Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Hayden Pike, Yuna Hollander, Scott Hunter (Game Changers)

Additional Tags:

Hockey Players Mic'd Up on the Ice (Game Changers), Montreal Voyageurs | Montreal Metros Being Assholes (Game Changers), Shane Hollander Leaves the Montreal Voyageurs | Montreal Metros, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Rewrite, Fix-It of Sorts, Angst with a Happy Ending, Angst, Angst and Humor, Whump, Emotional Whump, Injury Recovery, Communication, Second Chances, Eventual Happy Ending, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, Overprotective Ilya Rozanov, Autistic Shane Hollander, Autistic Yuna Hollander, BAMF Shane Hollander, Good Friend Hayden Pike, Hayden Pike Finds Out About Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Good Friend Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Everyone Needs a Hug, Ilya Rozanov is a Menace, TW:, Homophobia, Slurs

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-06-11 Updated: 2026-07-09 Words: 45,643 Chapters: 4/?

Another Promise, Another Scene

Summary

“—okay, that’s unusual,” the first commentator’s voice is saying over the footage. “Hm. Ladies and gentlemen, it seems that, thanks to some last-minute additions to the broadcast, we’ll be able to get an audio feed straight from the arena today!” 

Ilya frowns. Who the fuck was stupid enough to get mic’d for this fucking game? Some idiot rookie from Toronto, probably. They really don’t teach kids how to handle anything these days. 

“That’s right!” The second announcer pipes up with an annoyingly fake cheery voice. Ilya immediately wants to send a puck straight into his windpipe. “We just got confirmation that Captain Shane Hollander himself will be wearing a microphone during tonight’s game.” 

Ilya sits up and spins to face the TV screen fast enough to give a lesser man whiplash.

Shane doesn’t get injured when Ilya comes back from Russia in 2017, so Ilya follows through on his plan to end things between them. A year later, despite being miserable, he still believes he did the right thing for both of them.
Except the Voyageurs have been acting weird around Hollander lately. And wait, what do you mean he’s mic’d for this game?

Notes

Hi! i know the WIP status is scary, but if you’re here for the mic’d up segment, it’s actually fully covered in Chapter 1. The following chapters will mainly deal with the aftermath.

As stated in the summary, the divergence begins after Ilya’s father dies. While it’s not very clear in the show, in the book Ilya was planning to end things between him and Shane after their next game, but Shane getting injured ruined those plans. In this AU, the injury doesn’t happen.

Also, I made the Voyageurs more homophobic than in canon, for shits and giggles.

Note:
“*” signifies a scene break
“*****” signifies a POV change

Title from “Uprising” by Muse.

Chapter 1: Shane Hollander’s Last Stand

Chapter Notes

[April 2018, Boston]

“…Three losses in four games, and frankly, they've looked very different from the team we saw during the regular season."

“Montreal fucking sucks now, yeah, thanks, we get it,” Cliff Marlow enunciates with surprising clarity, considering the sheer amount of onion rings that are currently packed into his mouth. Vic produces a noncommittal hum in response, not looking up from his phone. Ilya burrows deeper into the corner of the couch and tries to remember what on earth possessed him to come over here in the first place. 

The Boston Bears completed the first round of the playoffs yesterday, effectively murdering the Tampa Bay team within five games. Now, the four best team members (according to Ilya Rozanov’s personal rankings) are draped over the furniture in Marlow’s living room in various configurations, prepared to watch Toronto Guardians do the same to Montreal.

Marlow has claimed most of one couch, and a truly offensive amount of various food items. Vic St-Simon is stretched across the other end with an ice pack balanced on his forehead, like he's trying to preserve a particularly important brain cell. Carmichael occupies the armchair at an angle that should probably be illegal. Every few minutes somebody's skate-bruised leg bumps into somebody else's and earns a half-hearted complaint.

“What is the point of watching, anyway?” Ilya complains to his own ice pack, currently resting on his left shoulder. “Montreal loses today. End of story. Go home, sleep, prepare to fuck Toronto next week. Simple.” 

Marlow snorts, and throws an onion ring at Ilya’s head. He misses. “Yeah, right. Like you’re not excited to watch someone wipe the floor with Hollander.”

Marlow’s right: he isn’t excited. The truth is, Ilya has always been mostly happy about beating Hollander himself—watching other teams do it was a pleasant bonus, at best. Something to tease Hollander about over text, a convenient excuse to start the conversation in the first place. And lately, even his own wins against Montreal have not been very fun. In fact, every single one of Boston’s scores against the Voyageurs only intensified the vaguely sick feeling in Ilya’s stomach that followed him throughout the season. 

But it’s not like he can tell his teammates that. 

“It’s not fun to watch them lose if they can’t even put up a fight, though,” Carmichael muses from the armchair, where he’s been having a staring contest with the wall for the past 15 minutes or so. Huh. That series really fucked them up.

“What he said,” Ilya mumbles, thankful for a convenient excuse for his sour mood. And then his chest pinches with a brief memory of saying the same words, many years ago, at a press conference, his foot—

Ilya sighs and turns sideways on the couch, facing the lonesome onion ring that is still lying next to him as a testament to Marlow’s shitty aim. It’s a good thing that none of them have to play basketball for a living. 

On the TV screen, Montreal and Toronto players are entering the arena to begin the game. Ilya continues to stare the onion ring down with the desperation of the drowning man. Maybe he can keep looking at it for the remainder of the game. The commentators are paid good money to do their jobs, after all. There is no reason for him to look at the screen when he can hear what’s happening perfectly fine. 

Maybe if his eyes start to prickle at some point he can blame the onions. 

“—okay, that’s unusual,” the first commentator’s voice is saying over the footage. “Hm. Ladies and gentlemen, it seems that, thanks to some last minute additions to the broadcast, we’ll be able to get an audio feed straight from the arena today!” 

Ilya frowns. Who the fuck was stupid enough to get mic’d for this fucking game? Some idiot rookie from Toronto, probably. They really don’t teach kids how to handle anything these days. 

“That’s right!” The second announcer pipes up with an annoyingly fake cheery voice. Ilya immediately wants to send a puck straight into his windpipe. “We just got confirmation that Captain Shane Hollander himself will be wearing a microphone during tonight’s game.” 

Ilya sits up and spins to face the TV screen fast enough to give a lesser man whiplash. 

Vic actually lowers his phone. “What.”

“—Those who are familiar with the Voyageurs know how unusual it is for Hollander to agree to something like this.”

“No shit,” Carmy mutters. 

“It has to be a mistake,” Vic squints at the screen. 

“Hollander. Fucking Hollander got mic’d. During a playoff game. A playoff game he’ll almost definitely lose,” Cliff mutters, staring at the TV. His eyes are wide with disbelief. 

“It’s gotta be a mistake,” Vic says again. “Right, Roz?”

Ilya blinks at the screen. His mouth suddenly feels dry for some reason. “Yes, mistake.” He clears his throat. “Definitely mistake. Hollander would rather take slapshot to the face.”

“Maybe he did,” Carmy muses from his armchair. Cliff snorts.

The truth is, Ilya needs it to be a mistake. It's been a little over a year since he last talked to Hollander. Since then, the only times he's heard his voice have been the occasional post-game interview. They've shared ice plenty of times. Face-offs too. Not that Hollander ever looked at him anymore. As a result, Ilya won most of their face-offs this season. As previously established, he did not particularly enjoy that.

That is to say, hearing Hollander's voice now, while surrounded by his teammates, exhausted from his own playoff series, and already in a shitty mood, feels like a terrible idea. Unfortunately, nobody appears interested in consulting him on the matter.

On screen, Montreal is lining up for the anthem.

“Interesting timing, too,” the commentator continues. “As everyone knows, there have been a lot of questions surrounding the Voyageurs these last few months.”

“A lot of speculation,” his partner agrees.

“Without many answers.”

It’s obvious to any person with a working pair of eyes, who’s witnessed a Montreal game within the past couple of months that there “seems to be some sort of an issue between the captain and the rest of the team,” as a different commentator diplomatically put it sometime last month. 

(“Well, duh,” Carmy said then in response. “If my own fucking team wanted me dead, I’d have an ‘issue’ with them too.” He even did the air quotes.) 

Despite what it sounds like, the Montreal team does not try to murder its own captain. To be entirely honest, the Montreal team does not seem to be doing much at all. Somewhere in mid-February, the Voyageurs went from Stanley Cup contenders to barely dragging themselves into the playoffs. Players stopped connecting on plays they used to execute in their sleep. Hollander started spending entire games getting hammered into the boards while half his team seemed to forget he existed. 

Not a single person from Montreal management deigned to comment on the situation. “We’re… kind of going through something, as a team,” a deliciously sweaty, but very obviously exhausted Captain Hollander expressed in a short interview after yet another disastrous game. “Hopefully it will be resolved soon and we’ll be back to our full potential.” 

