Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Categories:

F/M, M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

Ilya Rozanov/Svetlana Vetrova, Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander & His Parents, Eric Bennett/Kyle Swift

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander, Svetlana Vetrova, Patrice Drapeau, Hayden Pike, Yuna Hollander, David Hollander, Jean-Jacques Boiziau | J. J. Dagenais, Original Characters, Eric Bennett, Kyle Swift

Additional Tags:

The Shane/Ilya/Svetlana Love Triangle No One Was Asking For, Social Media, Making Stuff Up About Hockey, Gambling, Slurs, Shane being normal about Ilya, playoff season, Shane Being Normal About Men He Finds Attractive, Bro Science, Homophobia, Sexism, Age gap relationship, Misogyny, Kidnapping, Making Stuff Up About Ottawa

Language:

English

Series:

Part 15 of Hope You're Not Waiting For Me to Wait For You

Stats:

Published: 2026-07-18 Completed: 2026-08-03 Words: 24,501 Chapters: 5/5

All Your Miseries

Summary

Shane Hollander continues to play hockey while yet another hockey player comes out as gay. Or is outed. Shane doesn't know. It's not even his team this time.

Chapter 1

Chapter Notes

Lol I don't think there's anything specific to warn for. Yet.

The Voyageurs made the play offs after a grueling match against the Buffalo Wolves.

Playing them had been a little awkward ever since their previous captain and his wife, the Gleasons, had been revealed (outed?) as a cuckold fetishists. With an additional embarrassing racial aspect to it. That had involved both Shane and J. J., two of the rare not-white players in the MLH. Shane doubted the rest of the Wolves had known the couple's explicit fantasies before his wife had leaked their sexting chat logs, but he didn't have much sympathy for them. They still acted like the hideously embarrassing ordeal had been Montreal's fault.

They certainly played aggressively, checking them more than was warranted, especially their queer players. During the third period, McAllister delivered a goal and pushed them to a decisive four-to-two lead. And was immediately checked by the Wolves' enforcer. A brawl broke out after that and because MLH referees were lower life forms, both teams had been penalized. It was so stupid that even Merrell, probably the most annoyingly passive player Shane had ever worked with, had looked ready to throw down.

Shane scored a final goal, earning a hat trick and edging out Ilya for season goals. He'd get the Top Forward trophy, again, and it would be all the more meaningful with Rozanov playing out the whole seaosn.

"We fucking did it!" Shane yelled in the locker room, bumping helmets with Hayden and ruffling Xie's hair.

"Yes!" yelled Comeau, throwing an arm around him for a side hug. Shane was so happy he angled his body a bit to hug him back.

"We're keeping that fucking trophy," yelled J. J. "Watch out Sharks; we're gonna fucking drown you!"

"Can you drown fish?" asked McAllister, rubbing at his elbow. Shane made a note to send one of the team doctors his way before practice tomorrow.

"Remember we play the Centaurs first," said Merrell.

"Waste of time," said J. J. "They can't fucking beat us."

"Think of it as a scrimmage," said Shane, unable to stop himself from grinning like a loon.

They'd fucking made it. No one could reasonably claim that the Voyageurs' Stanley Cup victory last season had been a fluke or some strange publicity play by the MLH to prove that their most dysfunctional team was Fine, Actually. They weren't a dysfunctional team, never mind that fucking SportsBet pool about Shane and Merrell having a fist fight that was at an absurd two million USD. Just the biggest one.

Fuck, but people were stupid. Shane and Merrell got along fine. And the Voyageurs were the best fucking team in the league.

Their lines were killer, led by some of the best and most versatile shooters in the MLH and supported by a disciplined rear guard. They had two, arguably three, of the best players in the league (Shane himself, Merrell, and Wagner). Their defensemen were agile and aggressive, fortress-like under pressure. Their goalie was stalwart the few few time and opposing team broke through their lines. With every passing victory, even their most ardent haters had no choice but to admit it.

On the plane ride back home, Shane allowed himself some celebratory scrolling through social media before doing the usual tape review. He smirked at the highlight reel of his hat trick, the shot of Babikov descending of the guy who'd checked McAllister after his goal, and the Buffalo home crowd despairing as their team was humiliated.

Have we considered if dick sucking improves athletic ability? Maybe jizz has T on it so they're legally juicing

Fucking dumbass like two of those guys suck dick maybe

Guys they probably get their dicks sucked not the other way around

Even if there's juice in the jizz wouldn't stomach acid digest it?

Shane rolled his eyes and closed the social media apps. It always took maybe twenty comments before the subject of gay sex came up on clips of their games, even on the forums that were supposed to be for serious sports fans. Shouldn't these morons be discussing what this match meant for the playoffs? The Wolves still had a chance to make it and Shane wished them luck. The only team that was more fun to beat was the Knights.

Matches against the Bears were, of course, in their own separate category.

He received a message that lit up his face.

Ilya Rozanov

Ilya Rozanov
congratulations
now don't you get into horrible accident and maybe we can finally do playoff series

Shane Hollander
don't even joke about that

Ilya Rozanov
no one is joking
I need a week with my Montreal chick
we gotta make that playoff series happen

Shane Hollander
if you beat the Diamonds next
which I see no reason why you wouldn't
the Bears will officially be in he playoffs too

Ilya Rozanov
we have never and would never lose against Dallas
loser cowboy rejects
could beat them blindfolded

Shane Hollander
as I said we should both make it
battle for the Stanley Cup
the hardon I would get beating you for the Stanley Cup directly might land me in the hospital

Ilya Rozanov
Hollander!!!!
imagine what your mama would say if she sees this filth

Shane Hollander
and!
today's hat trick puts me two goals above you

Ilya Rozanov
no worries
planning dick trick next game to reverse positions

Shane felt himself blushing and was glad that Ilya wasn't around to see it. Or, maybe it would be nice if her were around to grab Shane's chin and tilt his head for a deep kiss. Shane scored a hat trick today; he deserved a treat. Ilya's talented mouth, the burr of his accent, his throat.

Okay, that was enough. The flight to Montreal was not long enough that he could risk getting a boner.

They would have a brief two day rest before the match against the Centaurs, another two day break after that game, and then the Voyageurs would fly to Miami. The first day, they would cut training short because they had the yearly fundraiser for Montreal's Children's Hospital. Then next day, while most of his teammates relaxed, Shane would film some annoying commercial for--he checked his calendar--Rolex.

He hated the Rolex commercials; they always dressed him in a suit and ordered him to look "sophisticated", and Shane could never figure out what they meant. He much preferred Reebok commercials. For them, Shane usually had to do something athletic while wearing clothes that resembled what he wore most days of his life. His mom was right though--Rolex not only paid better, it was a much better brand for his long term image.

Raising money for the children's hospital might be a good cause, but like every year, Shane was annoyed to cut training short just to spend a few hours entertaining the kids of people wealthy enough to afford tickets to the thing. They always invited one or two childhood cancer survivors for the optics, but still. Shane didn't understand why they had to skate with the brats. They could watch the Voyageurs practice, couldn't they? Sometimes, wealthy uber fans paid just for that, especially if their kid was going through a hockey phase.

The WAGs were involved too, which Shane guessed made the whole thing easier. Most of them were pretty good with kids. Shane looked to the corner of the rink Jackie Pike had commandeered to entertain a group of young girls with some kind of coordinated dance. Had Jackie ever done any figure skating? Shane thought Hayden might have mentioned something about it. Either way, the girls looked happy.

Unlike the boys who were following him around the rink, their fathers trailing not far behind. Some of those guys looked more excited than the boys, most of whom had figured out pretty quickly that Shane Hollander didn't have much to say to them, though he did try. He certainly put more effort into entertaining them than their annoying dads, who really shouldn't be looking at him with sparkly eyes.

Even the hot one with a salt-and-pepper beard and broad shoulders who was in a beer league.

Shane smiled every time he passed by someone he knew. The Pike twins waved at him, but didn't ask him over. They were skating with Babikov, who looked bigger than usual while holding hands with two little girls. He pushed one of them forward, probably a little too hard, but Hayden was positioned to catch her. She giggled maniacally; her sister ripped her hand away from Babikov and sped towards her dad.

Where was Xie? He was usually glued to Babikov's side.

Not this time. He was at the edge of the rink, ignoring all the kids and talking to Fernando Rivera.

It was still kind of wild that one of the WAGs was a husband. Earlier in the year, Jeremy McAllister had returned from Christmas break and announced that he had eloped with his long term best friend/platonic-blow-job-provider-turned-boyfriend. The team had stared at him, shrugged, and went about their business, much to Shane's shock.

He really shouldn't have been shocked, though. Like Hayden had pointed out, MLH dudes married young all the time. And the team had met Fernando a few times when they were down in the southeastern states and seen for themselves that he was pretty cool. Comeau, of all people, had added that Fernando was best for McAllister since they'd known each other prior to the MLH salary, so he probably wasn't a complete golddigger.

Fucking Gilbert Comeau, gay marriage ally.

The rest of the world hadn't taken the marriage in stride. A pro athlete? Of a major league? Gay married? Via Vegas elopement? The hashtags had rendered Shane's feed nearly unusable for weeks. More so when some asshole tracked down McAllister's batshit religious sister-in-law for an interview, who'd gone on to rant that she was praying for McAllister's soul now that he was openly living in sin. That was the nicest thing she'd said. The same reporter had then interviewed Fernando's brother.

That gringa wants Jeremy's money, the man--who was as good looking as Fernando--had said. My brother loves that boy and won't let his deadbeat brother take advantage of him anymore.

Nobody was dead and no one had released revenge porn, so it wasn't too bad as far as Voyageur scandals went.

It all died down eventually, like everything died down online, but Fernando was still around. He'd transferred to McGill to finish his philosophy degree and according to McAllister, he was reconsidering going to law school.

"He's gonna raise your baby, Jer?" one of the guys asked him, a little meanly.

"Fernando's a dude, Bilash," McAllister had responded. "I don't know if you know, but dudes can't have babies. He's just thinking maybe he can get a PhD in like, literature or something like that. Or film theory. I don't even know what film theory is."

"Like to direct movies?" asked Hayden.

"I'd totally go for something artistic too if I go to college," Xie had added. "Now that I got MLH money."

So, Fernando was an intellectual. Shane had no idea what he and McAllister talked about. It could be a bit of a challenge to keep MacAllister focused on plays, never mind any subject that even approached complexity. Shane could only conclude, reluctantly, that McAllister must be a spectacular lay. Not to mention confident. Or stupid enough not to pay his hot husband any mind. He was currently playing with Koval and Passey, skating around a group of kids, while Xie kept Fernando company.

At the end of the night, Melissa informed them that they'd raised a total of three million Canadian dollars for the hospital and asked if any of them wanted to make additional donations. Some of the guys grumbled that the MLH pulled enough to match that during one of their games, which might be an exaggeration, but regardless. Shane didn't see why that should influence his generosity or lack of thereof. He decided to make a private donation to the hospital, but there was no need to involve Melissa, the Voyageurs' chief PR strategist. Knowing her, she'd shoot an ad about it and run it on every streaming platform on the planet.

He told his mother of his plan next evening during their early dinner. She would know how to make an anonymous donation.

Whenever his parents were in Montreal and Shane wasn't off on a roadie, he reserved a secluded table at Le Filet. The head chef was huge fan on the Voyageurs and insisted on providing at least one plate on the house.

"Welcome, Mr. Hollander," the waiter in a nice suit said, and Shane almost didn't realize it was directed at him since his dad was next to him. "We are excited to have you with us, as always. Our chef has been been focused on your roasted halibut all evening, though of course we can prepare another dish if you like."

"The halibut is good, thank you," said Shane, waiting for his parents to be seated. "Mom? Dad?"

They began exchanging pleasantries with the waiter. David, in particular, always wanted to chat about kitchen stuff. He often said that if he had to do his life all over again, he'd become a chef rather than an academic architect. After meeting and marrying Yuna, of course.

This time, Shane's parents happened to be in Montreal because Yuna had a meeting with some clients and David had accompanied her. Shane jumped at the opportunity and asked to drive back home with them for the game against the Centaurs tomorrow. Not only would he get to catch up with his parents, he wouldn't have to deal with the long bus ride while the guys chirped at each other.

"You're doing amazing this season, honey," Yuna said, when the waiter left to get them their drinks. "I have a really good feeling that you'll get the Cup back to back."

"And even if you don't," said David. "You still made the playoffs."

"We're gonna keep the Cup," said Shane. "I feel it in my bones." More importantly, he knew that he'd make it happen.

"Your teammates prepared?" said Yuna. "No locker room issues?"

Shane shook his head, relieved that he didn't have to lie. The Voyageurs' language probably wouldn't meet Yuna's standards, but they were handling being the gay team well enough. The fact that they were dominating the competition and projected to make it far in the championship helped. Another reason not for Shane to lock the fuck in--he didn't want to deal with a bunch of assholes blaming McAllister and Xie's gay cooties for a losing streak.

"And your friends?" asked David.

"Good," said Shane. "Jackie's pregnant again." He couldn't keep a touch of judgment out of his voice.

"That's number. . . four?" said Yuna.

"Three; remember they have twins," Shane said. "Apparently, they really want a boy. I told them to look into IVF, but Hayden says Jackie really wants to be all natural."

"She tried telling me that organic ingredients really make a difference in the kitchen," said David, sipping his wine. "I have to admit the freshness matters way more. The locally-sourced stuff is so great because the transport time is less."

"Obviously, I support a woman's bodily autonomy," said Yuna, eyes narrowed in a way that indicated a bit of criticism was on the way, "but I couldn't be pregnant that often. Shane, you're very lucky you'll never have to be pregnant."

Shane nodded. He agreed wholeheartedly with that. Pregnancy looked like something out of a horror movie.

"We planned to have two children," said David.

"But my pregnancy with you was. . . difficult," said Yuna.

The waiter arrived with their meals and Shane tried to take comfort in the delicious scent of the roasted halibut. He knew Yuna didn't mean anything by it, but he still hated to think that he'd ever caused her enough discomfort that she'd decided not to have more children

That being said, it was great to be an only child.

"In any case," Yuna continued, "I'm glad we could focus all our attention on you."

"Well," said David.

"Well?" repeated Yuna, giving him a look.

"Nothing," said David, smiling at Shane. "Enough about us, son. How are the rest of your friends? How's Ilya?"

"Uh. . ." Shane looked between them. Had he detected a rare bit of frost between his parents? Or was he looking for an excuse to dodge a question about Ilya freaking Rozanov? "He's fine."

"He's dating Rose Landry now, right?" asked David.

"No!" Shane shook his head. This is what he got for informing his parents that he an Ilya were 'friends'. He didn't know what he'd been thinking at the time. But it'd been stupid as fuck.

"He's just. . .uh. . ."

"He's with Vetrov's daughter," said Yuna. "He spent Christmas with her family in Trinidad."

"No!" said Shane. "I mean--how do you know that?"

"MLH gossip," said Yuna. "And you told us."

Right. When Yuna had, horrifyingly, offered to invite Rozanov to their Christmas celebrations if he wasn't going to Russia.

Shane didn't even mention Ilya to his parents much, but in fairness to them, he didn't talk about any of his teammates or fellow MLH players in detail. Their play styles? Of course. Their season highlights? Practically what he and Yuna discussed during all their calls, after she was done informing him of cousins he found boring and asking if he was seeing anybody. Complaints? Often. But Shane didn't refer to them as friends, exactly. Except for Hayden, J. J., and rarely since he was a Bear now, Wynn. They were just excited that he had any friends in the league.

