Rating:

General Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

Gen

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid

Relationships:

Shane Hollander & Yuna Hollander, David Hollander & Shane Hollander & Yuna Hollander, David Hollander & Shane Hollander

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Yuna Hollander, David Hollander

Additional Tags:

Canon Compliant, Shane reckons with being Wasian, Period-Typical Racism, Microaggressions, Expectations, Autistic Shane Hollander, I mug canon for the set up to this scene because there is no indication this ever happened, Autistic Yuna Hollander, Protective Yuna Hollander, Protective David Hollander, Good Parent Yuna Hollander, Good Parent David Hollander, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Feels, physical touch, Grounding, Tactile, Shane's well deserved crash out, Spoilers for Book 6: The Long Game (Game Changers), Wasian Shane Hollander, Asian-Canadian Character, Tackling Shane and Yuna Hollander's race because it should in fact be talked about, Japanese-Canadian Shane Hollander, Japanese-Canadian Yuna Hollander, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, Mentions Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander Needs a Hug, Mild Gore, no beta we die like men, Written after Heated Rivalry (TV), Inspired by Heated Rivalry (TV), Inspired by Heated Rivalry (TV)'s additions of bringing up Shane's race more frequently, Mother-Son Relationship, Yuna Hollander comforting Shane Hollander, She loves her son very dearly, Yuna Hollander helps Shane Hollander process his feelings

Language:

English

Series:

Part 1 of Shane Being Asian

Stats:

Published: 2026-01-22 Words: 2,168 Chapters: 1/1

The Weight of the World or Maybe Just Myself

Summary

Shane feels his feelings after the locker room scene in The Long Game i.e. Shane finally gets to crash out about being Asian-Canadian in a majority white sport and all the things that comes with.

Notes

Spoilers for The Long Game by Rachel Reid
Trigger Warning for racism in the form of microaggressions and mild gore as metaphor

Shane's race is an important facet of his character to me so kindly fuck off and do not read this if you do not agree.

I’m Chinese-American, Wasian, grew up in a white suburb, went to PWIs and played sports at a competitive level but never a semi-professional or professional one. But I see a lot of Shane’s experiences reflected in my own in sports. He deserves a true crash out just as Ilya got in episode 5 of the Crave series. It was important to me to have this exist even though I think Hudson Williams and Jacob Tierney will address his race more in season two like they did in season one. So, enjoy my take on what I think should have happened after the seventh series game in the long game where Shane accidentally tripped and thus Ilya scored the game winning goal and his teammates accuse him of doing it on purpose.

My advice would be to read the entire section of on the 7th game of the Montreal vs Ottawa Stanley cup playoff series + the locker room and aftermath, then read this fic. (In my copy of the book it is page 382-386)

His lungs burned, chest constricted as if a boa was squeezing him to snuff the rest of his life force out. His head spun. Brain whirling like those damned teacups, then skull sliced open and the fleshy mound holding his consciousness together is poured out and sloughed onto the floor. He couldn’t focus on anything. Yuna was doing her best as always. His dad was focused on driving, getting them all home, though he could have sworn he saw his knuckles look more pale than before, the light color they usually had draining. His mother was talking about something, probably something adjacent to hockey since he could never really get away from it. What could he even do now.

It wasn’t until they pulled into the driveway he realized they were at his parents’ house. Yuna looked at David in confusion, he only answered with his own dumbfounded look and then shrugged, both of them getting out of the car. Shane somehow made it out too. He managed to make it to their couch as well. Guided by a hand, presumably his mother’s, she gently pushed him down onto the couch to sit down, his father flanking the other side. The familiar plush seat, helped a small amount. Grounded in the comfort of something not new. A tanned hand moved a semi-dried flyaway piece of his longer hair, off behind his ear. A paler hand found its way to his back, between his shoulder blades and gently rubbed there.

His mom starts it, “Shane…” And because it’s her, and because she is probably the only one in his life that comes the closest to understanding what he’s thinking about right now, the dam breaks.

The burning and constricting explodes. He screams.