Said interview took place almost a month ago (27 days, to be exact. But who’s counting. Definitely not Ilya). Needless to say, things have not been resolved since. In fact, they seem to only get worse with time, which is why right now Montreal is starting their fifth game of the playoffs with three losses behind their backs, and a severely beat up captain. 

On screen, Hollander is skating over to Drapeau, who is already in position at the net. 

“—Last word with his goaltender before the game begins.”

“Probably warning everyone about the mic now, since the addition was so last-minute—” 

“—Fuck you want, Hollander?” Drapeau barks at his approaching captain, effectively shutting the commentator up. The sheer weight of his glare is palpable even through the broadcast camera. 

The silence in the living room is very loud. Ilya’s metaphorical jaw hits the floor. He knows that tone of voice. That’s exactly the tone of voice the Voyageurs use to talk to him. Him, Ilya-fucking-Rozanov, their worst fucking enemy in the world. 

Hollander appears unperturbed. Or in any case, he recovers fast, giving a tiny nod in response. “You know what,” he says slowly, as if thinking aloud to himself, “You’re right. Nevermind.” 

The commentators are silent for a moment.

“Well,” one finally says with a strained laugh. “Looks like Drapeau wasn't expecting company.”

“Perhaps a little frustration there.”

Vic puts his phone face-down on the coffee table. “Okay,” he says. “That was weird.”

And, yeah. 

The only thing Ilya wants more than to find out what the Voyageurs' problem is, exactly, is to never find out the answer at all. For months he's been trying to solve it from a distance. Watching games. Reading interviews. Collecting scraps of information like they might eventually form a picture. Now, watching Hollander join Dallas Kent for the first face-off of the game, he has a feeling that he’s probably about to find out anyway. 

“—Captain Hollander facing Kent at center ice—.”

“Captain Hollander,” Kent drawls with lazy amusement in his voice. “Still carrying this whole team by yourself?”

Hollander ignores him. The puck drops. Montreal wins possession.

A few minutes later they're back at the center. Kent grins. “How's the locker room these days?”

Silence.

“Hollander wins the draw again.”

“Toronto immediately takes it back.”

By the third face-off, seemingly bored by Hollander’s lack of response, Kent doesn’t bother to address him anymore. “Hey, Comeau.”

The Montreal winger glances over from where he’s standing behind Hollander’s right shoulder. Kent smirks. “How's it feel having your captain checking you out in the showers?”

Ilya feels his stomach go cold. 

Comeau snorts. “Won't be captain much longer.”

Hollander’s head whips towards Comeau. “What?” 

It’s the first time he’s said something on the ice since his attempt to warn Drapeau about the mic. He sounds genuinely surprised to hear the exchange. 

Neither Kent nor Comeau dignify him with an answer. The puck drops. Hollander loses the face-off. 

“...Not the sort of conversation we usually hear at a face-off,” one commentator says carefully.

“No.” Silence. 

In the living room, nobody says anything. Marlow has stopped eating. Vic is sitting forward now, elbows on his knees. Even Carmy has abandoned his staring contest with the wall.

“Okay, I’ll go first,” Carmy says. “What the fuck?”

“Won't be captain?”

“What the hell is happening?”

Ilya thinks he might be able to guess. Watching Hollander win his next face-off, he’s silently praying that he’s wrong. 

No, he thinks. No, no, no, no. Please, no. 

On screen, Hollander chases the puck into the corner. Troy Barrett viciously slams him into the boards. The crushing sound does nothing to cover Barrett very clearly spitting out the word “Faggot”, before he skates away. 

And well, that answers that. 

*

The word hangs over the room long after Barrett has skated away. Nobody speaks. Nobody even breathes. 

On screen, the play continues. Toronto carries the puck into the Montreal zone. Someone takes a shot. Drapeau makes the save. 

Ilya doesn't really register any of it.

Because suddenly every bizarre thing Montreal has done for the past three months makes perfect sense—the missed passes, the abandoned plays, the way nobody stepped in when Hollander got hit. The way his teammates seemed to look through him instead of at him. The interviews. The silence. The losing.

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

And Hollander knows. He'd been walking into that locker room every day knowing exactly what they thought of him. And he'd kept showing up anyway. Carrying his team to the playoffs by the skin of his teeth. 

For one stupid second, Ilya wants his phone. He wants to call. Wants to hear Hollander pick up, nevermind that the game is obviously happening on his screen right now. Wants to ask why the fuck he didn't tell anybody. Wants to ask why he didn't tell him. 

The urge is so strong that his hand actually twitches. Then common sense catches up.

A year. It's been a year.

A year since they spoke. A year since Ilya convinced himself that staying away was the right thing to do. The right thing for Hollander. The right thing for both of them.

Ilya keeps watching.

*

The game continues. Or, rather, Toronto continues. The Guardians spend the next several minutes camped in Montreal's end, while the Voyageurs scramble after them. Pike breaks up one dangerous chance. Drapeau makes a pair of solid saves. The third one gets past him.

The arena erupts.

“Toronto strikes first!” the commentator announces. “And with just over six minutes gone in the opening period, the Guardians take a one-nothing lead.”

On the replay, Drapeau slams his stick against the post. Hollander skates slowly toward the bench, Pike alongside him. Nobody reaches out a glove as they pass.

“Fucking unbelievable,” Comeau snaps the moment Hollander sits down. “You lose every puck battle and then we're supposed to clean up after you?”

Pike's head whips around. “Gil—”

“You know I'm playing with broken ribs,” Hollander says through clenched teeth.

“Yeah?” Comeau laughs. “And whose fault is that?”

“Gil,” Pike says again, a clear warning in his voice. 

“Maybe if you spent less time crying about your personal life and more time playing hockey—”

“Comeau, shut the fuck up.”

“Or what?” Comeau fires back. “Aw, poor little fairy. Too hurt to play hockey, but not too hurt to suck cock, right?” 

Hollander's jaw tightens. “Gil—”

“—Though I guess you're not very good at that either, if even your Lily doesn’t want you anymore.”

On screen, Pike lunges at Comeau.

In Cliff Marlow's living room, Ilya's heart cracks cleanly in half.

* * * * *

“…even your Lily doesn’t want you anymore.”

It goes like this: 

Ten years ago, Shane Hollander stumbled through awkwardly introducing himself to a tall, closed off, and incredibly talented on the ice boy. Ever since then, he’s spent countless moments wondering where his life would be now if he didn’t. 

About a year and a half ago, the illusion of indifference he'd been so carefully building around himself and his rival was shattered with just two words and a sandwich. A bit later, Shane Hollander finally accepted a certain fact about himself that he’s spent years trying not to acknowledge.

One year ago, Ilya didn't fly with his team to Nashville. Instead, he spent two weeks on a different continent—and increasingly on the other side of Shane's phone calls. Shane’s shameful, secret attempts to learn Russian did not help him understand a single word of what Ilya said to him back then. He felt he didn’t really need to—Shane was sure he heard enough in Ilya’s voice alone. 

A week later, Ilya came to his secret apartment in Montreal, looking exhausted and impossibly sad, and ended Shane’s entire world in one sentence. 

Ten months ago, Shane watched Scott Hunter kiss his boyfriend on the ice. Stupidly, for the next couple of weeks, he kept waiting for a phone call that never came. He knew it didn’t change anything. Not for them. 

Six months ago was the first time he saw Rozanov face-to-face again. Neither said anything. Shane couldn’t even look him in the eyes. He lost almost every face-off during that game. 

Almost three months ago, exhausted and angry and god knows what else, he impulsively came out to his entire team after practice. He spent the following evening curled up between Hayden and Jackie on their couch, more drunk than he’d ever been during the season, watching stupid reality TV for hours before eventually breaking down in tears, and for the first and only time telling someone the truth—or parts of it—about “Lily”. 

Since then, he hasn't cried once. Didn't show any emotion. Became the hockey robot he needed to be. He came to practice, gave his 110%, ignored the jabs and comments, and led his crumbling team to the first round of playoffs.

It turns out heartbreak is excellent preparation for disappointment.

Right now, he has less than two seconds to drag his best friend away from Comeau before this madness escalates any further.

“—Hayd!”

“—you motherf—“

“—off me—“

Shane succeeds in bodily dragging his friend away seconds before someone's face gets mashed into the boards. Hayden's, probably. Comeau is much stronger, after all. His ribs flare white-hot with the effort. Fuck.

“Shane, he—”

“If you get a penalty for this,” Shane grunts, tightening his grip on Hayden's arm, “I'll be alone on the ice.”

That actually does it. Hayden slumps back onto the bench, teeth clenched so hard Shane can see the muscle jumping in his jaw. Comeau doesn't even bother hiding his disgust. He adjusts his shoulder pads, shoots them one last glare, and heads toward the opposite end of the bench.