Shane had of course said no to inviting Rozanov for Christmas. That was extremely beyond a FWB relationship. That was. . . it was something fucking else. Something that Shane would not allow himself to contemplate. Thank God he had said no because the same evening Yuna made her insane offer, Ilya told him via text that he'd finally get to visit Trinidad, Sveta's Caribbean paradise, for Christmas.

Shane had a picture he'd posted saved in his folder.

Well, one that a relative of Svetlana posted of Ilya lounging on a beach towel, wearing tight swimming trunks, skin glimmering with sweat or sunscreen, the ocean bright blue in the background. Ilya himself had spammed pictures of random birds and "interesting" rocks. Once, he'd posted a short clip of himself trying some Coke flavor sold only in that region of the world. He was so good at sponsored content that Shane had to ask if it was an ad or not.

You know it's illegal not to disclose paid content right?

Relax Hollander I was tasting bottle with special bird cartoon on brand. Not paid technically I can use hashtag on my own time

"It would be nice if he formalized his relationship with that girl," said David. "She's an American citizen, right?"

"So?" said Shane.

"He has been. . ." David trailed off awkwardly.

"Provocative with Kalle Wynn," Yuna finished for him. "I would hate to see one of your friends in trouble with their crazy government."

"It's not like that," mumbled Shane. How the hell had things escalated to the point that his parents were gossiping about Ilya's love life?

It was one thing if RPF chicks posted long essays with body language analysis of Ilya and Wynn's interactions. And it was also fine if Shane--during his designated hour of social media insanity--read them. They were right, much as Shane hated to admit it. Wynn did act very differently around Ilya. He let Ilya touch his hair, pull him into bear hugs. He stared at Ilya intently as he moved about a room and was always ready to go to him whenever Ilya called for him.

Shane had been watching the Bears' PR videos too. How else could he assess the RPF chicks' work? Someone on the Bears' payroll had decided that the best way to get their team to trend was to capitalized on what the RPF chicks called Ilya and Wynn's "obvious chemistry". So, they posted a lof of videos of them playing. Not just hockey, but of them messing around in the Bears' gym, or of Ilya correcting Wynn's Russian pronunciation.

Yes, Wynn had decided to learn Russian. When asked why, he looked at the camera and point-blank announced, "For Roz, of course."

The RPF chicks had loved that.

"Rose Landry is American too," David said, drawing Shane's attention back to the present conversation.

"Ilya's not marrying Rose Landry," said Shane, wondering if he wasn't having some kind of delayed concussion. Had a puck hit his head last game?

"They looked very beautiful on the red carpet for the new X-Squad movie," said Yuna.

"Oh my God," sighed Shane.

"You would look gorgeous with her too, honey," said Yuna.

That wasn't the point. Why would that even matter? "Look, he was supposed to take Svetlana to that premier, but something came up with her movie business and Rose Landry's date also canceled. Food poisoning."

"So Vetrov's daughter volunteered Rozanov?" asked David.

Yuna leaned forward, excited at the prospect of fresh gossip.

"Basically," said Shane. "You've heard about Svetlana--" Ugh, he didn't even like saying her name. "--trying to make a movie with Rose Landry, right? That's what's happening."

"Really?" said Yuna.

Shane nodded, hoping there had been an official announcement of that somewhere. He'd heard it from Ilya, while talking about that stupid red carpet event, in fact. Even now, almost a week after, Shane didn't quite grasp why Svetlana and Rose Landry doing business meant Ilya had to take Rose Landry to movie premiers.

"I'm confused," said David. "Svetlana and Rose Landry are making a movie, so Svetlana loaned her boyfriend out?"

Shane made a face. She wasn't officially his girlfriend.

"Honey, that's regressive," said Yuna. "It's obvious that Svetlana and Ilya are. . . modern. She doesn't seem concerned with the Wynn situation."

Why was everyone in the world so fucking obsessed with this? "Sorry, can we talk about something else?"

"Of course," said Yuna, smiling. "I actually have good news for you. Remember Keiko?"

"Takekawa?" Shane leaned forward. He very much did.

"She is visiting Montreal again," said Yuna. "I heard from her mother."

"She'll be presenting some research at McGill, right?" said David.

"Yes," said Yuna, still looking at Shane. "I can forward you the dates. In case you want to reach out to her."

"Please do," said Shane, squaring his shoulders.

He and Keiko had left things off on a positive note and even exchanged some messages after she'd returned to Japan. Shane had honestly meant to keep the connection going, but they were both very busy people. He had the Stanley Cup to defend and she had. . . she was doing something with rice. . . grains? Seeds? Something with rice crops.

It was time for Shane to stop procrastinating on the WAG front, though. Keiko remained his best option, assuming he could win her over. She was gorgeous, intelligent, and had gone to school from something important. Her work focused on developing crops more suited for harsh climates, which they all knew were coming because of the greenhouse effects. There was the minor issue of her not speaking English or French fluently, and Shane not speaking Japanese, but they could work on that. Languages could be learned.

Keiko was, to date, the woman Shane had enjoyed sex with the most. Which still wasn't as much as he enjoyed it with Ilya, but it was enjoyment. He'd managed to maintain an erection long enough to please her and while he hadn't achieved orgasm while having vaginal sex with her, she was was very good at making him come with her mouth.

Though not as good as Ilya.

God, why was he thinking about this while trying to have dinner with his parents?

Voyageurs

Patrice Drapeau
bros!
are you seeing this shit????
.link

Hayden Pike
omg

Greg Cornick
is every hockey player gay?
am I gay?

Dylan Xie
dude only you know that

Jean-Jacques Boiziau
ok did not see this coming

Shane Hollander
what's going on?

Jake Merrell
looks like someone caught Eric Bennett kissing a guy

Shane Hollander
what?

Gilbert Comeau
this is a 20 year old!!!!

Dylan Xie
gentlemen this is what a twink looks like

Shane Hollander
isn't Bennett married?

Soren Miitka
so?

Shane Hollander
to a woman?

Jeremy McAllister
maybe he's bi
and a cheater

Dylan Xie
I need to lie down
do I have a shot with Eric Bennett?

Patrice Drapeau
hockey bros are having a collective nervous breakdown on my feed

Shane Hollander
why?
they care about infidelity now?

Jake Merrell
this would be like if you came out as gay Hollander

Shane Hollander
excuse me?

Jeremy McAllister
checking with Fernando if I can try and pull Bennett

Jake Merrell
Bennett is one of the top players in the league
and very respectable and serious
and supposedly heterosexual

Hayden Pike
the Admirals don't even have Melissa to spin this
they're fucked

Soren Miitka
what is even there to spin?
it's not illegal to fuck twinks

Greg Cornick
yeah and we have an infidelity shitshow weekly
someone link a pic of Bennett's wife
let's see if she's better looking than the twink

Hayden Pike
guys come on

Mykola Koval
.png

Nikolai Babikov
dude do you even know what's happening in this chat right now?

Mykola Koval
I'm improving my English

Gilbert Comeau
the twink is hotter

Greg Cornick
dude maybe you're gay

Gilbert Comeau
fuck you you're the one who asked in the first place

Patrice Drapeau
from an aesthetic perspective the twink is prettier

David Taylor
yeah like how Dylan is prettier than his sister

Dylan Xie
guys wtf
leave my sister out of this

Jean-Jacques Boiziau
lmao the twink is a model

Jake Merrell
from what I remember Bennett always went all in on things
he would go for a 20 year old model to have a midlife crisis with

Jonas Raphael Carmichael III
I think I know this guy
the twink

Shane Hollander
who is he?

Jonas Raphael Carmichael III
well his family
if this is Kyle Swift as in Swift Real Estate and Development
his family does business with my family

Gilbert Comeau
so he's not a golddigger than
good for Bennett

Chapter End Notes

For real I think a good 5-10% of hockey bros and players alike are having sexuality crises over this lol

I'm latigrat over at tumblr.

Chapter 2

Chapter Notes

WARNINGS at the end notes this time

Voyageurs

Patrice Drapeau
I've gathered as much info as possible on Bennett's twink
there's not much all his socials are privated
but it looks like he's infamous in his hometown in Vermont

Gilbert Comeau
yeah tracking
looks like he's been homewrecking since he was like 16
fucked some married accountant who worked for his dad

Nikolai Babikov
16 year old accountant?

Cole Passey
no man
the accountant was old
like 40

Dylan Xie
ew

Patrice Drapeau
he was 38 at the time of the alleged affair

Jake Merrell
still gross

Gilbert Comeau
this is why twinks are dangerous

Jake Merrell
the 38 year old is gross you dipshit

Hayden Pike
yeah 20-35 is questionable
but at least it's legal

Shane Hollander
has anyone reviewed tape from the Centaurs last game?

Jean-Jacques Boiziau
bro it's the cens
who cares?

The morning of his Rolex commercial, Farah called Shane and let him know that she'd agreed to filming with Emma Blighton on his behalf.

"Who?" Shane said to the phone.

"Emma Blighton," Farah repeated, like she thought Shane might not have heard clearly. When he didn't answer right away, she continued. "She's one of the most popular pop singers in the English speaking world right now. You've heard Fuck Me, I'm sure? Seen the video?"

"Uh. . ." said Shane, sure that he was blushing. "I'm not much of a music fan."

"It's been number one on streaming for six weeks, Shane."

"Okay."

"Her people requested Xie, but--"

"I'm their second choice?" interjected Shane. "Pardon me for interrupting, but Xie? Why?"

"Probably as an indirect allusion to Blighton's rivalry with Sienna," said Farah.

"Xie's girlfriend?" said Shane. "The streamer?"

"And pop star," said Farah. "I turned that down; it simply doesn't serve Dylan's brand to shoot a commercial with his girlfriend's rival. You, on the other hand, don't have any serious attachments right now. I know I made the decision without consulting you first, but it's my professional opinion that a brief connection with Blighton will enhance your image."

"Yeah, sure," said Shane. He wasn't crazy about getting Xie's brand scraps, but it sounded like this had to do with WAG drama he couldn't waste energy on. No way it was worth it to make a fuss with Rolex. He didn't bother to call Yuna and ask for her input because he knew what she would say. Be accommodating to the client, within reason. "I'm still heading to the same place?"

Less than an hour later, a bossy art director type was explaining the concept of the commercial to Shane. He would start in a generic locker room, sweaty (all his commercials involved sweat in some way), taking off his gear and putting on a fancy suit. It made no sense. Shane switched to comfortable clothes in the locker room and then went home for a proper change if he needed to wear a suit, but whatever. The less sets needed, the sooner this would be done.

Of course, he would be putting on a fancy Rolex. Shane bit back a grin when the director said that they'd hired a hand/wrist model for that part. Thank God his own hand/wrist wasn't attractive enough since it meant less filming time for him.

He would then leave the rink, in his fancy suit, and pick up Emma Blighton for a hot date. Or a hot woman being played by Emma Blighton. The director was adamant that he was the main character of the commercial, not Blighton, but Shane didn't care. Nor did he know why he was expected to care. He might ask Yuna later, if he actually remembered.

It was actually not as bad as he expected. Not only did Shane know his way around a locker room--even a fake locker room for a set--but there were no lines for him to memorize. The rest, he could deal with. He was used to people spritzing him with water to simulate sweat. Complimentary comments about his body no longer made him feel awkward. He even had engaged in a short conversation with one of the make up guys about how his performance-focused diet helped him avoid abdominal bloat.

"I bet," the guys said, biting his plush bottom lip. "You have such great eyes--talk about chocolate--too bad this thing will probably be black and white."

Shane smiled and looked at his hands.

He had less practice putting on a suit, but it was hardly a complex procedure. It was a little annoying when the director asked him to look "intense", but Shane had a strategy for that too. He simply focused on remembering the last time Ilya had beat him at a face off and that always seemed to achieve the look directors were going for.

The first snag hit during the parts with Emma Blighton. The director wanted them to look "horny for each other". Within a couple of takes, it was obvious that Blighton was accomplishing the task, but Shane couldn't say the same for himself. The director insisted that he looked "detached".

"Would it help if a I gave you guys a couple of minutes to get to know each other?" he asked.

"Um. . ." Shane really didn't want to do that, whatever it meant. It couldn't be that they should actually start touching each other for real. Was it legal to even suggest such a thing to them? He hoped he wasn't blushing.

Would Xie be having trouble with this part of it?

Probably not. Emma Blighton was a beautiful woman. She wore her platinum blond hair in long waves that fell down her back. Shane was supposed to gather it in his hands to reveal the long line of it, then lay his hand--the one with the Rolex--on the upper part of her ass. The flimsy white slip of fabric they'd dressed her in accentuated the perfect curves of her ass and large breasts.

"I think it'd look sexier if he touched me more," she told the director in a firm voice. "Do my hair up in a bun and then he can run his hand down my back and pause at my ass."

"I'm aiming for a classier vibe," said the director. "This is Rolex."

"Honey, he's hot but he can't act," said Blighton. "We have to rely on body language here. Class it up in post with lighting and music."

It didn't take long to change Blighton's hairdo, thank God. Though Shane still felt more tense, they managed to get some usable footage in three takes, with almost two hours left on schedule.

"Good work today," Blighton told him when they ran into each other in the hallway. Two fashionable guys whose hips swayed when they walked flanked her.

"Uh, thanks," said Shane, wondering if she wasn't just trying to be nice. Or condescending. "Didn't feel that way." They'd had to change the whole commercial for him.

"You followed instructions without a single argument," said Blighton. "Who knows how long we'd been here if you'd gone all diva on us."

"Um."

"Could I have your number?" she asked. "I think we might be able to work together again in the future."

"Okay," said Shane, a little surprised. He had no idea what kind of business he could do with a pop star, but Yuna always said that a networking opportunity should never be wasted.

One of Blighton's friends (assistants?) took Shane's number down. Maybe Shane should have given them Farah's contact? Much as he tried to follow Yuna's advice, he'd never actually "networked" beyond playing phenomenal hockey in front of coaches.

"And this is my agent's contact too," added Shane, sending the friend/assistant another message. Farah would know how to interact further with these people.

The affair was out of his mind by the time his parents arrived to pick him up. Once the playoffs started Shane would be too busy to with games or prep to spend much quality time with them, so he planned to stay in home for a day and then take a commercial flight down to Miami.

Less than an hour later, he was in the backseat of his parents car, on the way to Ottawa. David volunteered to drive since he liked seeing nature flourishing during spring. Shane and Yuna were focused on their respective screens: additional research for an upcoming contract in Yuna's case and Centaurs tape for Shane.

Fine, he was consuming "news" (gossip) about Eric Bennett. The MLH still had not released any statements about his. . . whatever it was with that boy, but Bennett's agent released a statement that his client was entitled to privacy. Which was true, of course. But Shane wanted to know. Had Bennett been gay the entire time? Was he even gay, or did he just enjoy an occasional stress relief session with a man? What type of arrangement did he have with his wife?

"I can't believe Eric Bennett, of all people, would do something like this," said Yuna.

Shane slide closer to the front passenger seat and glanced at the laptop on her lap. She was looking at the Sports and Culture front page, which she often complained was a glorified gossip rag since they paid little attention to Shane, who was never involved in any scandals.