He is physically incapable of keeping it in any longer. The triple, quadruple duct-taped double sealed vacuum lidded bottle of his emotions, cannot be contained any more. His parents told him that when he was very little he used to have tantrums, not like what they were told about normal toddler tantrums, but unending crying and screaming. He had grown out of it. Or more like that he had learned to control it, that it wasn’t appropriate. That he wasn’t allowed to feel that much. Not that either of them had explicitly told him that, but it just happened.

So, Shane, for the first time in twenty five years, screams. He lets himself truly feel the entirety of everything he has been holding in for so long.

The expectations. It had piled so high he was on top of a towering mountain he had to work his way through, like every molecule of air was slicing through all the accumulation of experiences he had kept inside. Every small moment. Off hand glances, sideways chirps referencing a stereotype, knowing glances between opposing team members, or worse his own. The weight of every child he saw at games with jet black straight hair, the bowl cuts that came up to him, eyes in wonder seeing someone like him playing high level hockey, the tags on Instagram of college students on game days repping his jersey, salt and pepper or white hair dotting the games while in Toronto, Vancouver, and sometimes Winnipeg. Then the breath in his lungs is gone and a coughing fit ensues as is body gasps for oxygen.

He collapses in on himself, head in his hands, elbows on his knees. Rolling to the side to land on his mom. Sobs wracking his body, tears watering his hands, pooling there.

After the initial shock wears off, his mom combs one hand through his hair and holds the other steady on his shoulder. He can hear his dad scoot closer, rubbing his back again and the other hand on his shoulder too. Its weeping, he knows he’s crying, he fucking hates it. How could they even possibly consider that an option? Him? The one who pushed them to win four fucking Stanley Cups? Their captain? To give it up at the end? How could they ever think that? After everything they had been through together?

It doesn’t stop. It just feeds the deep well of coals hovering in his stomach, which only fuels the ache in his jaw, as the tears continue to stream. Hands and his mother’s legs probably drenched in salt water. He doesn’t remember how long this goes on for. It seems never ending as it keeps eating itself and causing more. His lungs ache, his body cries out for release getting a second unwanted workout today on top of the back to back seven during this series.

At a certain point things go dark and he can feel his muscles release their tension.

When he comes to again, soft lamp light peeks its way into his eyes and his mom is gently petting his shoulder as she is holding something in her other hand. He stirs slightly and winces at the pain that careens its way from his body, somehow feeling especially weak despite being in playoff shape. Her hand gently lifts off and he takes it as his cue to sit up. His face makes an unwanted expression as he pushes off her legs gently and braces against the back of the couch.

Seeing her in the warm light, he observes her folding the book in her hand closed and placing it next to a glass of wine. Her eyes quickly move over to him, assessing. She stops at his eyes, probably blood shot, takes a deep breath, then pats his head and rustles his hair, “You need water,” she says getting up. A hand is placed on his shoulder, steady, forceful, but in a loving, present kind of way, as she moves past him to get to the kitchen.

His mind is blank. Eyeballs insanely sensitive to even the gentle breeze in the house. His usual post game sweats almost feeling itchy even though he knows they are not.

A lukewarm glass with gently steaming water is placed in his hands bringing him back to his vision, where he can see Yuna, sitting back down on the couch. She breathes deeply, reaches over and takes a drink of wine, breathes deeply again, sets the glass back down and looks towards Shane. Who cannot do anything except stare at a very interesting corner of the couch. A hand softly guides his jaw and face to look up before releasing it.

“Shane…” she quietly says.

He does his best not to burst into tears again, all of the thoughts that had been dashed away by momentary sleep, come flooding back in. His eyes well up, but he takes quick short breaths to steady himself. Only then does he meet his mother’s eyes.

The tear wells are only partly filled. He looks up to the ceiling and breathes again as if the breath can drag the tears back into their ducts. Then he looks at her again, “Yes Mom?” his voice stringy and taut, doing his best to be composed but failing to do so anyways.

“Honey,” she starts, “It seemed like you wanted to say something before…” she says trailing off, leaving the implication in the air.

He looks slightly away and swallows hard, then makes eye contact again, “I- well-” he sighs heavily, measured, wrestling his emotions for control of his body.

Her eyes continue to study him, doing her best to understand what’s going on.