“Fucking parasite,” Hayden mutters under his breath.

“Hayd.”

“—piece of shit—”

“Hayd.”

“—hope somebody breaks his—”

“Hayden. I'm mic'd.”

Hayden’s head whips around to stare at Shane in astonishment. “….What?” 

“I’m mic’d.” 

Hayden blinks. “Wait, from the beginning of the game?”

Shane nods. He can almost see the gears of Hayden’s brain working, his face lighting up more and more with each second. 

“And you didn’t tell anyone?”

Shane shakes his head. Hayden blinks again. A moment later, he starts laughing so hard he nearly drops his stick. For the first time all day, Shane feels the beginning of a smile tug at the corners of his mouth.

“Holy shit, man,” Hayden wheezes out. “Who are you and what have you done to my friend?”

Shane shrugs. “They offered.”

“And?”

“I don’t know. I probably should’ve refused. I always do. I just…”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I’m so fucking tired, Hayd.” The words come out with a lot more emotion than Shane intended. Hayden's laughter fades immediately. Shane braces his elbows on his knees and stares down at the tape wrapped around his stick. Every breath he takes makes his lungs ache. “We both know this is our last game this season,” he continues softly. “It might be my last game in general. I guess I just— I wanted someone to hear. I don’t know what I was thinking.” 

Hayden audibly swallows and shifts nervously on the bench. “Your last game?”

“Gil said something earlier. To Kent.” Shane sighs. “I don’t know. It might be nothing.

Hayden looks away. A few seconds pass—players jump over the boards, the sounds of the crowd swell and fade. Then he forcefully exhales, turning to face Shane again with a new, determined look in his eyes. “It's not.”

Shane frowns. “What?”

“It's not nothing.” Hayden swallows again. “I'm sorry I didn't tell you. I didn't want to make you feel worse.”

“Tell me what?”

“There’s a petition.”

“A petition,” Shane repeats flatly.

“…To remove you from the team.”

Shane stares. Coach's whistle sounds somewhere down the bench.

“Coach had it last week, I think,” Hayden continues quietly. “It might've reached the commissioner's office by now.”

At the mention of the commissioner, Shane’s brain suddenly reboots at an alarming speed. “Wait. Hayd— Fuck.”

“What?”

“Don’t tell me anything else.”

“Why?”

“The mic, you idiot,” Shane hisses, trying to keep his voice down. ”They might still be broadcasting this.”

Hayden doesn’t seem to understand the gravity of the situation. “So?”

“So? Do you want us both to be in trouble?” 

Hayden shrugs. “Not like I lied or anything.”

“Hayden.” Shane says slowly, as if explaining this to a child. “If they’re really still broadcasting this, it’s going to be a scandal. A huge one. I might… They might fire me from the NHL altogether.“ 

Hayden scoffs. “For what? Getting mic’d? Being gay? Neither of those things is a crime, last time I checked.”

“They’ll find something. Unsportsmanlike conduct. Not warning people about the mic. I don’t know.” Shane is aware that he’s starting to sound desperate, but he has to get his point across. “I don’t want to know! But whatever it is, I don’t want you to go down with me.” 

Hayden finally seems to be considering his words. Good. Shane won’t be able to forgive himself if he inadvertently puts Hayden’s career in danger, too. 

For a little while, neither of them says anything. Toronto pushes into Montreal's zone. Drapeau makes a save. Somebody gets the puck. Somebody immediately loses it again. The crowd groans. Shane absently follows the puck with his eyes without really seeing any of it. Then,

“I can't believe we're gonna lose to Toronto.”

“What did you expect?” Hayden asks. “That we'd carry the team all the way to the Stanley Cup by ourselves?”

“Not by ourselves. J.J. helps.”

“Sure.”

“So does Drapeau.”

“Yeah, well.” Hayden snorts. “I'm really not in the mood to give Drapeau any credit right now.”

Shane sighs. “I feel like I'm failing them.”

“Who?”

“The team. The fans. I don't know. Everyone.”

“You're not serious.” Hayden’s voice is unusually flat.

“We're losing.” Shane gestures vaguely toward the ice. “And I'm sitting here chatting with my friend.”

Hayden actually looks angry. “Fuck's sake, Hollander. Your ribs are broken!”

“I've played injured before.”

“That's not the point.”

“I'm the captain.”

“The captain of what? This fucking team?” Hayden shoots back, gesturing in the direction of the game as well.

Shane lifts his chin stubbornly. “I am.”

“Yeah, right.” Hayden chuckles darkly. “You mean the same team that let you get injured in the first place, because nobody could be bothered to protect you?”

“Hayd—”

“The same team that blabbed to Kent?”

“Hayd.”

“Fucking Kent?”

“Hayden!”

“—The same team that's been treating you like shit for months while you drag their asses into the playoffs? The same—”

“HAYDEN!” Shane snaps. 

“—WHAT?”

“They might hear it.” Shane glances meaningfully to his jersey, where the microphone is hidden. 

Hayden is silent for a few moments, grinding his teeth together in frustration, but then he shrugs. His voice is calm when he says, “So let them.”

“What?”

“I said let them. Fuck it. Fuck them.”

Cold dread settles in Shane’s stomach. “They'll eat you alive for this,” he whispers.

Hayden scoffs. “They can try.”

“Hayd.”

“—I mean, it’s not like i’ll be seeing any of them again anytime soon. Potentially ever.”

It’s Shane’s turn to blink in confusion. “What?”

“You said it yourself. We’re probably going to be kicked off the team soon. Maybe worse.”

“No, I specifically remember saying I will be getting kicked off the team.”

Hayden almost looks offended. “Did you really think I’d stay?”

The question catches Shane completely off guard. “What?”

“I mean, they’ll probably want me gone as well, anyway. They hate me almost as much as they hate you these days.” Shane opens his mouth. Hayden doesn’t let him speak. “But like, even if they didn’t,” he presses on, “do you really think I’d want to stay? Knowing what I know about them now? After everything they’ve done to you?”

Something warm settles in Shane’s chest. 

Naturally, he decides to ignore the feeling. “I’m sure your wife and four children will appreciate your impeccable moral compass when you tell them you lost your job,” he says flatly. 

Hayden rolls his eyes. “Don’t be an idiot. You know Jackie will be on your side. She’ll probably kill me herself if I stay.”

A reluctant smile tugs at Shane’s mouth again. Knowing Jackie, Hayden’s probably right. Still—

“You really don’t have to do it.”

“I’m aware, thanks,” Hayden says dryly, looking at the game. “Unfortunately, I decided to be your best friend, like, almost a decade ago, and that’s not about to change today.”

The warm feeling intensifies. It must show on Shane’s face somehow, because Hayden glances at him from the side, and then a corner of his mouth twitches. Shane bites his lip to stop his mouth from doing the same. Within seconds, they’re both sitting side by side, pretending not to smile at the arena where their team is currently losing, like two absolute morons. Shane bumps his shoulder into Hayden’s, and Hayden bumps him back. For a few moments, Shane almost feels like a child—safe from all evil, as long as his best friend is next to him. 

But only for a few moments. 

Shane clears his throat. “So.”

“So?”

“A petition.”

Hayden groans. “Yeah.”

“On what grounds?” Shane asks. “Our captain doesn't like us saying slurs? Please, please resolve this terrible inconvenience immediately?”

“…Sexual harassment.”

Shane’s playful mood evaporates. “What?”

Hayden shifts his grip on his stick, looking uncomfortable. “…Like, guys don’t feel comfortable changing around you. Showering. They say you’re creating a ‘hostile work environment’.” Hayden blows out a frustrated breath. “I don’t know. They weren’t stupid enough to show it to me.” 

For a second, Shane genuinely thinks he misheard. “A hostile work environment.”

“Yeah.”

“Me.”

“Yeah.”

“The guy getting called slurs every day.”

Hayden's jaw tightens. “Yeah.”

Shane lets out a short bark of laughter. “Nice,” he says flatly. “Amazing. Who signed it, then?”

For the first time today, Hayden looks at him with something resembling pity. “….Shane,” he says. His voice is impossibly soft. 

“Oh.” Shane suddenly has to blink a few times. For some reason, his eyes seem to be wet. He swallows, and hopes his voice sounds steady when he asks, “Who didn’t sign, then?”

“J.J.” Hayden answers immediately. Then, “Olsson. A couple of rookies.”

Shane looks at him for a few moments before he suddenly busts out laughing. “A couple of rookies. God. That’s hilarious.”

“Shane—” 

“—a couple of rookies—,” Shane chokes out again with emphasis, and starts laughing even harder. There are tears in his eyes from laughing so hard. He can barely breathe. 