They'd been paying more attention to Shane since last season, but not the type that Yuna had hoped for.

"What do you mean?" asked David.

"Didn't you hear?" said Yuna, looking at him. "He's cheating on his wife."

"Doesn't that say they've been separated for a while?" asked Shane, giving Yuna's screen a pointed look. "Since when?"

"According to his wife--soon to be ex-wife--they separated early this season," said Yuna. "But he's still wearing his wedding band. Or was."

"You think it's because of--" Shane cut himself off.

"The cheating with the twenty-year-old thing?" said Yuna. "I know I wouldn't be thrilled in her shoes. Your father would be out of the house and locked out of our accounts before the gossip rags had a chance to release their clickbait."

"Honey, I would never," said David. "You're more stunning than any twenty-year-old."

"And you're not gay," said Shane, as Yuna patted David's forearm lightly.

"It wouldn't be any better if it was a twenty-year-old girl," said Yuna.

Right. Shane's parents had a loving, traditional relationship that didn't suffer the stress of having one partner out of the house for most of the year. They expected strict faithfulness from each other. While both of them worked--or had worked; David had gone part time a couple of years ago--neither of them did anything that particularly special or unique. So they were both around the same fitness level.

Shane leaned back, trying not to blush. He didn't like to think about his parents' sex lives anymore than anyone else. The point was that neither of them had to worry that the other had too much energy or needed too much sex to be satisfied.

"But really," said Yuna, "I've met Holly Bennett a couple times at MLH-sponsorred charity galas, and she seemed like a lovely woman. What is it with these athletes and their mid life crises?"

"Bennett is middle aged?" asked David.

"He's thirty-five," said Shane.

"Relatively young," said Yuna, "but definitely at the tail end of his career."

"So he hasn't been playing well?" asked David.

"No, he's arguably the best goalie in the Eastern conference," said Shane. "His numbers this season have been his best in. . ."

"Four seasons," Yuna finished for him. "And he's on track to beat his shutout record. The Admirals have been doing really well in general, but he's undeniably their star."

"Interesting," said David.

"Interesting?" asked Shane.

"Men generally become foolish with younger lovers when they're feeling emasculated or when they're getting old," said David. He grinned at Yuna. "Actually old, not athlete old."

"Maybe it's just that he's been closeted this entire time," said Yuna, with skeptical look. "Doesn't explain why the paramour is twenty. . . oh."

"What?" said Shane, looking at Yuna's screen again.

He was greeted with a picture of a smiling boy with blond hair and baby blue eyes wearing a pair of nice glasses. A caption yelled BENNETT'S GAY LOVER. In all red caps.

"He looks young," said David, disapprovingly.

"This was from a few years ago," said Yuna, clicking on a link. "Here's a more recent picture. . ."

It was the same blond boy, this time with his hair colored white for some reason, standing in front of a poster with a picture of some ancient spear-thing on the back. He was wearing a sweater with the Columbia University logo. Shane thought he looked too thin. He doubted the guy was an athlete, but didn't he know about weight lifting?

"Still pretty young," said David. "I hope his parents are watching out for him."

"You think there's been more young men?" asked Yuna.

"No way for us to know," shrugged David. "And the league is saying nothing about this?"

"Nothing so far," said Yuna. "So long as it's not outright illegal, they'll pretend to be blind and deaf."

"And if it was illegal, they'd move to protect Bennett," said David, shaking his head.

Why the hell had Bennett done this shit publicly? If he was gay and wanted to end it with his wife and come out, okay. Shane saw why he might see that as viable option now there were more out professional athletes. There was the NFL quarterback and a few weeks ago, and NBA player had also come out. As far as Shane knew, they were still playing.

But to break it to the world by cheating on his wife at a gay bar? Maybe the wife was angry at that humiliation, not so much that he was cheating. Or how young the lover was. How many WAGs had to deal with their dudes posting risque selfies with young puck bunnies they found at random bars?

A lot of MLH marriages weren't truly monogamous. Just look at Miitka and how he openly referred to the "arrangement" he had with Cajsa. Shane didn't know the details, but he'd never seen Cajsa upset or uncomfortable around Miitka. He treated her well, as far as Shane could tell, and was attentive and respectful when they were together.
Shane hoped that whoever he picked to be his wife would be like Cajsa. Beautiful, classy, and never too demanding of his time. He would treat her well too. Definitely, he would never humiliate her like Bennett had humiliated his wife.

"Dude, what the fuck did you do?" J. J. asked someone in the Centaurs' guest locker room.

Shane looked up, concerned, then rolled his eyes. Babikov had shaved his head and beard. And eyebrows, Shane noted as the boy rubbed at his forehead. He did not look good, not that anyone did without eyebrows. God only knew why Babikov decided to do such a stupid thing. He looked like unfinished videogame character sprite stuck on 'surprise' mode, but Shane didn't need him for his looks. So whatever.

The entire team--minus Wagner, who was over in his corner carefully inspecting and reinspecting his skates--was staring at Babikov with varying degrees of horror. Carmichael's mouth was literally hanging open. Even Xie looked like he'd bitten into a stale lemon. Merrell sighed, but didn't say anything.

For his part, Babikov stood tall, puffed up his chest, and beamed at them. "Figured I'd get rid of as much hair as possible in case we stay in the playoffs for too long," he said.

"Did you wax your asshole too?" asked Cornick.

"What do you mean 'too long'?" said Shane.

"This is unbelievable," said Drapeau. "If this was ancient times, villagers would've chased you away with pitchforks. Are you sure you're not a Neanderthal?"

"Why is your skull shaped like that?" asked Cornick.

Koval said something in Russian.

"Guys, be nice," said Hayden, but he couldn't help but shoot Babikov a concerned look.

"He's gonna be wearing a helmet most of the time," said Merrell.

"What do you mean too long?" repeated Shane.

"'Cause we're not shaving during the playoffs," said Babikov, looking at him. "Last year, I felt like a freaking Wookie by the Stanley Cup."

"But why shave your eyebrows?" asked Miitka.

Babikov opened his mouth.

"There's no 'too long'," interrupted Shane, loud enough to grab the other guys' attention. "We're making it all the way to the Cup and we are winning."

"Yes, Captain!" they chorused.

"I wanna win too," mumbled Babikov.

Xie tugged at his sleeve and gestured at him to be quiet.

"Shane, did you pull Emma Blighton?" asked Comeau, suddenly.

"What?" said Shane.

Comeau came over to show him his phone screen open to a picture of him standing next to the pop star while she went over the script of the commercial they'd filmed yesterday. It'd been posted by one of her people with a bunch of overly excited hashtags about Rolex watches and luxury and subsequently liked by Shane's official MLH account and the "personal" one handled by one of Farah's people.

Wasn't it less "authentic" if Shane had multiple accounts pretending to be him? Or did people assume he had the time to curate two different feeds while also defending the Stanley Cup? How did advertisement even work anymore?

"Nice pull," said one of the guys, playfully tapping Shane's shoulder.

"It's not like that," said Shane, reluctant to exaggerate his prowess. "We just filmed a commercial together."

"So you didn't even take a shot?" asked Comeau.

"No, we were both working," said Shane, rolling his eyes. "We did exchange contacts, though." Shane knew he had a chance with her if he tried. She'd even said he was hot.

"Better than the botanist," said Passey. "She was gorgeous, don't get me wrong, but have you seen what Emma Blighton does on camera? And her lyrics? She's definitely a freak. Bet she lets you do ass stuff, no problem."

Shane frowned, unsure of which part of that to tackle. "She's not better than Keiko."

"Right, Keiko's more of a marriage chick with a little spice," said Passey.

"Blighton's hotter than Sienna too," said Comeau, nudging at Xie, who made a face at him. "That bitch's always complaining on her stream about guys who don't 'respect' women."

"Why the fuck would you bring my girlfriend into this?" said Xie. "And she's not a bitch."

"She and Emma Blighton are always at each other's throats," said Passey. "Sienna says she doesn't like her work compared to low brow soft core porn--"

"--she didn't say that," complained Xie.

"And Blighton says Sienna is insipid and pseudo-intellectual," finished Passey.

"Her shit's pretty shallow," agreed Carmichael. "All style and aesthetic, no substance. And no way Sienna's not gotten plastic surgery. Maybe not that boob job, but she came back from her last hiatus with a completely different nose."

"So long as she's not crazy," said J. J. "And Blighton seems kinda crazy, not gonna lie."

"Guys!" said Xie.

"Could've used a boob job too," said Comeau. "Even if she doesn't dance."

"You guys are so gross," said McAllister.

"Shut up, what would a f--gay guy know?" said Cornick.

"I don't talk about men I think are hot like this," said McAllister.

"Enough," said Shane. "Everyone put your phones away. In case you forgot, we have a game to win."

"Yes, focus," said Merrell. "Just because it's the Cens doesn't mean we don't take them seriously."

Shane did feel a little bad about destroying his hometown's team. When he was a little boy, the Centaurs had been his heroes, of course, but they'd been much better then. Shane wasn't looking at things through Rose-colored glasses or anything, he had the numbers to back his claims. The Centaurs used to make it to the playoffs consistently but over the last decade, they'd made some astoundingly stupid trades and then lost a few top players to bad injuries. At present, they were one of the teams forwards relied on to fluff up their point production.

Perhaps that was why the Centaur crowd always looked Montreal blue when the Voyageurs played there. Shane was almost as popular in Ottawa as he was in Montreal, so the number of Hollander jerseys in the crowd outnumbered those of every other player.

The Centaurs hardly gave them reason any reason to stay loyal. They were sloppy on the ice, almost like they were always just running the clock. Shane had never been checked less during a game, and not just because Theriault was not playing him that much since there was not need to exhaust top players for such a nothing team.

The Voyageurs won, of course, but Shane was more restless than anything as he shook hands with Centaurs and thanked them for the game.

"We nailed them!" yelled Passey as the team shambled back to the locker room at the end of the game. "Six-to-three, in your fucking face!"

"We got scored on twice by the Centaurs," said Shane. "Drapeau? Is this how you plan to beat Bennett?"

"Did you also keep count of how many shots I blocked?" asked Drapeau.

"Two less than you should have," said Shane.

"Come on, Shane, we won," said Hayden, slapping his shoulder. "We all could've done better, of course, but we won!"

"That's true," admitted Shane, scowling. It didn't change the fact that the Centaurs' mediocre forwards should have gotten past their defense three fucking times. He stared at Drapeau until the man flushed and started taking off his gear.

"And we get to go to Miami next," said Xie. "My grandfather and my brother are coming to the series, so we better not suck."

Shane decided to let it go for now. He was pretty sure the D-lines has collapsed, but it didn't hurt to review the tape before letting loose on the guys. Or to let Theriault play the bad cop even if the team was already whispering about getting ready for "playoffs Shane".

He took his times showering packing his stuff since he didn't want to leave while most of the crowd was still about. The last thing Shane wanted was to spend the next hour signing autographs and Hollander jerseys while his parents waited for him. Tonight, they would pass by Shane's favorite childhood restaurant for takeout and then spend the evening with a board game. It might be the last chance they had to hang out before the Stanley Cup.

"See you around, Hollander," Merrell said as he passed him on the way out.

"Bye," said Shane without taking his eyes off his phone screen. The Admirals had won their game against the Vegas Panthers, two-to-zero. So Bennett had delivered another shutout despite the circus he in the middle of. Shane saw a notification from Lady Istar: Eric Bennett is further proof good men are a fictional construct. He marked it for later.

It would be so awesome if Montreal could somehow get Bennett. Yes, he was getting a little old, but clearly his reflexes were as sharp as ever. If the Voyageurs were stuck with the reputation of being "the gay team", then great. Shane hoped all the best MLH players were gay and that Crowell or whoever kept sending them to Montreal. So long as they were good.

He kept scrolling until he hit a compilation of Bennett shirtless pics that some puck bunny had compiled from--Shane looked for the source--an online album from one of Holly Bennett's aunts. It seemed the couple used to spend a week every off season with the wife's family at some tropical paradise or other. The next post was a gif of Bennett drinking from a coconut. Clear juice spilled on his beard, down his neck, and onto his chest. Bennett grinned at the camera and wiped his pec.

Look at this daddy, the top comment said, zero judgment to kyle swift I too would shred this marriage for a chance to suck that dick

Shane blushed and kept scrolling. There was no need to destroy the marriage, just a need for discretion and clear communication.

He got a message from his mom so he got up to meet them.

On the way out, he got a message from Ilya.

Ilya Rozanov

Ilya Rozanov
told you
dick trick
and you only scored one little goal today
too bad so sad

Shane Hollander
you played well
congratulations

Ilya Rozanov
hollander Im looking for a bitchy excuse

Shane Hollander
I'm not juvenile

Ilya Rozanov
don't think I didn't notice wagner scored two goals this game
are they giving him captain spot soon?

Shane Hollander
maybe when his eyes stop getting watery if someone yells his name too loudly

Ilya Rozanov
do you think bennett would like him?

Shane Hollander
random

Ilya Rozanov
oh we're pretending you're not aware of the bennett scandal
have you seen the bennett beach pics

Shane Hollander
have *you* seen the pics
Isn't he your fifth hottest mlh player

Ilya Rozanov
in the eastern conference
whole league shifts rankings and he becomes #8
you are #12

Ilya Rozanov
hollander that was barely a chirp
what happened I saw your little dots appear

Ilya Rozanov
we still not talk about bennett's twink
or hunter's pacemaker crapping out from shock probably
trolls are asking if bennett is making the nyc rooks blow him

Ilya Rozanov
look there's this rpf chick posting about bennett giving me a spanking
.link
this would be hot i would let him

Ilya Rozanov
ok fine be that way
you better not crap out in Miami

Chapter End Notes

I tagged sexism already but the bros are talking about women more and this is probably the most gross they've been. So warning for men talking about women among each other.

Also there is a reference to statutory rape (16 year old and 38 year old).

Chapter 3

Chapter Notes

warnings at end notes per usual

All his life, Eric Bennett had been cautious. Methodical. Calm in the face of chaos. Quick to react to stress, but with deliberate and intelligent precision. Which was why he was taking the way his phone was blowing up with concerned and shocked messages from his family, friends, and coworkers in stride. He hoped. When his mother started crying on the phone at the news of his impending divorce, he almost snapped. It wasn't like Holly had ever been close with his parents, or he with hers. Maybe that was why they'd started growing apart in the first place.

"But bisexual?" his mother told him over the phone. "Eric, aren't you a little old to be having this kind of. . . phase?"

"It's not a phase, Mom," said Eric, rubbing his forehead. "I've known a very long time." He'd suspected, at least. For obvious reasons, he hadn't explored that side of his sexuality.

"And what about Holly? Did she know?"

His doorbell rang, giving him a perfect excuse to cut the conversation with his mother short. He had no idea who it could be. Coach had already shouted himself hoarse on the phone before telling him to show up an hour early for morning skate. The Admirals' PR rep had also called to make sure that he wasn't planning to talk to the press.

Roger Crowell, commissioner of the entire MLH, a man who Eric had shaken hands with maybe twice, had personally called him to get a "clearer" picture of the "the worst" he could expect. Will underage boys come forward? How young? When Eric became offended, Crowell also asked him not to talk to the press. It was was almost enough to make Eric want to, but his agent had also advised him to sit tight.

As for the team, he'd muted the group chat after sending a short message that he was fine and would be at work tomorrow.

