Kalle walked around Pike, bracing himself to remove the offending sock, then sighed with relief when he noticed that someone had already removed it. He still shuddered when he grabbed his bag, blinking back tears.

"All right, bros!" yelled Boiziau. "Coach's waiting for us." He continued in French.

The rest of the day was a waste of time. Theriault decided, for God only knew what reason, that Hollander needed to describe all the goals that Rozanov had scored since the season started in front of all of them. And then all the little mistakes Hollander had made, like the two were even remotely related. Hollander had also scored plenty of goals, though not as many as Rozanov. And Rozanov had also made mistakes. What was the point of this?

Theriault did the same thing to Pike, except with Jake Merrell and it was equally dumb. Slower too, since Pike was not as efficient at describing plays. Anyone hearing him talk would never guess that he was on track to become one of the league's top forwards. He talked like he didn't understand the plays he was seeing.

Then it was Kalle's turn to watch and analyze the Bears' first line left wing, who was not as good as Jake Merrell and not even as good as Wynn. He got into argued a bit with Theriault about it - the player in question had produced less points than Wynn - until Hollander nudged his foot. Wynn paused to think about why he might be doing that and Theriault took his silence as him accepting defeat. He moved on to Beaty.

"What was the point of making us feel like shit before a game against the Bears?" Comeau grumbled later, as the team headed to the parking lot.

Kalle sent Veiko a message to confirm that he was waiting by the car.

"Some of the older coaches are assholes like that," said Beaty. "Bet he thinks it makes us wants to 'prove ourselves' or some shit."

"I think he's just doing trying to hype us up," said Hollander.

Drapeau started talking in French, which was nice. Kalle didn't have to try and understand it.

Once they were all outside, the cool October breeze passing over them, Kalle reminded himself to gesture goodbye at the team before heading over to where Veiko was parked. He was surprised when Hollander followed him; his teammates usually headed to the parking lot.

"Hey," said Hollander, once the rest of the guys had turned the corner.

Kalle turned to him.

"Hayd wanted me to check on you," said Hollander.

Kalle stared at him.

"Hayden Pike," said Hollander, slowly. "Our linemate."

"I know who Hayden Pike is," said Kalle. "I'm not stupid."

"I don't think your stupid," said Hollander. "But sometimes. . ." Hollander took a little breath. "Has anyone ever told you that sometimes, you come off like a bit of an asshole?"

"What do you think?"

Hollander's eyes narrowed. "People say that to me a lot too. It's because they're jealous of me."

"Probable," said Kalle. He didn't point out that, as far as Kalle could tell, most people seemed to trip over themselves to be friendly to Hollander. Jealousy towards one of the most talented prospects in the sport made sense, though.

"I think they're jealous of you too," said Hollander. "You're very rich and, more importantly, great at hockey."

"Okay," said Kalle. Then, he remembered the proper way to respond to compliments. "Thank you." He began turning around.

"Wait!" Hollander said again. "Hayd said something happened in the locker room?"

"It was nothing," said Kalle, certain that Hollander would not an understand why the dirty sock had almost made him scream. He couldn't help but shudder. God, had he ever needed a shower more? Someone's foot sweat was on him.

Hollander leaned a little closer.

"I really have to go," said Kalle.

"You'll be good for the game tomorrow, right?"

"Yes," Kalle said firmly, as Veiko opened the door to his car and the walked around to the driver's side.

Hollander caught his gaze before Veiko started driving. They stared at each other until Veiko turned the corner.

The Montreal crowd was ecstatic, cheering so loudly that Kalle wondered how they would react if they were at the Stanley Cup. They were in the beginning of the firs period, no goals had been scored by either team, and yet the tension in the rink was palpable. Over on the ice, the teams' respective third lines where taking turns stealing the puck from each other. No one was close to scoring.

Kalle sat at the edge of the bench, where a few of the Bears were close enough to him that they might be able to exchange a few words. Sometimes, players who sat at the corner sniped at each other, then continued their little arguments when it was their turn at the puck. Not Kalle. He didn't talk to his own teammates while a game was going on, much less his opponents. Mueller, the Voyageurs' current captain, had directed him to sit at the edge once he'd realized this.