“Shane.” Hayden almost sounds scared. No, that can’t be right. Surely he understands how funny this is?

Fuck, Shane thinks through laughter. I really am a terrible captain if the whole team wants me gone. 

They really did mean it, then. Every joke. Every comment. In retrospect, Shane thinks that he'd spent the last couple of months hoping to find a misunderstanding where there simply wasn't one. 

The crowd erupts somewhere behind them. Toronto nearly scores again. 

Then, unexpectedly, something inside him settles. He stops laughing almost as abruptly as he started.

The team wants him gone—fine. 

The season is ending—fine. 

Maybe this really is his last game. But it's still his game. And he isn't finished with it yet.

Shane gets to his feet. “Let's go.” 

Hayden stares, visibly baffled. “What?”

“Toronto already scored once. We can't just stay here forever.” 

“Shane. Buddy. Did you hear anything I just said?”

“I have to try.” Shane turns toward the ice. “Change!”

Hayden swears under his breath as Shane's blades hit the ice.

* * * * *

“We could take up curling.”

The desperate (and really fucking stupid) attempt to return to the game had been unsuccessful: no matter how much they tried, the score stubbornly remained the same.

If Hollander had looked hurt before, he looks even worse now. He’s slower, his skating less elegant and fluid than usual, his breathing uneven. It’s obvious to everyone: the viewers, the commentators, other players. At some point earlier, after a failed attempt to score, the mic had picked up the Toronto goalie—Hayes—asking if Hollander was alright. (Maybe not everyone on that team deserves to die, Ilya thought absently.)

Even worse, whatever fire had briefly returned to Hollander after Hayden's speech appeared to have lasted all of five minutes.

A shift later, one of his own teammates had made some comment just as Hollander doubled over on the bench trying to catch his breath. Ilya hadn't even caught the exact words. He'd only seen Pike immediately tell the guy to go fuck himself, and the way Hollander's shoulders had slumped afterward.

Since then, neither of them seemed particularly interested in pretending Montreal could still win this game.

“…I could probably be a Zamboni driver,” Hollander muses off-screen.

Pike seems to be considering it. “There’s, like, twelve of those jobs.”

“I’m willing to relocate.”

Now the camera is following the actual game, but Hollander and Pike’s voices are still very clearly heard from where they’re sitting back on the bench and discussing their future prospects. 

“Do you think dog walkers get dental insurance?” Pike asks a couple of minutes later, as Hayes easily blocks yet another one of Montreal’s pathetic attempts to score.

Neither of the two commentators have contributed much since the end of the first period. After several attempts at pretending they hadn’t heard things, and trying to redirect the conversation towards hockey, they definitely tried to disconnect the audio feed from the main broadcast at least twice. Evidently, they failed. 

“Soccer?” Supplies Hollander over the footage of Kent passing the puck to Barrett. “It’s pretty similar.”

“We’d have to actually run, though.”

“Hm. And get used to playing with a ball instead of a puck.”

“I’m not too worried about that,” Pike drawls in response. “Balls are kind of your specialty now, aren’t they?”

Hollander snorts. On screen, Drapeau blocks Kent’s attempt to score. 

Cliff’s laughter once again reminds Ilya that he’s, unfortunately, very much not alone.

*

The room had not reacted well to the petition. Mostly, because nobody had expected it to be that stupid.

“Sexual harassment,” Cliff had repeated several times in obvious disbelief. “Sexual harassment?!” 

“That can't possibly work!” Carmichael stated from his armchair. “Right?”

“It absolutely can,” said Vic.

“What?”

“If enough people in the organization want him gone? Sure.”

“That’s insane.” Carmichael, bless his soul, sounded borderline scandalized.

“Yeah,” Vic sighed. “It is, isn’t it?”

Barely a minute later, Pike had started listing the people who hadn't signed. Not who had. Who hadn't. The silence afterward had been very loud.

Because the thing is, Vic is right. The petition is ridiculous. It's offensive. It's obviously complete and utter bullshit. And Ilya has spent enough years in hockey to know that it doesn't mean it couldn't work.

Since then, the room has alternated between stunned silence and increasingly creative threats of violence. Now Carmichael is staring at the television like he personally intends to fight the entirety of the NHL. Cliff looks about one comment away from putting a hole through his own wall. Vic just looks vaguely sad. 

His teammates aren’t the problem, really—they’re actually more outwardly outraged on Hollander’s behalf than he is. It’s just that Ilya has been practically frozen in the same spot since the game started. His hands might be shaking. He’s not sure. He’s mostly wondering if there is a limit to the number of times a human heart can break over the course of a single hockey game. He’s very uncharacteristically quiet, and his teammates are certainly aware of the fact, throwing him concerned glances every once in a while.

 Fuck. 

The thing is, Ilya is about ninety-eight percent sure that the Voyageurs don’t know about him. If the thought of their captain being gay gets them this bothered, the thought of their captain being gay with Ilya Rozanov would probably get Hollander publicly executed at center ice. And they're obviously incapable of keeping their mouths shut—fucking Kent knows things, apparently—so if the Voyageurs knew Ilya was involved, the gossip would probably reach him before the team bus got back to the hotel.

The team knowing about “Lily” is not that surprising—after all, the entire Boston team had betting pools (and occasionally full-on conspiracy boards) about “Jane” at some point. But how do they know about the ‘breakup’? How do they know Lily is a man? How do they know Hollander is gay at all? 

Did he tell them himself? Unlikely. Did someone leak something? Whatever happened, Ilya is Very Prepared to murder everyone involved on sight. He wants to be in Montreal right now, punching Comeau in the face until his hand fucking breaks. Dragging Hollander off the ice before the idiot gets himself killed.

Away from his teammates. Away from the cameras. Away from the crowd. Away from Pike, even. Into some distant corner of the universe where nobody can touch him ever again.

Unfortunately, Ilya isn't sure Hollander would even want that from him anymore. Even more unfortunately, he can't find out. Because he’s not in Montreal. He’s still in Boston, sitting on Cliff’s fucking couch, probably looking more and more suspicious with each passing second. Ilya wishes he was watching the game alone. But it’s not like he can kick Cliff out of his own house, and leaving to watch somewhere else is not an option Ilya is prepared to consider. He’s not missing even a second of this game. 

*

“Figure skating,” Hollander says with surprising confidence. 

Pike hums, considering. “Only if it’s pairs. So you can spin me around and shit.” The camera cuts to them just in time to catch Pike making an elaborate twirling motion with his hands. Cliff snorts. 

“…Barrett scores,” one of the commentators supplies, sounding kind of uncertain of the fact. Neither of them have spoken at all for the last few minutes. Ilya thinks they’re drinking. Or taking frantic calls from the management. Probably both. 

“Nah,” Hollander says, as if the second goal against his team didn’t just happen in front of his very eyes. “They already think you’re gay for defending me. Let’s not give them more ammunition.”

“Maybe they’re right. Gayness is contagious after all. At least according to Drapeau.”

Cliff snorts. Somewhere behind him, Vic makes a strangled sound. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters.

On screen, Hollander adds lightly, “Bad news for your wife and kids.”

“So are we killing Drapeau first?” Cliff asks, demonstratively cracking his knuckles.

“Yeah,” Pike says with a sigh. “Fuck. I hope they’re not watching this.”

“Comeau is a strong contender,” Carmy says. Ilya silently agrees.

“Even if they did,” Hollander continues on screen, “Jackie would’ve sent them away after the third face-off, maximum.”

“True.” 

For a while they just watch the game, side by side. Then Pike asks quietly, “Do you think your parents are watching?”

Hollander scrubs a hand across his face. “Fuck. I hope not.”

“So you didn't—“ Pike starts, then stops himself. 

“No.” Hollander sounds genuinely upset. “I wanted to.” His voice cracks on the second word. He swallows, hugging his chest like he can physically hold himself together. “Shit. I’ve wanted to tell them for years.”

The cameraman doesn’t even pretend to follow the game anymore. The camera is fixed on them. Ilya wonders what the Jumbotron is showing at the arena. Probably the actual game. Fuck, all these people have no idea what’s happening right in front of them, do they? 

“I’m sure they’ll be more worried about your ribs than anything,” Pike says gently.

“I know,” Hollander says. “I just—” He exhales sharply. “I wish I could tell them myself. I wish I was braver. They deserve to hear it from me. Not from—” He gestures vaguely at the arena. “This fucking shitshow.”

His arms fold around himself again. He rocks slightly back and forth on the bench, barely noticeable, like movement is the only thing keeping him from falling apart. 

Ilya suddenly wishes, for the first time today, that the camera would follow the actual game instead of Hollander. This should be private—the conversation, the way he looks right now, all of it. If Ilya, the person who arguably knows Hollander most intimately in this world, feels like he’s intruding, what does that say about millions of other people watching this broadcast?