He'd messaged Kyle as well, but the boy hadn't responded.

Eric probably shouldn't be thinking him as a "boy" anymore. Or pretending that he was.

The bell rang again.

Sighing, Eric headed for the door and looked through the peephole. It was Scott. Maybe he'd messaging Eric. Eric wouldn't know since he'd set his phone to Do Not Disturb after the incessant notification buzzes started affecting his heart rate. He allowed himself a second to mentally prepare, then he opened the door.

Scott walked in with a tight nod, followed closely by Carter Vaughn, who Eric had not spotted through the peephole.

"Come in," Eric said, proud that his voice sounded even.

Carter broke the silence. "Eric, what the fuck?"

"Was that video real?" asked Scott.

For a shameful second, Eric wondered if there was any chance he could pretend not to know what they were talking about. What were the chances that he could sell this as one of those super realistic looking deepfakes?

"It's real," he said. "And it's me."

"Oh, wow," said Carter, dark eyes wide.

Scott's mouth fell open in shock.

To buy himself a few moments, Eric took a couple of long strides to his kitchen. He wished he were at his home, where the space between the entrance way and the kitchen was much longer, but since they had a game literally tomorrow, he'd chosen to stay at his apartment in the city proper to shorten the drive to the airport. If the Admirals won, they would officially be in the playoffs. If they lost, Eric--and the rest of the world--would blame himself.

"Eric, what the fuck?" repeated Carter.

Without succumbing to pride, Eric could say that he was the best active goalie in the MLH, though he could feel the years taking their toll. Thanks to that simple and straightforward fact, Eric would have leverage with the team. At least with the mangers and coaches. He had hoped the friendships he'd built with his teammates would be more useful than his skills, but since he'd gotten caught with someone so young, he might not have friendships to count on anymore.

"Tea?" he asked Scott and Carter, getting the kettle ready. "I could use a nice cup of matcha."

"Sure," said Scott gently. "Wanna talk while that boils?"

Eric sighed. He supposed keeping things simple was the way to move forward. "First of all, Holly and I have been separated since. . ." He shook his head because even that wasn't simple. "Since the off season last year. She asked for a divorce in October."

"Over the smoothie barista? The teenager?" said Carter.

"He's not a teenager," said Eric, which was true, but also an insane thing to have to clarify. God, how could he let this happen?

"Honestly, when I heard you were banging a male barista," said Carter, making a confused face, "I was sure it would be Kip."

"Kip?" said Scott.

"He's cute and gay," shrugged Carter, then turned to Eric. "And legally allowed to drink alcohol."

"Holly and I are not separating because of Kyle," said Eric, returning to the original question. "We have problems completely unrelated to him, which I would rather remain private." At least until he had a chance to talk to Holly, and preferably longer than that.

He had tried calling her already, but they were both too. . . stressed to have a productive discussion. She'd asked him if he'd ever loved her and before he could recover from the shock of it, she'd followed up with did you refuse to have children because you're gay?

Yes and no Eric had said, and I think we should discuss this further after we take some time to process it.

"And you're. . . not straight?" said Scott.

"Bisexual," said Eric.

"Holy shit," said Carter. "I gotta say I underestimated the twink so much. He actually turned you."

"He didn't 'turn' me, Carter," said Eric, voiced pitched higher than he would like. "I've known I'm bi for many years, but I'm--but I was--married to a woman. And in case you didn't notice, I work in an environment that can be a little homophobic."

The kettle beeped, giving him an excuse to turn away to compose himself. If he couldn't even face Scott and Carter without losing his composure, then how was he going to face the rest of the team?

"Look man," said Carter, while Eric gather some teacups, "I'm sorry about that last comment. That was out of line. I guess this is a lot to process."

Eric let out a short breath before turning back around to gesture at his dining table. "Please, let's go sit."

A few minutes later, he had served them both steaming tea. Both of them looked a little uncomfortable, but they hadn't fled his apartment of called him a hell bound pedophile yet, so that was a good sign.

"How much would you like to tell us?" Scott asked eventually.

"What would you like to know?"

"Why are you still wearing your wedding band?" said Carter.

"Silly superstition," admitted Eric, lightly passing the pad of his index finger over the simple rubber band. "I've worn this band for every game I've played since I was eighteen years old." His belly tightened as he did it, but he took it off. "I got in my head that I wouldn't feel right to step onto the rink without it."

"I understand," said Scott, and he probably did. Their captain had his own little pre-game rituals. "So the. . . relationship? With Kyle?"

"There's isn't one," said Eric. "That was the first time I ever touched him."

"At a gay bar," said Carter. "How did he even get in there? He looks fucking twelve--hyperbole, man!" He added when Eric shot him a look.

"Fake ID," said Eric. Obviously, he didn't add. "I wasn't expecting to run into him." He went on to explain himself as best as he could.

The truth was that he hadn't been expecting to run into anyone in particular. He'd just been lonely. Eric had his own hand, and that was mostly enough, but not to handle the sheer loneliness that had been creeping up on him.

He didn't remember the last time he'd held someone's hand, or given them a flower, or prepared a nice meal for them. The only person he'd ever done that for in a romantic context was Holly. Thinking about it like that depressed him, so, in a rare moment of impulsivity, Eric had searched the term 'gay bar' online and gone to the first one that had popped up. Since he was single now, or soon would be, why not explore a side of his sexuality that he'd shelved as theoretical?

He hadn't considered his wedding band until he ran into Kyle and the boy--don't think of him like that--had playfully asked if his wife knew where he was.

That was how Eric found himself unloading about his still in-process divorce, the reasons for it, his sexuality, and the fact that he'd never so much as pecked a man on the lips. Holly was the only person he'd ever been with and he'd planned his entire life with the assumption that they would be together forever. Since they were both healthy, he figured he would either die before her, preferably of old age, or stay by her side while she passed of old age, and then he would spend his golden years in quiet comfort and the company of friends.

Kyle, with the enthusiasm and whimsy only a boy--fuck--his age could muster, had volunteered to 'teach' him how to kiss a man properly.

Eric really had no excuse for what had happened next. He couldn't pretend that there wasn't a reason that he hadn't stopped going to Straw+Berry even though Kyle flirted with him every time he did. He went to Straw+Berry because Kyle flirted with him shamelessly every time they ran into each other.

For some stupid reason, he'd told himself that the boy--fucking fuck--would never work up the courage to actually make a genuine pass at him. Or that if he did, Eric would immediately and gently turn him down.

"Listen," said Scott, "we came to tell you that we'll back you with the rest of the team, whatever you decide to do."

"Yeah," said Carter, nodding. "I don't know if you checked the group chat. . ."

"I haven't," said Eric.

"It's far from ideal," said Scott, cringing, "but the rooks are all defending you from any. Accusations."

God. Eric spent so much time with the younger players, but he couldn't pretend that he would be surprised if some of them had little homophobic breakdowns. Eric tried to cut them as much slack as possible considering they were teens, or in their very early twenties at most, and raised in a profoundly toxic environment, but there were some even he wrote off.

"We know you wouldn't," said Carter. "Even Kyle, all jokes aside, is an adult. And the rookies too, are adults. Legally, if nothing else."

Eric gave Carter a look and he cringed apologetically. He wasn't wrong, though. Considering how much Eirc might have to argue about that technicality himself, he should probably get off his high horse.

"All of them deny any and all inappropriate behavior from you," said Scott.

Right, but many people wouldn't believe them. Certainly not the press, and certainly not unhinged political actors looking for something to dangle under bigots' noses.

"Denying to who?" asked Eric.

"Max, mostly," said Scott. "But there are a few players who agree with his. . . concerns."

That wasn't surprising, but certainly not ideal. Max Anderson was also trying to finalize a messy divorce--the second one, in his case--and he was not handling it with any measure of grace. Eric would sympathize, except he seemed to be blaming the world at large for his failed relationships. Not even the world at large, to be honest, but the political concepts of feminism, women's liberation, and (somehow, by extension) LGBT people.

The man was so ridiculous every time they played the Voyageurs that he'd almost come to blows with Scott once, and Scott wasn't one for macho posturing. He could be credited with Coach's decision to ban all political talk in the locker room after he'd made a rude comment about some racy picture posted by another player's wife. Eric did not look forward to dealing with him. His own standing with the team was higher, but he would be lying if he said he was sure that his teammates would prefer a queer man to a bigot.

Coach Miller, a stocky, partially bald man with a thick white mustache, looked like he wanted to bash Eric's head in. His face got red when he yelled and tt was as red as a ripe tomato now, but he wasn't yelling. Eric wondered if someone in HR had told him that the MLH's official stance on LGBT players was to say that they were an inclusive institution committed to merit-based recruitment and to pivot immediately to hockey. He certainly couldn't say anything about Kyle's age considering many Admirals bragged about having to ask for ID before passing around nudes sent to them by puck bunnies.

"Did you think about this team for a second?" Miller finally asked. More like hiss.

"I don't make a habit of thinking of the team on my off time while engaging in lawful behavior," said Eric.

Miller puffed up and opened his mouth.

"Coach," said Scott, who'd volunteered to come with Eric to this meeting. "We understand that this is a crucial time for the team, and we're both committed to moving forward and making it to the playoffs."

Right now, Eric was mostly focused on getting through the week with his dignity intact. He wasn't proud of the episode with Kyle, but he also wasn't a martyr. Compared to what MLH players got into on a regular basis without so much as a gesture of censure, this was nothing. Kyle was indeed a legal adult.

"If you think it would be best for the team, feel free to bench me," said Eric.

Miller's hazel eyes narrowed. They both knew that that would mean kissing the Stanley Cup goodbye even if the Admirals managed to beat the Panthers tonight. Their backup goalie was decent, but he didn't have Eric's experience or stamina.

So, Miller had to settle for yelling vaguely about Eric's lack of discretion before kicking them out of his office. Scott sighed in obvious relief the moment he slammed the door shut behind them, but Eric didn't relax. The worst was yet to come. At the end of the day, Miller couldn't force them to play, much less play well, if they decided that Eric's transgression couldn't be tolerated.

They met the rookies on their way to the parking lot, where a bus waited to take them to La Guardia. Eric tried to project calm confidence because if these kids were about to freak out an accuse him of God-knew-what, he didn't want it to visibly affect him.

Blair Lange, one of their most promising forwards, was the first who worked up the courage to open his mouth. But he closed it immediately and his gray eyes couldn't meet Eric's. "Um," he started, peering at Eric's feet. "We--I mean, they guys and I." He gestured at Drew Hudson and Gustav Huusko standing a little to the side. "We think we get what happened, okay?"

"Which is?" Eric prompted.

"Well, Kyle is like. . ." Blair adopted a look of deep concentration as he searched his rather limited vocabulary.

"He has a pretty face," said Gus.

"And he's skinny," added Drew.

"Right, and he's funny!" Blair smiled gratefully at his fellow rookies. "And the way he moves sometimes. . . it's like, you know!"

"Do I?" said Eric.

"It's girly," said Gus, glancing around as though making sure no one was listening. "Not like he's hot or anything."

"Of course not," said Drew.

Eric glanced at Scott to see if the man was finding this as funny as he was. From the sour look on his face, probably not.

"So if Kyle tricked you," said Blair, "we totally get it."

"But he couldn't have tricked us," said Drew.

"Yeah!" added Gus.

"Boys, I appreciate your. . . solidarity," said Eric, trying not to be amused when Blair tilted his head in confusion, "but Kyle didn't 'trick' me. I wasn't drunk or otherwise impaired and I know he's a man." Legally, that was true.

"So you're--" Blair looked around the hallway they were in. "--gay?"

"Bisexual," said Eric. He had to get used to saying that.

Scott shifted next to him. Eric kept his gaze on the rookies.

The boys looked at each other. "So it's not just because Kyle is girly?" asked Gus.

Kyle was perhaps a little bit feminine. When compared to professional hockey players. Eric doubted he had ever been mistaken him for a woman in his life. "No, it's not just him," he told the rookies.

"Us too?" asked Blair.

"No one on the team," said Eric.

Blair seemed to relax, which Eric decided was a good sign.

Gus nodded firmly.

"Why not us?" demanded Drew.

"Alright, that's enough," said Scott, as Eric chuckled. "We don't want to miss this bus, much less this plane. Let's go."

They kept walking and by the time they reached the bus, the rookies at least had relaxed into their usual banter. It made facing the older players easier for Eric, which made him realize that he did indeed appreciate their solidarity, confused as it was. He held his head high while men he'd worked with for years shot him dirty looks or avoided his gaze altogether.

"Back here!" Carter called from a corner in the bus. "I call dibs on the window seat."

Eric went his way with the rookies trailing behind him, leaving Scott in the front to manage the rest of the guys. Chances were, everyone had already gotten marching orders from Miller. Their agents too, who likely informed their meathead clients that the smart thing for them to do was to keep their heads down and do their jobs.

By the time the pilot announced that they should prepare for landing, Eric had almost forgotten that he was currently in the middle of a PR shitstorm. Because Vegas reminded him of Holly and always would. It was one of her favorite places on Earth, not because she was much of a gambler, but because Viva Las Vegas was one of her favorite films. They'd gotten married in Vegas, back when they were eighteen and before Eric had been drafted.

Had she tried calling him again? Should Eric check? He didn't even want to look at his phone.

No, he had to focus on tonight's game. And not just because they wouldn't make the playoffs if they didn't beat the Panthers.

Eric began to more-or-less meditate in the locker room before every game. If the atmosphere was more tense than usual for this one, then he did not notice. He trusted that Scott and Carter--and the rookies, to a lesser extent--wouldn't let anyone jump him or something. Max Anderson did stare at him for an uncomfortably long time, but then Scott talked to him about something and he faded from Eric's awareness.

He was almost all the way in the zone as he shook the Panthers' hands. If he got the odd dirty look--well, that could be because he was an opposing player. He didn't recall ever facing such vitriol before, but was the point of dwelling on it? Better to focus on the cheering crowd, even if they were probably cheering for their home team.

"Let's go," Eric said to his goal posts the moment he made it to his net, bracing himself.

Never in his career had Eric been so keen on the puck. The churn in his stomach--which he'd been trying to ignore since the first message about Kyle hit his phone--disappeared as the crowd melted to the background.

By the end of first period, he had regained his confidence. Whatever else might be going on, Eric could track a hockey game the way a general tracked a battlefield. The forward moved in predictable patterns, so much so that Eric found his gaze moving towards the player he knew they would pass to. His own forwards were not moving as smoothly, but in a way, that might throw off the Panthers' goalie.

Scott scored at the end of second period, ratcheting up the tension further. The Panthers would get more aggressive, sloppier too. Eric blinked and rolled his shoulders.

The press asked for him while the zamboni prepped the ice for third period. Scott, bless him, stepped in and declined on his behalf. Miller looked angry, but he didn't push the issue. Eric smiled vaguely in their direction and took a deep breath.

"Let's end it," he said said to his goalposts right before the first puck of third period was released.

He blocked five shots before Scott scored a second goal, then three more in the remaining minutes of the game, only realizing that the game was over when Gus fell to his knees to throw his arms around him.

Two-to-zero. The Admirals had made it to the play offs.

A jubilant air took over the locker room when they steamed back in there, exhausted but brimming with excitement. They made the playoffs, and with a shutout! Multiple guys enveloped Eric in a group hug, and not just the rookies either. He'd done it. He'd proven that nothing about him had changed. He was the same person he had been before that fucking video hit the internet.