Tonight, the opponent seated at the other benches corner was Ilya Rozanov. He'd smirked at Kalle at the beginning of the game, or maybe just at the Voyageurs in general. For once, Kalle had tried to meet someone's eyes, but Rozanov had only glanced at him briefly before turning his attention towards the rest of the Voyageurs. Or at least Hollander, who sat next to Kalle and stared intensely at the active players.

"Having fun?" asked Rozanov.

Kalle glanced at him and decided to make an exception to his 'no talking to opponents' rule. "I will be. When they play us more."

"Us?" asked Rozanov, looking at Kalle.

"The first lines," said Kalle. "Everyone is very excited to see us face off. Well, you and Hollander, mostly. But our lines in general."

"You are surprise this year," said Rozanov. "Why I do not see you play in Europe?"

No way Kalle wanted to explain why he hadn't played in any junior leagues. He didn't say anything and prayed that Rozanov would assume it was some generic antagonism from a member of a rival team.

Rozanov laughed, which might be true amusement, or one of the fake laughs opponents used to chirp at each other. "And you, Hollander?" he said. "Is fun for you yet?"

Kalle leaned back a little on the bench, in case Hollander wanted to do some standard posturing at his league-mandated rival.

"It will be when we beat you," said Hollander.

Moments later, Theriault called for a line switch and Hollander and Rozanov were facing off at center ice. Rozanov won the puck and it was a clusterfuck from there. Their defense could not hold off Rozanov and Merrell so all Kalle could do was try to keep up while Hollander flew after him, intent on taking the puck back. He didn't manage it, but Drapeau did block Rozanov's shot. The Montreal crowd exploded in cheers.

Hollander won the next face off and then passed to Kalle. The din of the crowd faded as Kalle focused and flew, managing to pass the puck back to Hollander before a Bear checked him against the boards. Kalle registered the momentary rattle - no real ache - and sped up to catch up to his linemates. Hollander passed to Pike; he evaded a Bear defenseman and then passed back to Hollander, who took his first shot and buried the puck.

The audience detonated, reaching a degree of intensity that made Kalle wonder if he would be allowed to bring earplugs to their next home game. Boiziau enveloped him in a congratulatory hug, which Kalle stood still for. It would be over soon if he didn't struggle.

The rest of the game followed a similar pattern. Whoever won the face of had an obvious advantage, but it was more pronounced for Rozanov since the Voyageurs had completely floundering D-lines. Rozanov was also fast, the only forward who to make even Hollander struggle to keep up and, by extension, pushing Kalle to new extremes. He wanted to score a goal, this game more than most, since his family was watching from the luxury box.

Maybe. Kalle suspected they were bored and on their phones.

Rozanov tied the game with five minutes left in the first period. The crowd let out thunderous boos as he blew them kisses. He bowed obnoxiously when he skated past Kalle and Hollander.

They won the game in the end, four-to-three. Kalle was so exhausted and so happy that he didn't even care when his teammates threw themselves at him the instant he scored the final goal of the game, in overtime. His only goal, too. Hayden had also scored once and Hollander twice. Rozanov had scored another hat trick, so he had reason to look smug despite his team's loss.

"Winning puck for the winning rookie!" Mueller yelled in the locker room, tossing Kalle a dirty puck.

Kalle made a face and was grateful that he'd yet to take off his glove. This was his first puck and he bet he would be more excited once he got it properly disinfected.

"Wynn, you have to come out to celebrate with us tonight!" said Comeau. "Victory against the fucking Bears, on home ice!"

"Fuck yes; bro who scored the winning goal has to be there!" said Pike.

"Not so fast, assholes!" Theriault's voice boomed over their celebrations. "The Bears scored three times tonight." He went on chew them out over the mistakes that had led to those goals, not that Kalle would classify them as 'mistakes', per se. There was a difference between messing up and playing against skilled opponents who simply performed better.

He figured the rest of the Voyageurs agreed because they brightened up again the moment Theriault exited the locker room.

"So, you coming out tonight, Wynn?" Beaty asked sometime later, as Kalle put on his fresh change of clothes.