“I really don’t know what I was thinking,” Hollander continues. “They caught me minutes before the game, and I’d just talked to the coach, and I was so… angry, and tired. And I just agreed. God, I hope they stopped the transmission.”

“I’m sure they did,” Pike says quietly. He doesn’t sound sure, but at least he’s trying, Ilya supposes. 

“I texted my mom before the game,” Hollander adds. “Only thing I had time for. Asked them not to watch. But—”

“—Knowing your parents—” Pike says.

“—Yeah.” 

Hollander takes a deep breath again. 

“Yeah,” he repeats. “No chance.”

Pike reaches over and squeezes the back of his neck. The gesture is awkward and familiar at the same time, something practiced over nearly a decade of friendship. Hollander sits there for a second like the contact has weight, then drops his head into his hands. 

“…I’m sorry,” he whispers, and Ilya experiences his 50th consecutive heartbreak of the day. 

Pike’s voice is shaky, too. “Shane—”

“I’m really sorry,” Hollander says again, lifting his head slightly, like he’s searching for a camera. “Mom, if you’re watching. Everyone. I tried. I really did. I thought I could do it. I tried so hard not to be—”

He breaks off, sound catching in his throat, and folds back into his hands.  

Nobody in the living room moves a muscle. Carmichael might or might not be quietly sniffling. 

For a few seconds, the only thing in the room is Hollander’s breathing. Then Pike says, audibly steadying himself, “You’re not getting fired.”

Hollander doesn’t look up. “What?” 

“I said you’re not getting fired. I mean, from the Voyageurs, sure, probably. Fuck them, anyway. But you’re not leaving the NHL. You’re going to sign with the best fucking team in the league, and win them a million fucking cups.”

Hollander lets out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Hayd, even if i’m not fired from the NHL, no team is going to want me after this. If I left quietly, maybe. Even after the petition. Not after today.”

“You didn’t do anything,” Pike says. “You wore a mic. That’s it. They’re the ones who fucked up, not you.”

“Does it matter?” Hollander’s voice tightens. “We both know it’s going to be a scandal. A huge one. Even if they stop the broadcast, it’ll leak eventually, anyway. The hockey world is going to remember me as the whiny faggot who caused a fucking PR nightmare.” 

Pike’s jaw tightens. He looks like he wants to argue, but when he speaks again, his voice is lower. Controlled. “Then we fix it."

Hollander finally lifts his head to look at Pike in confusion. "What?"

Pike straightens in his seat. “You said it yourself. It’s gonna leak anyway. So let’s remind them who you are.”

Hollander stares. “What,” he says again.

Pike clears his throat, like he’s stepping into something deliberate now. “Shane Hollander,” he says, like a broadcast introduction. “Second overall draft pick. Rookie—“

“Hayd,” Hollander interrupts. “What are you doing?”

“Reminding them,” Pike says simply. “They’re gonna be watching this, right? Other teams. Managers. Coaches.”

“So what,” Hollander says, half-panicked. “You’re going to read out my fucking résumé to them on a game broadcast?”

“Yes."

Hollander huffs out a broken laugh. "This is ridiculous."

"Maybe." Pike shrugs. "What do you have to lose?"

When Hollander doesn't answer, he continues. "Rookie of the Year. Captain at twenty-two." He pauses, thinking. "Didn't you win two World Juniors, too?"

"Only one,” Hollander says. 

Hollander loves correcting people. Figures that the only way he’d join this is to correct misinformation. Pike might be smarter than Ilya gave him credit for.

"Oh, sorry." Pike nods solemnly. "Only one World Juniors gold medal."

Despite everything, Hollander smiles. "Won silver in the Olympics, though."

"That you did." Pike points a finger at him. "I think you won something more important later, though. Wanna share?"

"Stanley Cups," Hollander says quietly.

"What was that?"

"We won two Stanley Cups."

"Nope. You did."

Hollander opens his mouth to argue, but Pike steamrolls right over him. "We'd never have gotten them without you, and you know it, Hollander. You're the best fucking player in the league."

"Second best.”

Pike blinks. "Huh?"

"Second best player in the league,” Hollander repeats with a small, sad smile, looking down at his hands. In Boston, Ilya temporarily forgets how to breathe.

“…I'm gonna go ahead and pretend I didn't hear that, alright?" Pike says.

A small smile still tugs at Hollander’s mouth. "You can't lie on my résumé, Hayden."

Pike huffs. "Whatever. You have two Stanley Cups."

"Yeah," Hollander says. "I do."

"And you're the best captain." 

This time Hollander looks up at him properly. Pike keeps talking. 

"Even if you don't agree with it, that doesn't make it less true. You gave us everything. Every season. Over and over again." His voice wavers. "It's not just the Cups. You were there for us on and off the ice whenever we needed you." 

Pike swallows hard, and then adds, "And I'll always be sorry for not being there for you more."

"Hayd—"

"No.” Pike shakes his head. “I’m serious. They’re gonna talk about today. They’re gonna talk about the petition. All kinds of bullshit. But that’s not who you are.”

Hollander is sitting very still. Pike continues. 

“You're the best captain I’ve ever played for. And the best friend I’ve ever had. And you have two motherfucking Stanley Cups."

Hollander blinks. Then a tiny smile appears again. "I have two motherfucking Stanley Cups,” he repeats softly, like he's trying the words on for size. 

Pike nods immediately. “Damn right you do.”

Hollander looks out across the arena. Thousands of people, cameras, lights. The end of the season. 

Maybe the end of everything.

A few beats pass. Then Hollander takes a deep breath, and quietly adds, "…And I'm gay."

Pike looks at him. Hollander shrugs. "I haven't actually said it. You did. Barrett and Kent did, in a way. Even Comeau." He glances toward the ice. "I haven't. Who knows when I'll get the opportunity again, you know?"

Pike smiles. Hollander looks out across the arena again. When he speaks, his voice is stronger, louder. "I'm Shane fucking Hollander,” he announces to the world at large. "I have two fucking Stanley Cups." Another deep breath. "And I'm gay."

Pike lets out a triumphant whoop. Their helmets bump together. For the first time in the whole game, Hollander genuinely looks lighter. Maybe even happy. Ilya is almost starting to like Pike, which is a deeply concerning development.

But mostly, Ilya is proud. So fucking proud of Hollander right now. He just wishes he could be there with him. Maybe literally. Holding his hand for the whole world to see. He chose to give up the best thing in his life so they’d both be safe. And here Hollander is, being so impossibly brave, telling the whole world his most closely guarded secret. What were they thinking? Right now, Ilya would tell anyone. Everyone. He'd stand in front of every camera in North America if it meant getting one step closer to Hollander.

Fuck the playoffs, fuck the training. As soon as this game ends, Ilya is booking it to Montreal as fast as humanly possible. He’ll find Hollander, and then he’ll—

—do something. He’s not sure what. Because he hasn’t actually talked to Hollander in a year. He wasn’t there to support him through this shit with his team. He’s not there waiting outside the stadium to hug him after this disaster of a game. Because he’s realizing just now, with startling clarity, that he failed Hollander completely and utterly. 

If Ilya calls him after the game, will he pick up the phone? Does he miss Ilya as much as Ilya misses him? Would he let Ilya come to his place again? Look him in the eyes? Touch him? Hold him? Kiss every inch of his body— 

—the same body that is currently moving off the bench in the direction of the ice.

Because, tragically, he’s still Shane fucking Hollander.

“What’s he doing?” Vic mutters.

“Shane! What the fuck?” Pike snaps at the same time.

“Four minutes!” Hollander calls back.

“What?” 

“There are four minutes left. I have to try.”

“Sit your ass down, Hollander,” Cliff growls from the couch.

“You know we can’t win this!” Pike shouts.

“I know,” Hollander says. “But I’m not giving up.”

Pike swears under his breath and follows him toward the ice. “J.J.! Keep them off Shane!” he yells as he skates into position. J.J. responds with a finger salute.

Any hint of warmth Ilya felt towards Pike is long gone. Stupid fucking Pike with his stupid fucking motivational speeches. Fuck. Hollander could’ve been sitting down right now instead of trying to steal the fucking puck from Troy fucking Barrett. 

“Hollander back on the ice, looking very determined,” the commentator attempts to do his job, clearly relieved that something interesting is finally happening on the ice.

“Clean pass to Pike… back to Hollander… shoots—save made!”

“Loose puck! Hollander gets to it…”

“Oh no. Hollander down.”

As Aucoin checks Hollander into the boards, effectively signing his own death sentence, Ilya thinks he can hear something crack. 

And then time comes to a halt. 

The sound echoes in his brain over and over again: 

Crack. 

Hollander’s body hits the ice, his back to the camera, to Ilya. No way to check if his eyes are open. 