Scott grinned and fist bumped with him before retreating to talk to the press and Eric started taking off the rest of his gear, half listening to the guys' excited chatter in the background.

He just had to keep playing like this and--

"--fag."

The word made Eric straighten up.

Instantly, tension blanketed the locker room. Carter took a step closer to Eric as he turned to look at Anderson.

"Man, let's not ruin this moment," said Carter.

"What's ruining this moment is we got a molester in the room," spat Anderson, eyes bloodshot.

"I've never molested anyone," said Eric.

Anderson wasn't listening. "A fag is bad enough," he rambled, "but that guy is twenty."

"Dude," said Carter.

"I've seen you look a nudes from girls hooking up with vets on their eighteenth birthday," said Eric. "Don't insult me or yourself by pretending this has anything to do with age."

"Guys, shut the fuck up!" yelled another veteran forward in the back. "Check your phones! Shane Hollander and Jake Merrell are missing!"

Voyageurs

Mykola Koval
you guys think Shane and Jake are dead?

David Taylor
wtf man
why would you even say that?
@Nikolai_Babikov come get your boy off the translation apps

Hayden Pike
guys they probably just got a flat tire
and they have no service or something

Patrice Drapeau
sure
you think they're driving to the airport together?

Jeremy McAllister
maybe they got separate flat tires and one of them forgot his phone and the other has no service?

Gilbert Comeau
we are so fucked
yes Shane and Jake are probably dead
and we are *fucked*

Jean-Jacques Boiziau
alright everybody chill the fuck out
shane and jake are temporarily missing but they're fine

Patrice Drapeau
and santa claus is real

Dylan Xie
i don't understand wtf is going on
neither of them would bail on us
they can't be stuck somewhere together cause they don't hang out outside of work

David Taylor
maybe shane really did fuck Jake's wife and they killed each other

Hayden Pike
dude shane would never do something like that

Jean-Jacques Boiziau
everyone stop making shit up
we don't know what's happening

Jonas Raphael Carmichael III
i think theriault is actually gonna have stroke

Nikolai Babikov
uh
i think i know what's happening

Jeremy McAllister
bro that server has to be full of shit
you shouldn't even be in there

Hayden Pike
@Nikolai_Babikov what you mean?????

Jean-Jacques Boiziau
nikki where the fuck are you on this plane?

Soren Miitka
guys I think sportsbet gamblers kidnapped Shane and Jake to make them have that fistfight

Greg Cornick
bro what the actual fuck

Nikolai Babikov
so there's this strife server
.link

Hayden Pike
what is strife?

Cole Passey
it's this app where you can make private chats with people

Dylan Xie
dumbass they are not private
i hope you're not saying stupid shit on strife

Jean-Jacques Boiziau
nikki what is this?
this link is broken

Nikolai Babikov
I think the mods called the police and the server got nuked

Dylan Xie
i can't believe this is happening
they're streaming it
.link

Cole Passey
on the bright side they're not dead

Gilbert Comeau
lmao they're arguing already

James Wagner
you guys think they'll wait until the cops rescue them before our next game?
not their fault they missed the flight

Jonas Raphael Carmichael III
ok so we're good
they can have that fistfight and the psychos will let them go
and then they get on a passenger plane to miami and we pretend this never happened

Cole Passey
no!
do not negotiate with terrorists

Hayden Pike
the stream got cut off
how is this real???
maybe it's one of those deepfake things?

Jean-Jacques Boiziau
the league is not postponing shit and the cops are useless assholes so don't expect miracles

Greg Cornick
am I stupid?
wtf is happening?

Jean-Jacques Boiziau
you're dumb as a bag of fucking rocks greg

Gilbert Comeau
sportsbet gamblers kidnapped shane and jake to make them have that fistfight
and they're trying to livestream it

Soren Miitka
craziest shit I've ever seen

Gilbert Comeau
we are so fucked
how are we gonna win with both of them gone?

Jean-Jacques Boiziau
ok last time i checked
there are other forwards on this team besides Shane Hollander and Jake Merrell

David Taylor
im going to be fucking sick

Dylan Xie
sportsbet is not taking down the pool
how the fuck is this legal????

Patrice Drapeau
what in the fuck is strife?
am I missing an entire platform of internet info?

Gilbert Comeau
we are so fucked
these psychos are going to kill them

Hayden Pike
why doesn't the government do something?
send the army!!!!

David Taylor
nikki did you bet on this bullshit?

Nikolai Babikov
hell no
only morons gamble
but if i was gonna bet i'd go for shane

Cole Passey
me too
since jake is never mad and shane looks like he wants to kill someone all the time

James Wagner
i think Merrell would win

Jean-Jacques Boiziau
everyone chill
the cops will eventually reach this
whatever the fuck location this is
in the meantime
let's win this series

Chapter End Notes

Homophobia and the vague threat of homophobic violence in the Admirals' locker room. The Admiral rookies try to "support" Eric (they have good intentions but make comments). Sexism and misogyny.

On another note, "players get kidnapped by deranged internet gamblers" was on the list of drama to happen. Originally, it was gonna be hollanov, but lbr they would fuck on that stream.

Oh and since this series has too many parts now, this is where the Admirals' OC rookies are introduced: https://archiveofourown.org/works/82465911/chapters/217066991

And I'm latigrat on tumblr

Chapter 4

Chapter Notes

They jumped Shane near the parking lot while he exchanged messages with Ilya, likely with a stupid look on his face. Three white guys with medium build approached him and Shane thought, before bracing himself at the sight of a gun, that he hadn't known Centaurs had hardcore fans. Of course, he'd thrown a punch when the tallest one tried to grab him, so the chubby one holding the gun shot at the ground.

The sound, both louder but somehow distinct from the bang! Shane had grown up hearing in movies, forced him to pause long enough for one of the white guys to produce a pair of handcuffs. Shane gritted his teeth while the guy reached for his wrists, trying remember their faces. But faces had never been one of his strengths, and these dudes looked like they went to the barbershop every six months and never exfoliated.

"I'm a huge fan, man," said the guy who was cuffing him, grinning sheepishly. He had pale blue eyes, a bit of a flat nose, and light brown hair partially hidden under a beanie. "Sorry about this."

The shortest of the three guys bent down to grab Shane's phone from the ground. He frowned at the sight of the lock screen and, despite everything, Shane relaxed a little. These asshole wouldn't get to look at his accounts and communications just like that. Shane had long since blocked message previews from appearing on his lock screen.

"Ilya Rozanov is messaging him," said the shortest guy.

"I read they're actually friends," said the tallest one.

"Whatever, man," said the dude with the gun. "Let's go before somebody comes looking him."

Shane almost resisted more, but then he remembered that Yuna or David--maybe both--would be the ones coming to find him first. His phone vibrated and the asshole holding it blanched.

"His mom is texting," he said, as though to confirm Shane's fears.

"Okay, let's go," said Shane, annoyed as the three dipshits looked at each other in alarm. If Yuna so much as saw a gun because of their stupidity. . .

A few minutes later, he was being pushed to the back of a red Ford pick up truck, current year model and too pristine to be from a location where such an ugly vehicle might be needed. Americans, then. The license plate confirmed it. New York. 234ABC. Shane repeated the plate number in his head over and over again while he got in the backseat, not dwelling on what it might mean that the idiots weren't trying to cover their tracks.

"Hollander?"

He looked up at found Merrell seated on the other side of the pick up truck, bright blue eyes wide. Another dude sat in the front seat, pointing a gun at him.

"Hi, oh my God," said the guy--a ginger with an unkempt mustache. "Shane Hollander. I'm a huge fan!"

It took all of Shane's self control not to roll his eyes. He focused on Merrell. There was a little split on his lower lip. He was also handcuffed, with both wrists at the small of his back. Free legs though, which wasn't nothing. Shane was flexible enough to get his hands on his front, which he would be doing at the earliest opportunity.

"You okay?" asked Merrell.

"Get in!" hissed the kidnapper with the gun.

Shane scrambled inside, still focused on Merrell. Split lip aside, he seemed fine. He was sitting up straight and looking alert.

"Mickey, whose phone is that?" asked the redhead. "Hollander's--holy shit!"

"Do you know what's happening?" Shane asked in French. Up front, the redhead gushed about Shane's phone.

"I don't speak French," said Merrell.

Fine, whatever. That wouldn't help them anyway.

"We gotta get him to unlock it," the redhead said. "Imagine all the girls sending him nudes--that Asian chick he was dating last summer. . .Emma Blighton!"

"He's definitely getting some A-grade pussy," said the tall one as he jumped on the driver's side.

Shane growled, disgusted at these fools. He didn't save nudes on that phone, not that Keiko had sent him anything overtly explicit. She wasn't that type of girl. As for Ilya, those pictures were of course safe in Jane's phone, in a password-locked folder.

The guy with the gun nudged Shane closer to Merrell and climbed behind them as the other two got in the front of the truck. The windows were tinted, more than was legal in Ottawa, or so Shane hoped. Anything that might prompt the cops to pull over the vehicle.

"JB, you gotta fuck of," the guy pointing a gun at Shane said, presumably to the redhead. "We got bigger things to worry about than pussy right now. Remember the plan."

"Right," said the redhead. After a look at the other gun, he slipped his under his jacket. "Good luck and remember. We're going to the moon!"

What? The redhead went on his way and soon after, the tall guy started driving.

"Guys, I'm a huge fan of you both," said the short guy, looking at Merrell. "The way you glide around the ice; it's beautiful, dude! And you almost never let anyone piss you off you into a dumbass penalty--that's discipline."

"Thanks," said Merrell, because apparently he would be nice even to someone holding him at gunpoint.

"And the legend, Shane Hollander!" continued the asshole. "It's an honor to meet you."

"You're kidnapping me," said Shane. Was the moron expecting a fucking autograph?

"Hollander," said Merrell, giving him a sharp look, not unlike the one he sometimes deployed when Shane tried to correct a rookie during practice. This time, Shane didn't bother to hide an eye roll.

"Rozanov's better than you, anyway," said the short guy. "More dynamic on the ice."

"Not true," said Shane. "He's fast and accurate, I'll give you that, but even my haters agree I'm more versatile than he is."

"Oh my God," mumbled Merrell under his breath.

"Everyone, shut the fuck up," said the guy with the gun. It wasn't a good sign that he looked and sounded the jumpiest of all three. "Josh, fucking drive!"

Driver's name is Josh, noted Shane. He tried to commit everything he knew to memory as the truck moved, but there wasn't much. Four kidnappers, at least two guns, a brand new and shiny red Ford pick up truck, a driver named Josh, a redhead dipshit they'd called "JB", and a stupid-seeming fan who had his paws on Shane's phone. By now, it was vibrating incessantly, likely because Shane's parents were realizing that something was wrong. They would be so fucking worried. It made Shane sick in the stomach to imagine it.

So, he didn't. Fuck, who could these morons be? Shark fans? But they would be looking forward to the upcoming series. Cens fans? No way. Haters? They talked like any number of dudes Shane had run into while going about his business.

"Could I ask your names?" asked Merrell, voice soft.

Shane shot him an annoyed look.

"I"m Mickey," grinned the idiot with Shane's phone. "Dude driving is Josh, and the guy with. . . in the back is Ron."

"You mean the guy with the gun?" said Shane.

"Hollander," hissed Merrell, as said guy with the gun pushed the muzzle against his ribs. "Shane," said Merrell, softer. "Let me take point here."

Fine. Merrell could deploy some pathetic charm offensive to try and get out of whatever the fuck this was. For his part, Shane would continue observing and memorizing every detail he could. He would be damned if these assholes walked free after pulling this stunt. There would be criminal charges pressed and, if Shane missed his next game, he would sue for damages and emotional distress so hard that these dudes' grandchildren would be paying Shane's grandchildren's for damages.

For the entire drive, Merrell tried chatting with Mickey--the idiot holding Shane's phone--much to the annoyance of Ron (gun asshole), who gave up demanding that everyone shut up around the time Mickey started recounting his lackluster career in junior hockey.

"How old are you?" asked Shane, ignoring Merrell's warning glance. It was a neutral question.

"Twenty-three," said Mickey.

"No personal fucking details, retard!" yelled Ron.

Same age as Shane, which meant that they had been in junior hockey together and if the loser had been any good, Shane might have recognized him. As it was, Shane couldn't remember ever facing him across the ice. Did he even mean the junior majors?

"What position did you play?" asked Merrell.

"I was a forward," said Mickey. He didn't have the build for it, or any other position for that matter.

"I played too," said the driver--Josh. "I was a D-man." At least he was a little tall. "Didn't have a lick of talent, though. My dad's still not over that. He--"

"Do you cucks want to save time and pass these guys your IDs?" demanded Ron.

Fuck, he seemed to be the smartest, which was probably why he looked the most nervous out of the three. Also the pudgiest, soft around the middle and with a horrendous posture. Often, he laid the gun on top of his leg, as though it was too heavy. Shane was confident that he could rip the thing from his hands easily.

Not in the cramped backseat of a truck, though.

He tried to keep track of all the signs and billboards they passed by as Merrell went on talking to Phone Dipshit, regaling the guy with stories about how his dad used to play hockey too. Shane had decent knowledge of the city itself and the nice suburb where he'd been raised, but the farther north they went, the less he recognized. And the darker it became. The last traffic signed he recognized with any degree of certainty was for the tiny town of Low, but only because Yuna had once taken a pro bono case to help a small farmer who lived there.

Merrell kept chatting with Phone Dipshit and Driver Dipshit the entire time while Shane's phone chirped on the kidnapper's lap. Shane learned more details of his teammate than he had in the year and half they'd played together. He hadn't known that Merrell has an older brother who had been groomed to take care of the family law firm in Vancouver while Merrell focused in athletics, or that the guy was still a little frosty because Merrell had grown up to be a wealthy superstar.

"I have a sister too," Merrell was saying. "She's always been a bit of a free spirit, but I think she's really proud of me."

"Man, that's really cool," said Phone Dipshit. "Is she single?"

"N-no," said Merrell, with pinched smile. "She's on her third husband, actually. Says third time's the charm."

"We're here," said Driver.

Shane didn't know where the fuck they were, just that they'd driven long enough that his parents must be frantically looking for him. And Merrell's wife had to be equally freaked out. Theriault was, no doubt, cursing their names as he looked for available call ups and reworked their lines. Fucking fuck, but the next game wasn't looking good. The team would be demoralized.

Gun Dipshit actually turned his back on them as he got out of the truck, like he thought a pair of flimsy handcuffs was enough to keep Shane tackling him and chomping down on his neck like some psycho. He didn't do that, but only because there were three guys and--for all he knew--more than one gun.

"Come out," barked Gun Dipshit.

They were at what looked like an abandoned gas station. Details were difficult to make out since the sun had already set, but the lights were out in the building, dashing Shane's hopes that they could scream for help. Driver produced a flashlight and Gun Dipshit gestured at Shane and Merrell to start walking. A chilly wind passed over them. Shane squinted his eyes, trying to wring any details he could out of his environment, but they could be anywhere. There was a tattered ad for a popular energy drink brand on the side of the gas station they passed by. Nothing that could be used as a clue to guide their rescuers, though.

Occasionally, vibrations from Shane's phone interrupted Merrell's vapid conversation with Mickey. Shane wondered what had happened to Merrell's phone. Did he still have it on him? If so, it must be on silent mode. The idiots took Shane's, but he'd been using it when they ambushed him. They might have been stupid enough not to search Merrell. They hadn't searched Shane, after all.