He considered the matter. Maybe it was the victory adrenaline, but showering with his teammates hadn't bothered him too much tonight. He still planned to take a proper shower at home, but his skin wasn't crawling. There hadn't been a dirty sock on his bag this time. He was tired, yes, but it was in a good way.

"Will I have to eat?" asked Kalle.

"Have to?" said Beaty.

"There's gonna be poutine and beer, mostly," said Comeau. "But you don't have to eat."

"You don't have to drink either," said Pike. "I'm not going to."

"Right, Hayd here is saving himself for his marriage bed," said Boiziau, hitting the back of Pike's head lightly.

"What do you mean?" said Kalle.

"I'm going," said Hollander. "But I can't stay long because my parents are in town."

"My parents are in town too," said Kalle, because the victory had made him take leave of his senses.

"From Finland?" asked Pike.

"Yes," admitted Kalle. Would this be a good reason to decline the invitation to celebrate? Pike said that he had to go, and he wasn't sure he wanted to. "My brother is here too."

"He can come too," said Drapeau.

Horrible, horrible idea, but before Kalle come up with a good reason to get out of it, the team had decided that he was coming and potentially bringing Alvar. Saying that he wasn't dressed for it didn't work because apparently, there was no dress code at all.

"We're Voyageurs, man!" Comeau said. "Wear whatever; bunnies will be all over you in this town regardless."

His last chance to get out of it would be to say that he was feeling physically distraught over. . . he couldn't actually. Even if he were overwhelmed, he would be trying to ignore it so the team wouldn't think he was unable to keep up with them. They'd said the celebration was mandatory. Kalle ought to be grateful that wasn't feeling too drained for it.

He sent Alvar an invitation via text message and was disappointed but not surprised when his brother asked for an address. And if he should bring Veiko. Kalle said no, of course, but he did text Veiko the addressed and asked him to be nearby. Just in case. It wouldn't be the first time that he judged himself to be "fine" and just to collapse under a sudden, unbearable scent.

The place the Voyageurs chose for the celebration was as awful as Kalle imagined. It was loud, full of flashing lights, and utterly permeated by the stink of sweat, cheese, and gravy. The music was. . . fine. Kalle might even like some of it if everything else didn't feel like a feature that would be included in his own personal hell.

Alvar seemed to be getting along well with the Voyageurs, as far as Kalle could tell such things. Mueller had made an odd comment - so he got all the looks in the family, it seems! - which Kalle assumed had to do with his orange hair. Alvar said he looked more like their mother, who had been a high end fashion model in her youth. He hadn't known what to add to the conversation, and thankfully Drapeau had dragged them off.

Now, he was sitting with Hollander and Boiziau at a table "hidden away" in a corner. That was how Beaty had described it even though everyone could see where they were and multiple people kept coming over to bother them. Kalle sipped his bottled water and wondered how long he had to stay for the celebration. If he called Veiko now, would it be rude?

Hollander and Boiziau were chatting in French. They'd defaulted to English at first since Kalle didn't speak French, but he also wasn't the greatest conversationalist, so they had quickly reverted to Boiziau's primary language. Kalle was on his phone, looking at the highlights of tonight's game. Pike was off dancing with a beautiful dark skinned girl who'd complimented one of his passes and the rest of the guys. . . Kalle honestly didn't care. He wanted to go home.

The waitress returned to their table as Kalle felt the noise of the place becoming more and more unbearable. She said something to Boiziau and Hollander that made Hollander's eyes widen.

"There are Bears here," Boiziau said.

"Like the hockey players?" asked Kalle.

"Yes, like the hockey players," said the waitress, in a French accent. "I'm not talking about crossover from the gay bar down the street."

"What?" said Hollander.

"But the Bears lost tonight," said Kalle. Was this not supposed to be a celebration outing? Did he even need to be here?

"Let's go fine them," said Boiziau.

"For what?" said Kalle.

They didn't answer him but they also didn't try to drag him along when they left him at the table, so Kalle only shrugged.

"Darling, are you sure you don't want something nicer to drink?" asked the waitress.

"I'm sure," said Kalle, looking back at his phone screen.