Crack. 

His mother lies on the bed, her back to the door, to Ilya. There is no need to check. He knows her eyes weren’t. 

Crack.

Is he standing up? He thought he was sitting on the couch. Cliff is saying something to him. His hand is clutching Ilya’s arm. 

Crack. 

On the screen, Pike seems to be having a meltdown of sorts. Funnily enough, Ilya no longer wants to punch him. If he was next to Pike right now, he’d put his hand on his shoulder, and tell him it’s alright. There’s no need to be scared. Being scared will not help. Nothing will help. Everyone you love will die in front of your eyes and there is nothing you can ever do to stop it. Is okay. Is life. 

Through the ringing in his ears, Ilya can sort of tell that Pike is shouting for the medics. 

“—Hayd. Wait. Don’t—“ Hollander wheezes in response, lifting his head from the ice. 

In Cliff’s living room, time restarts. 

Ilya watches as Shane Hollander slowly, shakily rises back to his feet. 

Don’t, Ilya thinks, don’t you fucking dare, Hollander. 

1:34 until the end of the game. 

Toronto is up 2-0. 

Shane Hollander, broken ribs and all, gets back on his skates, like he’s an underpaid extra in some shitty zombie movie pretending to be rising from the grave, and skates in the direction of the fucking face-off circle. The medics hesitate on the edge of the ice, but Hollander waves them off before they can reach him, and the official sends them back.

“Oh no. No, no, no, what is he doing?” Vic murmurs somewhere to Ilya’s left. He’s standing up too. All four of them are. 

Pike is shouting something again. No one pays him any attention, least of all Hollander. 

Hollander bends down to face Kent. Ilya can hear him grunt. His breathing is wrong, wrong, wrong. 

Kent seems to be speechless. “What, ran out of material?” Hollander growls, and then wins the face-off. 

The rest of the Voyageurs look like they’ve forgotten how to play hockey entirely, watching the scene unfold from a distance, not even pretending to help anymore. 

With each passing second Hollander moves faster and faster. He really is a spectacular skater, Ilya thinks. If only he wasn’t a braindead fucking idiot, too. 

Hollander passes to J.J. J.J. passes to Pike, who did, in fact, remember that he’s supposed to be playing hockey, and probably just saved the puck from being stolen by Kent. 

Another pass. 

Hollander in position to score. 

The commentators are deathly silent. Ilya thinks they’re probably holding their breath just like him. He’s never wanted Hollander to score more in his life. 

He also knows that it’s not going to happen. 

Hayes is good, and Hollander is coming at it from a very obvious angle. Like watching a car accident in slow motion, or whatever Americans say. 

Hollander telegraphs the forehand shot toward the upper right corner of the net.

Hayes immediately covers the opening. 

Before anyone has time to blink, Hollander flicks the puck into the lower left corner. 

The goal light lights up.

For a few moments, with the exception of Cliff’s whispered “holy shit”, the world is silent again. Then, the remaining commentator seems to collect whatever bearings he has left, and announces, in a flat voice, that Shane Hollander just scored Montreal’s last goal of the season by performing a Rozanov. 

“Oh. Toronto won 2-1,” he adds as an afterthought, seconds before the commentators feed is audibly cut off. 

The Guardians, fully oblivious to the historical event that’s been unfolding around them throughout the game, collide in the center of the arena to celebrate their win. The camera stays on them only for a few seconds before cutting back to Hollander. He’s standing in front of the net, motionless, like he’s in shock. 

Pike skates up to him, followed by J.J. Hollander visibly jerks out of his daze, looking around the arena slowly, as though he's surprised to find himself standing in it.

“Thank you, Montreal,” Hollander seems to whisper to the building itself, rather than to anyone in particular. His voice audibly cracks. “It’s been an honor”. 

For a second, nobody seems to understand what's happening. Then, Hollander's stick clatters to the ice, and the next moment, Hollander himself follows.

This time, he doesn’t get up. 

Chapter End Notes

Holy shit, guys. This is literally my first AO3 fic ever, and I did not expect so many people to read it, let alone actually like it, all within *checks imaginary wristwatch* one hour???

I promise to answer the comments a bit later! Thank you all so much for leaving them!! And yes, I’m already working on the next chapter.

Chapter 2: Hayden Pike’s Liaison Duties

Chapter Summary

[Hayden calls Lily. Several times.]

Chapter Notes

As Hayden climbs into the backseat of a taxi—balancing two overfilled duffel bags with the one hand that does not hurt like hell—he thinks that hitting rock bottom is kind of fun, actually.

His best friend is in an ambulance somewhere ahead of him, he’s about to be even more hated by his teammates than he already was, he’s almost definitely going to lose his job, and he’s probably blowing up on social media all over the country. 

Also, his right hand might be broken.

He’s never felt better.

He’s flying high on energy and adrenaline and that feeling he guesses people typically get while on drugs. He’s a lot more sympathetic to drug addicts now if that’s the case. 

He’s fucking invincible. Hayden Pike, the first real-life Canadian superhero. He could probably lift a car. He should tell the driver to turn the car around so he can light the whole fucking arena on fire. He should call the commissioner and tell him exactly what he thinks. He should call his father-in-law right now and tell him in no uncertain terms that fishing fucking sucks, actually, and could they maybe just watch a movie next time he suddenly feels the need to ‘bond’? He should—

His phone screen lights up before he’s even unlocked it.

His stomach drops.

The notifications are a total bloodbath. Missed calls from the coach, official-looking emails from management, and way more social media tags than he’s gotten in the past three years combined.

Even through the panicky, chaotic scrolling, he can see the word microphone mentioned way too many times in conjunction with his and Shane’s names. 

Fuck.

His pulse starts hammering somewhere in his ears. 

He has most probably just lost his job.

He doesn’t just have himself to worry about; he has four kids. Four actual human children who depend on his NHL salary to eat and wear shoes and own at least triple the number of toys actual human children should have.

A cold sweat breaks out across the back of his neck. Shane won’t let his godchildren starve, right? Shane has millions. But Shane is also currently hooked up to oxygen tanks, and Hayden has just enough active brain cells to understand that “financial dependence on critically injured best friend” is far from his brightest idea.

His thumb hovers uselessly over the screen. Should he call his agent? Coach? Delete every social media account he’s ever made? He keeps scrolling. There’s a few frantic texts from J.J. asking where the hell he went and if he knows what’s going to happen to Shane, but Hayden ignores that for now. Finally, he lands on the one notification that truly matters to him right now—a singular text from Jackie, sent ten minutes ago:

I love you. Call me when you can.

Hayden slumps back against the sticky vinyl seat of the cab, feeling a tiny fraction of the tension leave his shoulders. He taps the call button and puts the phone to his ear.

“Hey,” he says the second she answers, and then suddenly doesn't know what to say next.

“Hey,” Jackie says. She doesn’t sound frantic, thank God, but she’s definitely concerned. “How is he doing? Is he alright?”

Well, Hayden thinks. That answers that. She was watching. 

“I hope so,” Hayden says. “He was conscious when they took him. The arena medics said his breathing was bad, but they think he’s stable. I’m in a cab on my way to the hospital now.”

“Good. Let me know as soon as you know something. That last hit looked horrible, Hayd.”

“Yeah. It was. It really was.”

“Are you alright?”

“I think so.” He swallows hard. “So. Did they— The broadcast—“

“Oh,” Jackie says, and that’s really all the answer he needed. She sounds apologetic. “They couldn’t cut the transmission. It was live the entire game.” 

“Shit.” Hayden feels the panic clawing at his throat again. “Fuck. Jackie, I’m—I’m sorry.“

“Hayd.”

“I know I just ruined everything—“

“Baby.” 

“Yeah?”

“It’s going to be fine. We can talk about all of this later. The contract, the team, the money. We'll handle it, okay?”

“Okay,” he whispers, his throat tight.

“Hey.”

“What?”

“I’m proud of you.”

Hayden presses the heel of his hand against his eyes. He hadn’t realized how tightly he’d been holding himself together until she said it.

“Thank you,” he says quietly, putting as much weight and gratitude into the words as he can physically manage. “I promise I’ll figure everything out. I’ll call my agent, I’ll find a way to—“ 

“I know you will,” she interrupts gently. “We will figure it out. Together. You’re coming home today, right?”

“As soon as I know Shane is okay.”

“Mhm. How is your hand, by the way?”

“Hurts like hell, but it was—wait, what?” Hayden blinks. “How did you?…”

Jackie chuckles, a low, warm sound that would sound so much better in person. God, he misses her. “The post-game interviews, remember? The cameras were still rolling in the hallway, and there was a pretty clear view. You weren’t exactly hiding.”

Right on cue, Hayden’s phone gives a sharp, insistent vibration against his ear, alerting him to another incoming call. He blindly hits the dismiss button with his thumb without pulling the phone away.