Not that it mattered. He didn't take Jane's phone with him to the rink.

If he had, he would have had another way to call for help.

"Who keeps blowing up that phone?" snarled Gun Dipshit.

"His parents," said Phone Dipshit. "Henry Theriault." Name pronounced wrong, of course. "And Ilya Rozanov."

"You guys really that close?" asked Driver Dipshit.

"That's none of your business," said Shane.

"I'm pretty close with Roz," said Merrell. "I was really hoping I'd get to play a playoff series against him."

They still fucking would. If Shane had his way, he'd play a Stanley Cup series against the Bears, win (obviously), and then have the most satisfying sex of his life afterwards. No way these morons would take that away from him.

"The Voyageurs group chat's been blowing the fuck up all night, guys. I wonder what they're saying." Phone Dipshit gave Shane a big, stupid grin. "Ronnie, let's make him unlock the phone."

"No way!" yelled Gun Dipshit. "Knowing your stupid ass, you'd try to talk to them and immediately start offering to blow them."

They arrived in front of what appeared to be a deserted building deeper into whatever rural shithole they were at, also without an obvious source of electricity. Driver Dipshit aimed his flashlight as a door. Within minutes, they were in what could only be described at the set of a cheap movie. As far as Shane could see--which wasn't much--it was a big empty room. Maybe some kind of warehouse?

"Keep moving," said Gun Dipshit. There was a steel pole in the center of the room--a stripper pole? It was the only thing Shane could think of, but--Driver Dipshit turned on a battery-powered lamp that was nowhere near bright enough to illuminate the entire place. He walked around a bit and turned on four other lamps of the same type, until there was enough light to reveal. . . an abandoned strip club.

"What the fuck?" Merrell mumbled.

What the fuck indeed. Shane spotted what had once been a bar, a couple of stages, and at least three separate stripper poles. It smelled musty and vaguely damp. Somewhere, there had to be broken window letting in the occasional gust of chilly wind. Dust particles could be seen around the electric lamps weak lines of light.

Gun Dipshit directed Merrell towards the pole first. Shane watched as he pointed the muzzle of the gun at Merrell's chest and ordered him to stay still as Phone Dipshit apologetically unlocked one of the cuffs, pulled one of his arms around the pole, and then locked the cuffs again.

That would be Shane's chance. They would try to do the same to him and he would bet his fucking life he was fast enough to take the gun. He would actually bet his fucking life, in the next few moments.

But Gun Dipshit was smarter than Shane gave him credit for. Now that he had Merrell more secured, he turned to glare at Shane. "Come over here," he spat. "Let my associate here cuff you to the pole, or I blow your teammate's brains out."

Fuck. Shane couldn't risk someone else's life like that. With nothing more than a hard look, he let Driver Dipshit cuff him to the same pole they'd cuffed Merrell.

Jake wondered if there wasn't some kind of higher power exacting revenge on him for some odious crime he'd committed in a past life. What other explanation could there be for the undeniable fact that he was, currently, handcuffed back-to-back to a stripper pole with Shane Hollander? He supposed he might've taken a bad hit during his last game and it was all some kind brain damage induced hallucination.

If so, he had to return to his theory that he'd been some kind of vicious war criminal in a past life. Why else would karma, or God, or the cosmos curse him with a vision of Shane Hollander on his deathbed?

"I can't believe you didn't go for the gun when you had the chance," Hollander bitched, again, while Jake tried to doze off. "Were you scared?"

"Yes, Hollander," said Jake. "I was scared because an unstable individual was pointing a gun at me."

Hollander mumbled something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like the French word for pussy.

Jake decided to let that go since it wasn't like he could do anything about it due to the previously described handcuff issue. Besides, he had to keep a hold of his wits. Hollander clearly wasn't going to, or was incapable of doing it.

Jake reminded himself that his asshole captain had also been abducted and threatened with a gun. It was no surprise that the worst aspects of his personality seemed dialed up to a thousand.

Hours passed. It felt like hours, anyway. Jake didn't have his watch and he'd lost his phone in the brief fight with Josh. The driver. He had to keep their names straight, not just because he wanted to remember as much info as possible for the police, but because he needed these dudes to connect with him emotionally. That was what he'd seen on crime dramas and documentaries. They were less likely to hurt him if they started seeing him as a person.

Jake licked his split lip, trying not to panic. At some point, Ron (the one with the gun and also the one who seemed to actually hate not just him and Hollander, but his accomplices as well) returned. He gazed at them with an ugly sneer on his face. Jake's eyes flew to the gun. Then, to the plastic bag on Ron's other hand.

"I'm thirsty," said Hollander.

"I bet," said Ron, with an edge Jake did not like.

Mickey followed behind him, still holding Hollander's phone. Jake made sure to respond to his greeting with a smile when Mickey looked at them. This one, he had sensed, was the more. . . immature one of the group. He reminded Jake a little of the rookies, the earnest ones who were a bit stupid, but eager to please.

"Mickey here volunteered to feed you assholes," said Ron.

That was awkward, of course. Jake tried to negotiate an arrangement where one of them was un-cuffed at a time, but Hollander couldn't lie to save his life (literally), so Ron didn't believe him when he promised he wouldn't try anything funny.

In the end, Mickey brought a bottle of tepid water to Jake's lips and Jake tried to ignore how some of the liquid spilled onto his chin and neck. The water soothed his parched throat, which was the most important thing. Next, Mickey unwrapped a generic chocolate protein bar and fed it to him.

"Thank you," Jake said, after he swallowed the last bit of the stale bar, suppressing a frown at the acrid aftertaste in his mouth.

Mickey responded with a huge smile and a nod before moving on to Hollander, who Jake did not expect would be as receptive.

"This is gonna fuck up my macros," Hollander said.

We can always count on you to focus on important things, Hollander, Jake didn't say, because he had to be calm and steady.

Calm and fucking steady.

"Big strong guy like you can take it," said Mickey.

"The strength comes from discipline and taking care of my body," said Hollander. "What brand is that? Fuck, you might as well bring me raw sugar."

God. He was going to get them shot. "Hollander, please. Don't make this worse."

"Merrell, would you please stop being such a bitch?" snapped Hollander. "Obviously, these dipshits need us for something. They're not going to do anything to us."

They had already done something. Good God.

"Everyone's right about what a stuck up asshole you are," said Mickey.

"Oh, am I not being polite to you while you hold me at gunpoint?" hissed Hollander. "You absolute moron."

Ron watched the exchange from the side with an ugly smirk on his face.

Jake opened his mouth and then heard a spitting sound, followed by a gagging noise from Hollander.

"Fuck, this piece of shit just spat at me!" said Hollander. "Ugh, his bodily fluids are touching me."

Mickey let out a chilling giggle and Jake found, to his shock, that he felt betrayed. He'd been talking to the guy all evening and apparently had convinced himself that he was friendly. That it might be possible to make him see reason. Like someone capable of reason would kidnap a couple of strangers.

"I have Herpes," Mickey said, sounding delighted.

Hollander let out another disgusted sound and Jake felt him squirm violently.

"Now you do too, Shane Hollander!" Mickey singsonged.

Jake squeezed his eyes shut, sparing a moment to be grateful that he couldn't see what was happening without going out of his way.

A sharp cry escaped Mickey's. "He bit me!" Mickey cried, a second before the sound of a hard slap filled the room.

"Enough!" yelled Ron. "Mickey, we need him intact. Walk away from him."

"Hollander, are you okay?" asked Jake.

"I'm fine," said Hollander, a second before spitting harshly to the side. "You?"

"I've been better," said Jake, watching as Ron and Mickey retreated, Mickey crying about his bitten hand. "Still thirsty and I need to piss." How would they handle that? Would Jake have to be polite while Mickey grabbed his dick and aimed it an empty bottle? What about when he needed to shit? "Hollander, what do you think you'll gain by being a dick to these guys?"

"What do you think you'll gain by kissing their asses?"

"Well, I haven't been spat on, have I?"

"Oh, so it's my fucking fault that dude is a savage?"

"That's not what I meant," Jake said, exhausted to his bones. "Just. . . don't argue about macros, okay? Try to do what they say--within reason--and let me handle the talking, alright?"

"We have to watch out for a chance to take that gun," said Hollander. "The more time passes, the weaker we'll get."

"We just have to hold out until the cops find us," said Jake.

"We can't count on that--"

"--why not?" demanded Jake. "Do these guys strike you as criminal masterminds? We're high profile, Hollander. You know the entire Ottawa police force is looking for us."

"We can't wait for that," said Hollander. "The series against the Sharks is starting soon. Can't miss that."

"Oh my God." Jake took a deep breath. "Hollander, don't you have family to get back to?"

"Of course I fucking do! Do you think I want to be thinking about how freaked out my parents must be by now?"

Jake didn't respond. He was too busy thinking of Xiaoyan, of how she had to hide any and all stress for Lina's sake. His oldest was old enough to ask for him, to turn on the TV expecting to see her dad's team play. Lina watched his games religiously and got excited when the commentators praised his performance. She booed at them when they said he messed up or that he was under performing.

So if if Jake wasn't at his next game tomorrow, Xiaoyan would either have to lie to her, or explain that her dad might be gone. Lucy, his baby, was so young that if Jake didn't come home again, she would never know him.

God, he prayed, though he hadn't been raised religious, help me get out of this. I want to watch my daughters grow up. Please.

More time passed; it was hard to tell how much. It got colder. Without discussing it, he and moved until their legs were side by side, and they leaned against each other as they shivered.

"Your phone?" asked Hollander.

"Lost it trying to fight them," said Jake, eyes closed. The light from the lamps had been bugging him for hours. He really needed to piss.

They stay huddled together until the sun came up, by which point Jake's bladder was close to bursting. His back ached miserably and the rest of his joints protested the lack of movement. Hollander was deadly still, except for the even breaths Jake felt him taking. Was he meditating? Hopefully, it would help him stay chill.

Finally, their captors returned. Sick relief twisted in Jake's belly. Alarm bells went off in his head--it'd been less than twenty four hours and he was already feeling joy at the sight of his captors. Hadn't he learned anything from crime documentaries?

"Rise and shine!" said Ron, brandishing his gun.

"Good morning," said Jake, watching wearily as Josh opened a laptop in front of them. The light from the webcam turned on. "Guys, say hello to the chat!"

"What the fuck?" said Hollander.

"I bet you didn't notice me recording you guys last night," said Mickey, giggling.

"Fuck, these are some perverts," said Hollander. "Are you into RPF? You couldn't even bring a proper camera?"

"What's that?" said Jake. Oh, God. Did it have to do with the fans who assumed they were all fucking each other? How dark was this about to get?

"We're here to settle a serious debate," said Josh, fussing with the laptop's mouse pad. The laptop screen brightened to SportsBet page. To the Hollander-Merrell fist fight pool, to be specific.

"Are you kidding me?" said Hollander, as Jake sighed with relief. At least it wasn't a sex thing.

Voyageurs

Jean-Jacques Boiziau
any news from cops or gamblers?

Patrice Drapeau
nothing significant
though what do I know?
apparently you need an invite to get into strife

Jeremy McAllister
not to strife itself
just specific servers
I can get you into my gaming server Patrice
but don't say who you are because strife is full of the weirdest losers like you wouldn't believe
plus you gotta be private

Dylan Xie
idiots
strife isn't private just because you don't give out your real names

Mykola Koval
our hotel room smells stank
can we get change room

Nikolai Babikov
you mean stale
and since shane and jake are missing I'm going to Dylan's room and you can go to Passey's

Mykola Koval
what?

David Taylor
why text him if you're in the same room right now?

Hayden Pike
i can't believe sportsbet isn't taking down the pool about the fist fight
that's actually insane

Dylan Xie
they're saying they're not affiliated with the kidnappers
and that the pool is protected by freedom of speech

Gilbert Comeau
that can't be right
wtf is wrong with the united states

Greg Cornick
hey!!!
no reason to blame USA for this

Hayden Pike
sportsbet is an american company

Patrice Drapeau
prime minister is calling for a boycott of the site

Jean-Jacques Boiziau
shit guys a boycott
shane and jake are saved

Nikolai Babikov
the pool hit 10 million USD
going back and forth on who would win

Cole Passey
still think they should just agree to the fight

Jonas Raphael Carmichael III
anyway it looks like we got decent call ups
I think we still have decent chance today

Hayden Pike
omg who cares about that now???

Jean-Jacques Boiziau
shane the last time those assholes streamed them
everybody don't be pussies
we go in there in an hour and we show the whole world there are other hockey players on this fucking team

Gilbert Comeau
yeah i'm sick of the other sporsbet pools saying we're gonna lose

David Taylor
bro don't give sportsbet traffic now!

Dylan Xie
I can't believe shane actually told Jake he and Xiaoyan fucked that last stream

Greg Cornick
he was only saying that to provoke the fist fight

Jean-Jacques Boiziau
yes which even you
our team einstein
figured out

Patrice Drapeau
i'm with jake on this one
the assholes can't be trusted to let them go after one fist fight

David Taylor
worth a shot though

Cole Passey
for real

Nikolai Babikov
you puny forwards just don't know how dangerous a real fight is

Jean-Jacques Boiziau
what the fuck ever guys
right now we focus on winning
Jamie I expect a hat trick tonight

James Wagner
yes sir

Jean-Jacques Boiziau
Hayden stop panicking
you're gonna be the one stealing the puck every time Dylan fucks up a ridiculous shot

Dylan Xie
hey!

Hayden Pike
I'm not panicking
i'm reacting normally to this crazy as fuck situation

Jean-Jacques Boiziau
Dylan take every shot tonight
give that goalie a fucking panic attack
jeremy tell fernando to tell you no blow jobs for the next month unless you score today

Jeremy McAllister
no way i'm doing that

Jean-Jacques Boiziau
you're right i'll message him myself

Jeremy McAllister
bro!

Jean-Jacques Boiziau
defense! I want discipline and professionalism
clean plays only
we can't afford penalties right now
let's show these motherfuckers who the current champions are

Chapter End Notes

The NY license plate is the generic one on samples from the state because I didn't want to risk putting some random New Yorker's plate on my fic lol

Too tired to think about any real warnings. Idk if there are strip clubs near gas stations in Canada, but this is certainly a thing in the US of A.

I'm latigrat over at tumblr

Chapter 5

Chapter Notes

Warning note at the end.

On the flight back from Vegas, Eric was glued to his phone watching the Hollander-Merrell abduction unfold. He wasn't one to get drawn into stupid MLH drama, especially not the type that resulted in drawn out social media arguments and obnoxious hashtags, but this one was different. This one was unbelievable. This one made him remember his weird second cousin who insisted that the world was some kind of simulation that occasionally glitched.

He was watching the actual news, which he generally avoided doing because it stressed him out for no reason.

"Good evening, everyone," the blond lady in a sharp blue dress behind the camera was saying. "Breaking news from Ottawa, Canada this evening: star MLH forwards Shane Hollander and Jake Merrell, both playing for the Montreal Voyageurs, have been abducted by a group of gamblers utilizing the SportsBet platform to wager on the outcome of a fistfight between them."

"Turn up the volume!" said Gus, from the seat in front of Eric.

Eric complied and Carter, who was sitting on the seat across from him, leaned forward.