Voyageur fans were going a little crazy online, in Kalle's opinion. They way went about it, the team had humiliated Boston at the Stanley Cup final, but it'd been a narrow victory. Kalle would need to go over the game tape more closely, but it'd been a close match, to the point that it'd gone into overtime. He found a clip of a podcaster who was saying as much. Kalle checked the name. 'Hockinator'.

Looked stupid, but maybe it was a marketing thing. Even Kalle got the pun: hockey and terminator. He followed the man's to see if he had anything else worthwhile to say as the season progressed.

"Hey," he heard someone say.

Kalle looked up and found a petite blond woman wearing a hockey jersey with his name and number. "Are you. . . um, Kalle Wynn?"

She wasn't saying his first name quite right, but. . . "Yes," said Kalle.

"Oh!" She covered her mouth with her hand and giggled. "Oh my God!"

Kalle looked around for his teammates.

"I'm such a huge fan," said the woman. "Of the Voyageurs, of course! But this season--you've been amazing!"

He'd been doing well, but that was a premature assessment. "It's been four games."

"I know, winning streak!" she half-yelled. "So exciting. Can I sit?" She did so before Kalle could reply. "And tonight! I was there; that moment during overtime when you stole the puck from Rozanov and passed to Hollander, and then he passed back to you, and you scored! I couldn't believe it."

"It was a good play," said Kalle. And very standard hockey fare. Well executed, but standard.

"I'm Delia," said the woman, though Kalle hadn't asked her.

She was very excitable and, though she eventually demonstrated a decent understanding of hockey, something about the way she stared at Kalle was off putting. He said he needed to visit the bathroom, which he'd been taught was the polite way to extricate himself from these situations. Delia deflated, but she merely produced a marking pen asked him to sign her jersey.

As he headed to the bathroom, already sending Veiko a message that he was ready to go home, he mused that he had just signed his first jersey. Had that girl been one of those puck bunnies the guys kept talking about? Was Kalle a hockey superstar? Already?

The bathrooms were quite a ways away from the dance floor and the bar, which Kalle hoped meant that they were more hygienic. He didn't really need one at the moment, but since he'd told Delia that was where he was going, he figured it would be best to at least pass by. It would no doubt be disgusting, but he needed to get used to random bathrooms if he was serious about his MLH career. Somehow.

He turned the corner and stopped dead in his tracks. Hollander and Rozanov were in front of him.

For a second, he thought he'd run into a fight and tensed up, ready to step in. Rozanov had Hollander pressed against a wall, one hand buried in his hair, his thigh jammed between Hollander's leg. They were kissing. Quite passionately, Kalle supposed.

Kalle turned back around and went back to his seat, mind whirring. He glanced back, thinking that Hollander and Rozanov might have heard him and were following him, but no.
Delia wasn't at his table, thank goodness. Pike and Boiziau had returned, though, and they were eager to talk to him.

"Wynn, did you see where Shane went?" asked Pike.

"No!"

"Bro," said Boiziau. "You good?"

"I have to go," said Kalle. "My attendant is waiting for me."

"Okay," said Pike. "J. J., let's split up and look."

Kalle was outside the bar moments later. He didn't say anything as Veiko opened the door for him, or during the first few minutes of the drive. Then, he made a decision, pulled out his phone, and voice called Hollander.

He picked up after three rings. "What--I mean, hi." In the background, someone might have chuckled.

"You should know that Pike and Boiziau are looking for you," said Kalle.

"Um. . . what?"

"Pike and Boiziau are looking for you," repeated Kalle.

"Shit," said Hollander. "Fuck off--I mean, thanks! I'll look for them."

"Okay," said Kalle. "Goodbye. He hung up the phone.

"Everything all right, Master Kalle?"

"Yes," said Kalle. He hoped, anyway. He didn't want to think about what would happen if the rest of the team saw Hollander doing. . . whatever he'd been doing. Did it have anything to do with hockey?

No, not yet. Not until people found out, which hopefully wouldn't be for a long time. Certainly not before their next game, which was schedule for the day after tomorrow. Voyageurs vs Admirals. Kalle was looking forward to it.

Chapter End Notes

I've been saying that Wynn knows a lot more than people give him credit for!

I'm latigrat over at tumblr where I've probably been wasting too much time.