“Shit,” he groans, closing his eyes. “So everyone saw that?”

“Yup. It’s all over Twitter.”

“Why do you sound so smug about it?”

Jackie sighs, though there’s an undeniable lightness, even playfulness to her tone now. “I probably shouldn't tell you this, because I really don't want to encourage this type of behavior, but…” She trails off. 

“C’mon, baby, what?” Hayden presses, starting to smile despite himself.

“…It was kind of hot,” Jackie says.

Hayden immediately perks up, “Really?”

“Yeah,” Jackie says. He can hear the smile in her voice. “I’m probably gonna save the video to my phone to rewatch it later.”

“Oh, is that so?” Hayden grins, the entire weight of the NHL disciplinary committee suddenly lifting off his chest. Just a little bit, but still. “Maybe I should break my other hand too, if it gets me that kind of treatment when I get home.”

Jackie laughs. “Don't push your luck, Pike. I still need you functional enough for diaper duty.” 

Hayden chuckles, warmth in his chest. “I love you.”

“Love you. Text me when you see Shane, alright? And tell him I love him, too. I have a feeling he’s gonna need to hear it.”

“I will. See you soon, baby.”

The call ends, leaving Hayden alone with the hum of the taxi tires against the asphalt. God, he loves his wife. She is an absolute saint. He needs to do something incredibly nice for her the second this nightmare is over. Some sort of a reward for being married to a lunatic.

Maybe a holiday? Just the two of them. No kids, no hockey, no locker-room drama. They’d been talking about taking a proper vacation for years, but every summer there was another excuse—another baby, another playoff run. Not that he was complaining about either of these things, mind.

His phone buzzes again. He ignores it.

Where do regular people even go on holiday? Somewhere with water. Warm water and beaches. Mexico? The Caribbean? Puerto Rico?

Puerto Rico sounds cool. Sounds like the kind of place that would have piña coladas with tiny umbrellas in them.

He nods to himself, feeling entirely resolved. 

Step one: verify that Shane isn't dying. 

Step two: figure out how to pay for a trip to Puerto Rico without a job. 

Step three: figure out how to pay for four college degrees after spending his entire life savings on piña coladas.

*

The taxi tires screech to a halt outside the Emergency Department entrance of the Montreal General Hospital. Hayden maneuvers past several early-bird reporters already lurking at the doors, for the first time in his entire career thankful to not be recognized as a supposedly famous hockey player.

He marches straight up to the plastic partition at the reception desk. 

"Hi,” he says to the receptionist. “Uh. Shane Hollander? The ambulance brought him in. I'm his friend. Teammate. Whatever.” He lifts one of the duffels up and points at the Voyageurs logo to better illustrate the point. “Is he okay?”

The receptionist, thankfully, doesn’t ask any questions, just taps at her keyboard for a few long seconds. 

“Mr. Hollander is still being assessed,” she says eventually. “He’s stable, but he isn’t able to have visitors yet.”

“Okay,” Hayden says, and then abruptly realizes he has no idea what he’s supposed to do next. 

“If you’d like to wait over there, someone will come and speak with you as soon as they have an update,” the woman says kindly, pointing in the direction of the waiting room. 

Sounds like a plan. Hayden nods, hefts the duffel bags back onto his shoulder, and trudges over to the rows of plastic chairs.

Before he can sit down and make himself comfortable, he becomes aware of one of the bags making a repetitive buzzing noise. 

Shit. Must be Shane’s phone. 

Hayden drops the bags onto the linoleum floor and digs past the spare jerseys with a fair amount of cursing and awkward shoving. He had probably broken some kind of world record at speed-showering and haphazardly throwing his and Shane’s shit into their respective bags with zero system in mind, desperate to be long gone from the TD Garden locker room before the rest of the team found out about the mic.

When he finally manages to find Shane’s phone, the caller ID reads ‘Mom’.

Shit. She must be terrified, not having access to any sort of information after seeing Shane literally collapse on the ice. Hayden doesn’t have to think long before he accepts the call. 

Before he can even open his mouth, a frantic voice blasts through the speaker. “Shane?! Baby, are you alright? We’re—”

“Mrs. Hollander?” Hayden interrupts quickly, cringing at how loud his own voice sounds in the sterile, quiet waiting room. “Sorry. It’s Hayden. I have Shane’s phone.”

There’s a sharp inhale on the other end, followed by the distinct sound of a car blinker clicking. 

“Hayden,” Mrs. Hollander acknowledges in a tight voice. “Are you with him? Where is he?”

“I’m at the Montreal General right now,” Hayden says, starting to pace in a small circle near the vending machines. “They said I can’t see him yet. He was awake when the arena medics loaded him into the ambulance, though,” he adds hastily. “Alert. Talking. They specifically told me there's no spinal injury.”

“Alright.” Pause. She breathes for a few seconds. “Alright. We’ll be in Montreal in about two hours. Can you stay with him until we get there?”

“Of course. I’ll be right here,” Hayden promises. “I’ll call you the second someone gives me an actual update, okay?”

“Yes. Please.”

“Okay. Um, real quick—could you tell me your phone number? So I can call you from my phone.”

She quickly rattles off the digits, and Hayden awkwardly juggles both devices, typing the number into his own phone with his left hand. Once the call ends, Hayden briefly looks down at Shane’s phone, about to drop it back into the duffel, when a new notification pops up at the top of the absolute mountain of existing ones. 

A text message from ‘Lily’.

Hayden freezes. He stares at the name, a sudden spike of curiosity overriding his other thoughts. 

The only time he managed to get any substantial information about ‘Lily’ was after Shane made the stupid, brave, impulsive decision to come out to the whole team at once. From what Shane had confided in him that unfortunate evening—his words frequently interrupted by sobs and hiccups—Hayden managed to piece together the basics of what happened between the two. 

(Despite his obvious emotional distress, Shane was adamant that ‘Lily’ had made the right, logical decision by breaking things off, and Shane did not—did not—blame him for it. The effect of the unwavering conviction in Shane’s voice was somewhat ruined by the mess of tears and snot on his face. Hayden had only managed a weak “Sure, buddy,” and a consolatory pat on his back in response.)

So. Hayden knows he shouldn't snoop. 

He knows it’s a massive invasion of privacy. 

But, like… What if it’s something upsetting? 

What if seeing this message would be the last straw for Shane? Hurt, overwhelmed, panicked Shane. The last thing he needs right now is to have to deal with some random emotional bullshit on top of everything else. It’s really Hayden’s duty as a best friend to check the contents for disturbing material before returning the phone back to the owner. 

…Right? 

Hayden glances around the empty waiting room before sitting down and turning the phone back on. 

There are no less than twenty missed calls from Lily, and a massive wall of texts, starting within minutes of the game ending, and all being variations of more-or-less the same thing:

Lily: are you ok?

Lily: hollander. are you ok??

Lily: please call me back

Lily: shane

Lily: please

Hayden lets out a low whistle under his breath. The guy sounds like he’s having some sort of a panic attack. Hayden kind of feels bad for him, even.

Regardless, now that he knows there’s nothing particularly upsetting in here, it really isn't Hayden's business anymore. Shane can deal with his messy love life himself. Hayden had barely survived the emotional toll of talking to Shane’s mother; he is under zero obligation to play therapist to the ex…boyfriend? No. Not even that. Ex-hookup would be more accurate. 

…Ex-hookup that broke Shane’s heart, and, to the best of Hayden’s knowledge, did not even bother to reach out while Shane was fighting for his fucking life in his own locker room. The bastard doesn’t deserve a response, anyway. 

In fact, remembering how utterly miserable and hollowed-out Shane had looked in the weeks following the ‘breakup’, Hayden feels a tiny, wicked spark of smugness at the thought of making ‘Lily’ worry about Shane for a bit. It feels like a minor, well-deserved act of cosmic revenge on Shane's behalf.

To distract himself from the rigid, plastic waiting room chairs, the continuous stream of incoming notifications on his own phone, and the faint smell of antiseptic, Hayden opens his own phone and googles Puerto Rico.

The photos immediately look good. 

Water? Check. 

Beaches? Check. 

Lots of people dancing—Jackie might like that. Actually, scratch that, Hayden might like that. Looks fun. And romantic. 

The piña coladas are present as well—little umbrellas included—inside what looks to be real, hollowed-out coconuts. Hayden hums approvingly, declines another call from his coach, and scrolls to a set of nighttime photos where the ocean waves are glowing an ethereal, bright neon blue. He squints at the screen, vaguely recalling one of those Discovery Channel documentaries that he was forced to sit through the day Ruby decided to become a marine biologist. 

Don't the waves have little glowing fishes in them, or something? 