"A fistfight between hockey players?" the broad-faced guy next to the lady in blue was saying. "One would think there'd be no need to kidnap these guys."

"It's no joking matter, George," said the lady. "Ottawa police have located the victims with assistance from Hollander's phone service providers since the kidnappers failed to take away his phone. More shocking than that, they've been intermittently streaming their victims and their location has been confirmed by random viewers who recognized the location in the background."

A picture of Hollander and Merrell, back-to-back and handcuffed to a stripper pole, appeared next to the blond lady's head. Merrell had his head thrown back, as though looking up to heaven, and Hollander was glaring at someone off screen. The humor of the situation seemed far away in the face of actual evidence that both of these men were in serious danger.

"You gotta be kidding me!" Scott finally stopped pretending that he was engrossed in something else and looked over from his seat by Carter. A disgusted frown had taken over his handsome face. "They're streaming? Like, on the internet?"

"Hollander and Merrell were taken to an abandoned strip club north of Low, a small township north of Ottawa with a population hovering around a thousand people," the news report continued.

"Oh wow," said Gus. "That'll be The Event in that town for the next decade."

"The police, including a SWAT team with a trained hostage negotiator, have arrived in Low," said the blond lady. "It remains unclear if they've made contact with the kidnappers, or if they're even aware of the situation."

"They definitely know," said Scott. "They'll be watching the news too."

"I hope they don't do anything crazy with Merrell and Hollander," said Carter.

The camera shifted to a giant screen to the side of the news desk and shifted to video of another blond lady with a bob cut. This one stood next to an older man with generous jowls wearing a dark jacket. They stood in front of a calm lake.

"Thank you, Mary," said the new blond lady. "We're here in Low, a small, sleepy Quebecois town unused to excitement that has become the center of this unlikely story." She looked at the old man standing next to here. "Mr. Laurent here was the one who called the police after his nephew posted a clip from the kidnappers' stream. Sir, can you tell us more?"

"Sure thing," said the man. He had a deep voice and a faint French accent. "I was having a cup of tea and playing with my phone. . ." The man went on to describe the uproar in his family group chat, watching the clip in shock just like everyone else, and recognizing the background. "I thought I was imagining things! But then I called the police and sure enough, those ruffians took our Voyageurs to Pierre's abandoned bar." He shook his head. "What's the world coming to?"

The lady asked him a couple more questions, but it was obvious he didn't know anything else. She let him talk a bit about the town's hydroelectric dam and then looked back to the camera.

"Police have identified the suspects as Ronald Lark of Idaho, Joshua Crawford of Oregon, and Michael Drouse of Michigan." Assorted photos flashed on the screen.

Eric was struck by the smiling faces of the guys, how normal they looked, and the faces of friends and family members (presumably) that the news blurred out. One of them was holding a baby.

"They are so-called power users of the site SportsBet and members of MoonXRiders, an online micro-community that makes additional wagers using cryptocurrency."

"Cryptocurrency?" asked Gus.

Carter shushed him.

"Ronald Lark," the news went on, "has a known history of problematic behaviors including public intoxication, disorderly conduct following poker games at local bar in his home town, and defaulting on private loans. Per public records, he is behind on child support payments."

"A deadbeat dad might kill Shane Hollander," mumbled Carter.

"The other two suspects have no criminal record," said the reporter. She went on to add that people who knew them described them as "harmless", if a bit of a disappointment to their parents. The news had procured pictures of them as young teens in hockey gear. They seemed to be from more stable backgrounds than Lark.

Finally, the video returned to the old man from Low.

"It's a shame to see this circus hit our small town," he said, shaking his head. "We're all praying they rescue Hollander and Merrell so they can back to their team before Montreal gets knocked out of the playoffs."

"Back to you, Lisa."

"The fistfight pool has risen to a staggering eleven million USD since this event has gone viral," the home reporter told the camera. "Critics of SportsBet are demanding that they remove the pool and return all money to individual users, but their CEO, Emmett Christian Hall, argues that their prediction market is not in any way affiliated with this kidnappers and thus they are not responsible for these unfortunate events."

Scott snorted.

"Perhaps there wouldn't have been a kidnapping in the first place if not for this fistfight betting pool," said the other newscaster.

"Mr. Hill argues that we cannot prove what might have happened in an alternate reality," said the blond lady.

"Come the fuck on," said Scott.

"And besides, SportsBet is protected under the First Amendment since it's a United States-based company," said the lady.

"Isn't that the speech one?" asked Gus. "Gambling is free speech?"

"It's not gambling," said Carter. "It's a prediction market."

"What?" said Gus.

"Hush," Eric told them.

"It should be noted that SportsBet online traffic has increased by a whopping thirty-five percent since news of this kidnapping went viral," said the broad-faced guy. "Independent analyst estimate that the number of pools, both sports related and not, has increased by twelve percent. Affiliation or not, this is certainly increasing SportsBet's profile."

"That much is undeniable, George," said the lady. "The Canadian prime minister has requested intervention from the United States government to get the fistfight pool removed, but the US president also argues that the website is protected by the First Amendment."

"Jesus Christ," said Scott, rubbing his eyes as Carter groaned and sat back on his seat.

"This story is still developing but as of now, it seems that SportsBet will remain online, fistfight pool included," continued George. "We intend to keep our viewers informed should anything change. Thoughts and prayers to Shane Hollander and Jake Merrell."

"Okay, what about the MLH?" asked Gus. "They can't get the site taken down, but aren't they always advertising the popular pools during our games?"

"They haven't said anything," said Scott. "Just generic stuff about praying for Hollander and Merrell's safe return."

"Even the Montreal-Miami series is still on," said Carter.

"It's a fucking disgrace," said Scott. "I saw a screenshot about which of us would be kidnapped next. At least SportsBet took that one down."

"Which of us?" asked Gus.

"Which pro athlete," said Carter.

Wonderful. Would Eric have hire private security at some point?

All that aside, the circus had brought Eric some degree of relief. He hated to admit it, but the shock of the Hollander-Merrell kidnapping took all attention away from his mundane little scandal. A tryst with an inappropriately young guy? Infidelity? Outing? Pff. There weren't any guns in Eric's story. He wasn't even the first queer hockey player. Like Anderson had whined earlier in the flight, hockey was now known as the gayest pro sport.

"What about figure skating, you dumbass?" Carter had asked.

Besides, the general public didn't have the faintest idea of who Eric was. Hollander, on the other hand, was the face of hockey, especially in Canada. He'd already been trending earlier in the day because he was apparently dating Emma Blighton, some sexy pop star that Eric was too old to know about.

He kept watching videos and reading comments about the whole affair during the entire flight, minus the tail end, during which he decided to try sleeping. Like usual, it was restless and unsatisfying, but at least he rested his eyes and mind from the endless stimulation of the internet. He tried meditating first, but without a distraction, his thoughts kept returning to Holly. A couple of times, he thought of Kyle.

An announcement from the flight attendant letting them know that they'd be landing soon woke Eric. He sighed, feeling. . . not relief, like he was used to. Weariness. Holly had messaged him earlier that she wanted to talk and that she knew that it would be easier to do so before he went on the road again. Eric had yet to respond. He wasn't sure what he could say.

What there was to say at all. Their divorce was nearly complete.

Scott gave them one final pep talk before they got a day off prior to their first playoff series. Of course, the team was delighted, if a little distracted by the Hollander-Merrell disaster. Eric had checked quickly when he woke up and it seemed that the men had not been rescued yet.

Anderson couldn't resist shooting him one last disgusted look before starting to walk out of the plane. There wasn't anything Eric could do about that besides hold his head high.

Voyageurs

Jean-Jacques Boiziau
what did I fucking say!
we fucking dominated tonight
4-3
eat our asses sharks!!!

Soren Miitka
not sure I like that image

Gilbert Comeau
sportsbet losers shaking and crying

Hayden Pike
bro what did I say about going to that site?
any news about shane and jake?

Patrice Drapeau
still kidnapped
but the strip club is surrounded
not a fan of how erratic the one with the gun looks

Hayden Pike
this is so fucked up

Jean-Jacques Boiziau
hayden don't worry
shane will be happy you scored today
jamie dylan and jeremy my beautiful stupid rooks
thank you also for delivering

Dylan Xie
I'm not stupid

Nikolai Babikov
now there are multiple pools about when shane and jake will be rescued

Soren Miitka
this is actual psychotic behavior
did they not see the press conference with the hollanders and merrell's wife essentially begging the kidnappers to just let them go?
this isn't even about hockey anymore
these guys have families

Patrice Drapeau
mitty some people are just animals

Hayden Pike
for real
I feel nauseous right now

Jean-Jacques Boiziau
guys I know it feels shitty
but we're not helping by crashing out
let's keep it together and keep winning

When the elevator opened to his floor, Eric blinked. Hard. On the hallway, right outside his door, Kyle was seated on the floor. He held back a sigh and walked forward, wondering how exactly Kyle had found out where he lives. The information certainly hadn't come from him, but for all he knew, it might be easily accessible online.

"Hi," said Eric.

Kyle looked up. Any annoyance Eric might have been feeling vanished at the sight of his bloodshot eyes and red nose. His blond hair looked a bit frizzy, like he'd showered and left his apartment without bothering to brush it or put on conditioner.

"Hi." Kyle swallowed and stood up. "I was hoping. . . could we talk?"

"Of course," said Eric, stepping around him to open the door to his apartment.

"Sorry, I probably should've messaged you," Kyle said as they stepped inside.

"It's okay," said Eric, though maybe it wasn't. It depended on what had prompted Kyle to just show up unannounced at his front door. "Could I get you something to drink? Water? Soda? Tea?"

"Some water, please."

"Ice?"

"Yeah," mumbled Kyle, soft and low, like maybe he hadn't heard the question.

Eric filled a glass with ice anyway, taking more time than was probably necessary. He had planned to talk to Kyle, of course, but in a more neutral place. A more public place. As much as he'd been insisting that Kyle was technically an adult, Eric was perfectly aware of how skeevy (no other word for it) it was that he had. . . done what he'd done. If not for his age, then for the fact that knew that letting himself become involved with Kyle would land the boy in the middle of a scandal.

The man. Fuck.

"Here," he said, after walking over to his living room with the glass of iced water.

Kyle grabbed the cup and mumbled a thank you.

Eric waited a few moments. For the first time since they'd met, Kyle seemed unwilling, or perhaps unable, to meet his eyes. Eric could only assume that he'd been facing online harassment bad enough that it'd dimmed the infectious self confidence that had drawn him to Kyle in the first place.

"I'm sorry about. . ." Kyle trailed of. "I mean, I hope I didn't out you to like, your family or something."

"Don't worry about that," said Eric. "How has this all been for you?"

"I didn't have anything to do with that video, I swear," said Kyle, finally forcing himself to look at Eric. There was fear in his gaze. "I didn't think anyone would recognize either of us, but I guess there's lots of queer hockey fans now, and I should have thought of that--"

"--Kyle, I don't think the video was your fault," said Eric. He didn't like interrupting people, but the way Kyle's speech was growing pressured and frantic was heartbreaking. "Don't worry about me. I can take care of myself. How are you holding up?"

"Uh, not well," said Kyle, squeezing his eyes shut. "That's probably obvious."

"Is this about what's being said online?" asked Eric.

He'd assessed very quickly that it wasn't worth paying direct attention once he'd realize that, somehow, a very large number of people were ranting about Kyle's presumed promiscuity. There were the expected homophobic slurs, tasteless jailbait jokes paired with older pictures of Kyle from he'd actually been underage, and breathless speculation about how he'd landed himself a closeted millionaire.

The straw that made Eric leave the online fallout to his agent was a 'sermon' from an aging pastor who described Kyle's good looks with near pornographic disgust.

"I don't care about any of that," said Kyle. "But my parents. . ."

"They're harassing your parents?" Why the hell wouldn't they? "I'm sorry." Wait. . . Did Eric actually out Kyle? "Did your parents not know you're gay?"

"Yeah and they're okayish with it even though they're pretty conservative," said Kyle. Once again, he looked away from Eric. "It's just this is not the first time I embarrass them with an older man."

"What do you mean?"

"I suppose you'll be hearing this story eventually," said Kyle, sighing. "It might as well be from me."

Eric nodded and then told himself to sit quietly and listen.

"When I was fifteen, my dad had me do an after school program at the local tourism association," Kyle began. "The owners were close friends with our family so I was placed with. . . the son of the owner. He was thirty-seven at the time."

Good God. It took all of Eric's self control to keep his expression neutral.

"He was nice to me," said Kyle, smiling. "Really nice. I was still trying to figure myself out. Like, my sexuality. And he was also very handsome and he listened to me; not about boring tourism stats, but about Greek mythology and poetry--stuff in general."

Just like Eric listened to him go on about Homer, Greek mythology, and his fucking homework.

"I worked very hard those first few months; my parents were really proud of me." Kyle shrugged. "It was just because I was trying to impress Ian. Anyway, we obviously became friends. He began to confide in me; told me that his wife was terrible, but he couldn't divorce her because they already had children. Eventually, I told him I'm gay. He's the first person I ever told, even before my parents."

Eric hoped the guy wasn't a brunette with gray eyes.

"I guess technically, I never actually told my parents," said Kyle, with sad smile. "What I did was decide that I was in love with Ian, volunteer to stay late to help him organize all the tedious spread sheets his dad wanted, and seduce him."

"Kyle," Eric started.

"I know decent people will say that he was the adult," interrupted Kyle, rolling his eyes. "But I've had a lot of time to think about this, and Ian was a mostly an idiot and a coward. But he was hot and I was horny, and I kept pushing. Trust me, I was the one in charge of the situation. At least until his wife hired a private investigator."

"Okay," said Eric, sensing that Kyle was not ready to have that belief deconstructed.

"What, you think I couldn't have seduced Ian?" demanded Kyle. Suddenly, his expression and body language changed. His face adopted a compelling mixture of shyness and interest. His spread his legs and put his hands on his thighs. "You don't think I'm hot? You don't like telling me all about being a goalie, and your yoga practice, and your favorite vegan bakery?"

"Stop that," said Eric. "We're trying to have a conversation."

"You didn't say that before," snapped Kyle, dropping the seductive act. "But you're right; that's not why I'm here."

"Do you want to tell me the rest of the story?" asked Eric.

Kyle stood up and started pacing in front of Eric's couch, nervous and restless. Eric almost told him to sit again, but it was more important that he was comfortable.

"Not much else to tell," shrugged Kyle. "Ian's wife caught us, made a scene at the local country club, the works. Ian said he fell prey to my seductive wiles and that he was returning to God or something. My parents were humiliated, but at least they didn't send me to some conversion therapy camp." He flashed a smirk in Eric's direction. "I actually got to finish high school at private school in Greece, then I went to live in Italy and modeled for a few years. If anything, I should thank Ian."

"Okay," said Eric. Then mentally slapped himself when he remembered how badly Kyle had just reacted to the word.

"But," Kyle bit out, "even though I was marginally successful as a model, I'm not the best with money. And I got bored, so I told my parents I wanted to go to school, and. . . they're paying for everything right now and they're really mad."

"At me?" Eric supposed it was only fair. It was more than fair.

"No, at me!" yelled Kyle. "My mom called me and said that since this is the second time I do this, they can't continue enabling me. They want me to transfer to small liberal arts school--they're giving me three choices because they're so generous--and fine! I fucked up. I acknowledge that. Maybe I should go to bumfuck Vermont and study the Bible, or something."