He squeezes his eyes shut, unintentionally letting the tears fall, breathes more with his shoulders than his stomach, sighs. Opening them he looks at her again, attempting to sort the words in their jumbled, piled, mess into something understandable.

“Yes,” he finally gets out, “I need to talk about what happened.”

She gives him a small nod, “Alright, let’s talk,” she replies.

His hands find their way to each other, still holding the warm ceramic, and he layers one on top of the other and squeezes and massages the bottom one with the top, “Did…”

The repetitive motion is the only thing that is keeping him remotely steady at the moment. “Did…” He forces a breathe out again.

“Did they ever see me as a person?” he finally gets out.

Yuna’s gaze softens, her shoulders fall, and she takes a deep breath. A hand is placed onto his knee, “Oh honey. I’m so sorry.” And it unravels him again. Yuna quickly grabs the mug and places it on the coffee table and he collapses into her lap again, the rivers of liquid emotion falling away from his face. Gentle hands rub his shoulder and a kiss is planted on top of his head on his hair.

It was all too much. He talks into her lap, forearms hiding his eyes. He repeats why why why unendingly. “Did they ever even care about me? Did they ever even care? Or did they only care about what I did for them?” He can’t even conjure the energy to shake his body, the spent quiet sobs all that escape him, wondering if it all even mattered. If he had been someone different that he would be treated this way.

“It doesn’t matter if they did.”

Shane shoots up, anger in his eyes, not for her but he feels it searing his chest, “Yes it does!” he nearly yells exasperated, hands balling into fists.

“All we’ve ever talked about since I was in juniors and then in the MHL was that I would be the person other Asian-Canadians and Asian-Americans look up too! We barely exist in the league! How can I be that representation and promote this league by being in it if it isn’t even safe for me here? Me, a second place draft pick!” he shouts, his hands flying to be beside his face and the fists exploding into stretched out fingers. Then making their way to his face rubbing and dragging across it as it he’s trying trying to erase his features and the shame.

Yuna falters, he can see her digesting the words. They were both born here. They both know what it is like to feel out of place. He didn’t have the luxury of living in Vancouver or Toronto and she did not make the decision to move them there either. She flicks her head, moving the hair back behind her shoulder again and off of the side of her face.

Shoulders rise and fall, a quiet burdened but accepting breath escapes her. “We did not choose to be who we happened to be. All we can do is live for ourselves now,” she says seeming to say not only to Shane.

The air is laden with the weight of what she put to words. She moves a fly away of his hair again, then places a grounding hand on his shoulder, “I’m sorry if I made you feel like you needed to represent us by the simple virtue of being who you are." There's a pause, "It’s your life.” She lets that statement hang in the air, making sure he has the time to hear it, repeat it in his head, and try to internalize it. He shifts under the simultaneous weight of it and the beginning of the unwinding in his stomach.

“Ultimately you are,” she brings up a hand and cups the side of his face, “my lovely son, Shane Hollander.” He leans into the touch without thinking.

“That is who you are,” she says placing kiss on his forehead punctuating it.

“You also happen to be Japanese-Canadian and gay. Please do not place their whole world on your shoulders. You should get to live your own life too.” and as if knowing what will come next, he is pulled into a hug by his mother as the bindings that had been holding his body, heart, mind, and soul, start to fall away.

He fully relaxes into the hug, becoming dead weight but his mother is no slouch and holds them both up for this. She turns her head, placing a gently peck on his temple, rubs his back and hums. “It’s going to be okay. You’re going to be okay.”

She lets them stay like that for awhile before separating them, “Besides, you don’t have just Dad and I anymore,” she says ruffling his hair and placing another kiss on his forehead with a big smile, “You have Ilya as well.”

Shane rolls his eyes and his head dramatically before falling back onto the couch, “Moooooooom,” he groans feigning annoyance. “You can’t even wait a day before reminding me my fiance beat me in the series and is continuing on in the tournament?!” he says throwing his hands in the air dramatically before letting them drop back down onto the couch.

Yuna laughs heartily, “Of course not! He is my favorite son after all.” Shane just rolls his eyes again and slides his back across the couch to lean on her, eyes closing as the exhaustion catches up with him.