"Kyle, you're not the one responsible for this," said Eric.

"But I can't do this to Maria," said Kyle, blatantly ignoring Eric. "She's been staying with me rent free for months now--long story' I'll tell you about it later--and it's giving her a chance to save a bit of money while she figures out what to do with her life. She's so happy, Eric!"

"Okay," Eric repeated, sincere this time. "How can I help?"

"I need you to pay my rent," said Kyle. "For this apartment, or a comparable one if my parents don't let me stay at all."

"Your rent?"

"Yes," said Kyle. "It's not that much. I doubt you're as rich as my dad, but I know how much a successful MLH player makes."

"I think I can afford the apartment," said Eric, grateful to see Kyle visibly relaxing at the words. "And I assume your parents are not continuing any allowance you might have."

"Oh, absolutely not and I'm pretty sure I'm fired from Straw+Berry," said Kyle, grinning. "This is not quite the type of virality the owner is going for, it turns out."

"I'm sorry," said Eric. He hesitated for only a moment. "I can also continue your allowance."

"That's okay," said Kyle. "I do have some pride. And also all the money I made at Straw+Berry this year. Almost five thousand dollar, plus tips."

Jesus. Eric was pretty sure he got paid that much for looking at a goal post for a few seconds.

"I think I'll get another job as a barista somewhere," said Kyle. "I really did like the job, more than you can imagine. Maybe it can be real this time, not just me being an obnoxious poverty tourist."

"I don't think that's a fair description of what you do--did at Straw+Berry," said Eric. "You worked hard and your coworkers like you."

Kyle blushed and looked at him from under his eyelashes. It was closer to the way he acted normally; Eric would say it was more genuine, but he'd witnessed how easily he could turn on the sweetly flirtatious act.

"I promise this rent thing won't be permanent," said Kyle. "I'll lay low and hopefully my parents will chill. And if not, I can just quit school and go back to modeling full time and take it seriously this time. I promise."

"No, don't worry about that," said Eric. "I can afford to rent an apartment while you finish your degree."

"Okay," said Kyle, smiling and empty smile.

"I promise, Kyle," said Eric. "I won't abandon you."

The words were honest, but careless. Eric didn't expect Kyle's mouth to drop open in shock, or his pretty blue eyes to fill with tears. He certainly didn't expect Kyle to launch himself at him, but his reflexes were quick enough that he stood up in time to catch him and envelop him in a hug. Before Eric could do more than rub his back soothingly, he heard a key going into a lock.

Fuck, Eric thought, angling his body as though he could shield Kyle from view. There was only one other person who had a key to this apartment.

Holly, of course.

Voyageurs

Patrice Drapeau
fucking finally
our bros are rescued
thank the cosmos

Hayden Pike
THEY SHOT SHANE

Jean-Jacques Boiziau
don't be negative right now hayden
the police and ambulances were there
it was a small gun

Dylan Xie
oh god they shot shane
I don't feel good right now

James Wagner
and we lost the second game against the sharks

Gilbert Comeau
not relevant atm
does anyone have mrs. hollander's contact info?

Hayden Pike
we can't bother her right now

Cole Passey
it's been hours
why don't the news know more
is shane alive????

Greg Cornick
what if they shot him in the head?

Jean-Jacques Boiziau
he would be dead you unbelievable asshole
why would you even say that?

Jake Merrell
they shot him in the leg
he was conscious the entire helicopter ride to the hospital

Dylan Xie
omg god Jake!!!!!
thank fucking god you're ok
I was dying

Patrice Drapeau
thank god bro
welcome back and thanks for the info

Hayden Pike
shane was okay?
talking and everything?

Nikolai Babikov
welcome back Jake you were totally smart and cool and Shane was being a bitch the entire time

Jeremy McAllister
bro no victim blaming right now
welcome back Jake
it was horrible playing without you

Jean-Jacques Boiziau
jake my man
so relieved to have you back
these clowns are unmanageable
how are you?

Jake Merrell
just a little dehydrated and I need a shower
Hollander's going to surgery but he was talking literally right up until the docs wheeled him for anesthesia
I'll be seeing you guys when you land in Montreal

Over the last couple of days, Shane had been giving his life a lot of thought. It was odd how much being shot at changed a person's perspective. Even in the leg, and even if the bullet didn't hit any tendons and went nowhere near the bone. The doctors, including the Voyageurs' chief physician, told Shane that they were very hopeful that he'd make a full recovery since he received near immediate medical attention.

Theriault had looked grim, but that was to be expected since they'd been telling him that his star forward was out of commission for the foreseeable future. Luckily, Merrell could go right back to playing. Theriault had told Shane that he expected his full cooperation during rehab, but that he had to return to the team.

That was fine; Shane wouldn't have expected anything else. Even with the best case scenario, he would not be able to play for the remainder of the season. The Voyageurs were still in the playoffs, so of course Theraiult had to go and manage them.

J. J. was named captain while Shane was on injury reserve, which made perfect sense. Hayden was too passive and nervous and Merrell too disinterested in the position, much as he liked to baby the rookies and whine at Shane for not being personable enough. The only other person who made sense was J. J.--an excellent, well-rounded D-man, well-liked and respected by the team, and very motivated.

The MLH had barely mustered the energy to release a generic Get Well statement while Shane was in surgery. They hadn't even mentioned SportsBet. The official MLH website still had links to the odious site and listings of "selected" pools on the home page. Screens still flashed lists of SportsBet pools during every official MLH game and the commentators still speculated on their validity.

A single bold reported had asked Crowell, the commissioner of the league, if the MLH planned to cease their business with SportsBet, or at least ask for some kind of apology.

"Of course not," the despicable bastard had chuckled, "the individuals who kidnapped Shane Hollander and Jake Merrell were not in any way affiliated with our friends at SportsBet. It would be beyond unfair to hold an honest business accountable for the actions of a small group of deranged criminals."

Shane didn't remember the last time he'd been so infuriated, and he'd just narrowly escaped kidnappers who tried to force him fistfight a teammate in an abandoned strip club.

For as long as he could remember, every decision he'd made--every action he'd taken--had been for the benefit of the MLH. Every time he turned down a piece of candy he wanted to eat, every time he got up to run ten kilometers in shitty weather, every time he chose not to go out for a coffee in Montreal because he might be recognized, every fucking inconvenience in his life. . .

Every time he imagined himself married to some faceless woman he would be avoiding at all cost, every time his heart skipped a beat before he resigned himself to another anonymous hook up with Ilya. Every time he carefully avoided looking at an attractive man for too long. Every time he let himself lie to his parents, if only by omission.

It had all been for the MLH. Not for hockey, he realized, but for the MLH itself. He could play for the CHL, or even the AHL. He could play hockey in a fucking beer league, if it came to that. It wasn't like he needed money anymore.

And the league couldn't be fucked to pretend to be annoyed at a shitty gambling website that almost got him killed. Shane felt like an idiot.

He heard someone step into his hospital room and tried not to yell in frustration. The door opened and Shane didn't even put his phone down. Probably, it was a nurse trying to do their job.

"I would like a few minutes to myself, please," he said in French.

"Shane."

The voice startled Shane so much that he practically jumped to a seated position, suppressing a wince because he accidentally moved his injured leg. Right by the door stood Ilya, dressed in a nondescript black jacket and beanie hat that did nothing to hide his curls. His beautiful blue eyes wide and scared. Shane blinked at him, wondering if he wasn't hallucinating.

"Shane," Ilya breathed, taking a hesitant step forward.

"What are you doing here?" snapped Shane. "You should be in Toronto." The Bears had won the first two games of their series in Boston, but that was no reason to get cocky.

"I. . ." Ilya swallowed thickly. "I am sorry. I just. . . how bad do they hurt you?"

"They shot me," said Shane and Ilya reared back, as though he'd been the one who'd been shot. "Just in the leg, like I said over text." Not not they'd had a lot of time for messaging. Shane had been recovering from anesthesia and Ilya was in the middle of a playoffs series. "Doctors say it's pretty superficial, best case scenario for this type of thing. What are you doing here?"

"I wanted to see you," said Ilya, looking at his feet. "I'll just go." He started turning around.

"No, wait," said Shane. "Come on. Since you're here, I want to talk to you. I was planning to call you after you beat the Knights, anyway. Come in."

Ilya took a couple of hesitant steps forward, until he was standing by Shane's bed.

"I was going to tell you that I decided to. . . come out of the closet," said Shane. He hated that saying. He wasn't. . . that. He'd just been trying to. . . fix himself, Shane supposed. He didn't have a problem with gay people, obviously. What the fuck had he been doing?

"Okay," said Ilya. "You are gay, then?"

"Yeah. Did you guess?"

Ilya shrugged without meeting Shane's eyes. "Is no big deal for you."

No, it should never have been. "And you?" asked Shane, focused entirely on Ilya's face.

"What about me?" said Ilya.

"If I come out officially, do you think we could?" Shane wasn't sure how to even phrase it. "I mean, I won't mention you at all, obviously. But. . ."

"Spit it out, Hollander."

"Could we be something, maybe?" said Shane. "More than what we are now?"

"Why ask me this, Shane?" Ilya frowned and blinked harshly. "You might do this, decide you're tired of our games and you want to bring nice boyfriend home to your nice parents, but obviously I can't. You remember I am Russian, yes? You threw this in my face once."

"Yeah, because I was confused about your little gimmick with Wynn," said Shane. "And I didn't throw it in your face; I was worried about you. Do you want Russia to kick you out or something?"

"I don't know they'd kick me out," said Ilya.

"What would they do?"

Ilya shrugged.

"Would they hurt you?" Shane knew, vaguely, that Russia committed horrific abuses against their LGBT population, up to and including jailing them, but Ilya was a wealthy athlete. Usually, that carried a lot of weight. But maybe not in Russia. "Ilya, do even want to go back?"

"Does not matter what I want," said Ilya.

So, no. Shane gave up trying to read Ilya's pained expression and considered the facts. Ilya was gay, to some degree. Ilya was Russian. Ilya was in danger every second he spent in Russia. Ilya did not want to go back to Russia, but he didn't even dare to say it out loud. Ilya kept going back to Russia.

"So what are your options?" asked Shane.

"About what?"

"About Russia," said Shane, praying for patience. "I'm assuming you've looked at all legal options to get an American passport. You have a lawyer, right?"

Ilya shrugged. "Used to have a Russian one. Sveta--we changed all of it after my accident."

"Marrying her would make you an American citizen, right?" said Shane, much as he hated to bring up the possibility. "I'm pretty sure that's how it works."

Ilya nodded, but he was staring at his hands.

"Why haven't you?" asked Shane, in a low voice. "Would you?"

"I would, but she doesn't want me like that," said Ilya.

That didn't make sense. If Shane were a woman that Ilya would be willing to marry, he would. . . God. He would have had Ilya. He would've fought for him, saved him, won him over. He would have followed Ilya all over North America with pride.

"Okay, so she's not an option," said Shane. There was no time to waste digging into Svetlana's motivations. "What about Wynn?"

"We're just playing, Hollander," said Ilya, looking at the ceiling. "He doesn't understand."

"I thought you said he did."

"No, I say to mind your business," said Ilya.

"If Wynn doesn't understand, then we explain it to him," said Shane. "He likes you and it's not like he's planning to marry anyone else--wait, do you get Finnish citizenship if you marry a Finn?" He reached for his phone, certain that he could verify that information quickly.

"Hollander," sighed Ilya.

"Wynn's family is kinda dickish and extremely wealthy, but he doesn't talk to them much anymore," said Shane, annoyed that the hospital WiFi as acting up. "And if they make a thing, that's what prenups are for."

"I'm not marrying Wynn," said Ilya.

Shane looked at him, trying to keep his temper in check. He hated when people refused to deal with obvious problems that had obvious solutions. "If not Svetlana or Wynn, then who?"

"If is so simple, Hollander, then why not you?"

"Would that be an option?" asked Shane.

Ilya's face went blank. He seemed to freeze on the spot, like a video that paused an unexpected moment. Shane's heart hammered in his chest as Ilya stared ahead, unseeing. He began to blink and roll his neck, like he was a faulty computer that was rebooting.

"Would that be an option?" Shane repeated, slowly.

"Shane," said Ilya. More like pleaded. "Why are you doing this?"

"I'm trying to make sure you don't end up freezing in an anti-gay prison," said Shane. "Marrying someone from a non-crazy country--or at least one less crazy than yours--would be the most efficient move."

"And you would be the one to marry me?"

"Yes," Shane forced himself to say. If Ilya refused with both Svetlana (his favorite girl) and Wynn (his baby), then why would he want Shane? But Shane had to try.

"And your parents would be okay with this?"

"They will be once I explain that I love you--that's not the reason, obviously!" Shane added when Ilya reared back. "We're doing it to get you out of Russia and into Canada, which might get complicated since I don't think you automatically become a Canadian citizen by marrying a Canadian." But still, he was a better option the Svetlana. Canada might be more difficult to get into than the USA, but it was also better. Everyone knew this. "My mom can help us with that; I told you she's a lawyer."

"What would you get out of it?" asked Ilya.

"What do you mean?" said Shane.

"What do you get out of marrying me for papers?"

"I would get you," said Shane. Wasn't it obvious?

Maybe not because Ilya froze again, though for less time now. His face twisted into a strange, confused grimace. "You already have all you want of me."

"No, I don't." This had to be some kind of language barrier issue. Or just an issue with whatever freak out had prompted Ilya to drive all the way from Toronto, or fly in from Boston, when he had a playoff game tomorrow. "I don't. Russia could take you any moment."

"Okay, then I can ask Sveta again--"

"--no!" Shane wasn't going to ask when Ilya had asked Svetlana in the first place. "I thought about it more and Canada is better than the USA. American psychos are currently turning that country into even more of a shithole than it already was. And Finland is too close to Russia. Finland borders Russia. It has to be me."

"Shane, you don't have to do this," Ilya said, looking confused.

"I know I don't have to," said Shane. "I want to."

"You are asking me. . . to m-marry you?"

"Yes," said Shane firmly, praying for patience again. They had literally been discussing marriage. "Ilya. Ilya Rozanov. Will you marry me? For safety."

Ilya still looked a little shell shocked, but he smiled hesitantly. "Okay."

"Okay," Shane said, relieved. He laid back on the hospital bed and sighed.

"When?" asked Ilya.

"As soon as it makes sense legally," said Shane. He had so much research to do. Where had his parents gone? He had to talk to them asap. But first, he looked to Ilya. "You have to go back to Toronto. My future husband can't lose to Dallas Kent."

Ilya gave him a sunny smile and leaned forward for a kiss that predictably got heated almost instantly. Shane pushed aside the beany and buried his hand in Ilya's curls, hardly believing that soon, those would be his husband's curls. Fuck, he felt his dick stirring, but Toronto was a long ways away and Shane had just had surgery. They simply didn't have the time figure out the logistics of a quick fuck in the hospital that wouldn't jostle Shane's injured leg.

Reluctantly, he pulled back from the kiss. Ilya murmured something in Russian.

"Go," said Shane, with one last peck at his lips. "Kick their asses."

Chapter End Notes

Kyle talks about his "relationship" with a man in his late thirties that happened when he was 15-16. He talks about it like he was the aggressor.

In other news, when I was planning this whole thing, I put "Marriage of Convenience" in the outline without further elaboration lol

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