Is that even safe to swim in? What if the glowing fishes are radioactive? The kids could mutant-morph into—

Oh, right. He was planning this fantasy without the kids. The little gremlins can stay with their grandparents and fish for normal, non-glowing, non-radioactive trout while he and Jackie drink cocktails out of coconuts—

A sharp buzz breaks his daydream. He looks back down at Shane’s phone. A new text from Lily has just hit Shane’s lock screen.

Lily: im coming to montreal.

Hayden curses out loud, the word echoing off the tile walls. 

Fuck.

He might not know the full situation, but he does know the basics. And he knows that this is possibly the worst thing that can happen now, grand romantic gestures aside. 

Hayden tries to press on the notification to text back and express just that, but the passcode screen stops him. 

Shane's birthday? Wrong. 

Shane’s jersey number with a couple of zeroes? Also wrong.

…Gretzky’s birthday? 

Gretzky’s jersey number???

All wrong. Hayden is officially out of ideas. 

"Dammit, Hollander," he mutters.

Fully aware that he is breaking multiple moral, ethical, and bro-code boundaries, but recognizing an actual state of emergency when he sees one, Hayden abandons the password guessing entirely. He taps one of the missed call notifications right from the lock screen, and calls ‘Lily’ back.

Like with Mrs Hollander, the line connects instantly. Unlike with Mrs Hollander, there is silence on the other end. 

“Hey,” Hayden starts, immediately feeling like a total idiot. “Lily? Look, I don’t know what your actual name is. Uh. It’s Hayden? Pike? I’m Shane’s friend. I have his phone.” Obviously.

Still nothing. 

Hayden pulls the phone away to look at the screen, making sure the call hasn't dropped. 

It hasn't. The timer is ticking up. If he really concentrates, he thinks he might be hearing someone’s faint breathing, even. 

Logically, someone did answer the call. That’s something that definitely happened. The phone was answered. By someone. 

By someone who watched the game, judging by the texts. Probably by someone who watched the post-game interviews as well, where the cameras caught Hayden grabbing Shane's stuff before leaving the locker room. 

Hayden mentally runs through the extremely short list of facts Shane had trusted him with about this guy: Closeted. Cannot come out because of his high-profile job. Living on a work visa. Comes from a deeply homophobic home country.

In short: scary shit. Very real, very dangerous stakes. 

Hayden can empathize with that. He really can. But unfortunately, his patience is running quite thin at this particular moment in life. 

Coconuts, he thinks, taking a deep, steadying breath. When this is over, he can go drink some very alcoholic cocktails out of coconuts. 

“Okay,” Hayden sighs, resting his elbows on his knees. “I really don’t have time for the silent treatment. I know you’re a guy, and I know you’re not out, but I wouldn’t tell anyone about this. Obviously! Shane would fucking murder me if I did. He told me it’s dangerous for you. Like, actually dangerous. I’m not gonna make your life worse. But I don’t have your number, and I can’t unlock Shane’s phone, so we can’t text, and I am so fucking tired right now. So if you want information, sorry, but this is the only way you’re getting it.”

Through the speaker, Hayden hears someone take a deep breath. Great. At least he’s not hallucinating. 

Then: “Hello, Pike.”

Hayden’s hand jerks violently. The phone slips from his grip, clattering against his knee before he frantically catches it against his chest, nearly fumbling it onto the floor.

Holy fucking shit.

Holy. Fucking. Shit.

He misheard. This is the only explanation. There is no way in hell.

He is hallucinating, after all. His brain is playing tricks on him because of all the adrenaline.

“So your coordination is impressive when you are off ice, too. Good to know,” Rozanov says dryly. And yes, that’s definitely Rozanov—the accent and the specific, arrogant brand of sarcasm are very unmistakably his. 

What.

“Holy shit,” Hayden breathes, his voice dropping to a panicked whisper. “Rozanov.”

“Ah. Good job. Only took you, what, a year?”

“Oh, fuck you!” Hayden snaps, his brain automatically responding to Rozanov’s voice in the only way it deems logical. “What the fuck? Like, really.”

Rozanov lets out a sharp, irritated sigh. “I will explain. I promise. Whatever you want to know, I will answer. But I need to know he is okay first.”

Hayden has absolutely no idea what to say to that. Except:

“No.”

“No?”

“No. Prove it.”

“What?”

“Prove that you’re actually Lily.”

“Pike,” Rozanov sighs again. “You called me. You pressed the contact name on his screen, yes?”

“That doesn’t prove anything!” Hayden argues.

“Why would it— Ugh. Fine.” Now that Hayden thinks about it, Rozanov sounds like he’s pacing. “He never uses emoji when he texts. He puts second pillow between his knees to sleep, because his spine feels ‘weird’ without it. He cannot fall asleep for hours without second pillow…” Rozanov pauses. Hayden can somehow sense the beginning of a shit-eating grin in his voice. “…Just like you after you watch scary movies and come sleep in his room so the monsters will not get you.”

Hayden blinks, still confused and vaguely scandalized. “He told you about that?”

On the other end of the line, Rozanov lets out a faint chuckle. 

Hayden rubs his face with his uninjured hand, his brain actively refusing to compute the reality of the universe he is currently living in. Fuck piña coladas, he thinks. Coconuts filled with pure rum. 

Multiple coconuts. Like, at least five.

“Fuck,” he says out loud. “Okay then. Alright.”

“Pike,” Rozanov says, evidently running out of patience. “Is he okay? Tell me.”

And, like. Hayden might be completely unequipped to process this situation, but in any case, there’s no harm in giving Rozanov some information, right?

“I don’t know yet,” Hayden says, then immediately winces. “Wait, that came out wrong. He seemed alright when the paramedics took him. I mean, he was in a lot of pain, obviously, but he was awake. Talking. He’s not dying, or paralyzed or anything.”

“What did medics say?” Rozanov demands. He’s definitely pacing now.

“Nothing for certain. Something to do with his lungs.”

“You will go to the hospital?” Rozanov asks, except the way he says it makes it sound more like a command than a question: you will go to the hospital. 

“I’m already here. I’m sitting in the waiting room right now,” Hayden says pointedly. “I’ll tell Shane to call you back when he can, alright?”

“Wait. Pike.”

“What?”

“What hospital?”

“It’s the Mon—” Hayden begins, the words slipping out automatically before his brain violently catches up, and he suddenly remembers the whole point of this conversation. “Fuck. Rozanov, listen to me. You cannot come to Montreal.”

“Yes, I can,” Rozanov says. “Is a five-hour drive.”

“You—wait, you want to drive here? From Boston?”

“There is no flight now,” Rozanov says, in a voice that suggests he’s being completely reasonable right now. 

Hayden blinks again. 

Deep breath. 

Him. Jackie. Beach. 

Romantic dancing on a beach. 

Romantic dancing on a beach while glowing fishes sing love songs and make them very alcoholic piña coladas. 

Hayden pinches the bridge of his nose, exhaling a long, ragged breath. Agreeing to the fifth “The Little Mermaid” rewatch of this year was definitely not his finest parenting decision. 

“Aren’t you guys supposed to be playing Toronto in, like, two days?” He asks desperately.

“Pike,” Rozanov sighs. “I don’t give a shit about hockey right now, okay? Just tell me what hospital.”

His voice actually wavers. He’s asking, this time. 

“Fuck,” Hayden breathes, slumping back against the plastic chair. “You actually care about him, don’t you?” he muses out loud. 

Silence stretches over the line. Hayden immediately feels like an idiot. God, what a stupid thing to say. 

He braces for Rozanov to snap and finally curse him out. Instead, when Rozanov speaks again, his arrogant armor is entirely gone. 

"I watched him fall, Pike,” Rozanov says quietly. “He did not get up. I need to see that he is okay."

Hayden officially can’t find it in himself to hate Rozanov right now. “Okay,” he says, softening his voice, trying to sound as grounding as possible without tipping over into condescending. “Listen to me. I understand. I really do. But do you have any idea how many reporters are standing outside this entrance right now?” He glances toward the doors. “Shane just came out in a very public way. Comeau even called you 'Lily' on the bench—which, by the way, is the stupidest fake name in the history of stupid fake names.”

A faint amused huff is heard from Rozanov's end.

“Exactly,” Hayden says. “And, like, the whole team already knows that 'Lily' is a guy from Boston. They're stupid, yes, but they aren't that stupid. If you rock up to a Montreal hospital emergency room in the middle of the night for no reason, they will put it together in a second. Everyone will.”

The silence returns. Finally, Rozanov takes a deep breath, and says, “Okay. They will put it together.”

“Wh—dude. Won’t they, like, immediately ship you back to Russia for a public execution, or some shit?”

“Careful, Pike,” Rozanov says, a ghost of his usual arrogant smirk returning to his voice. “People might think you actually worry about me.”

Hayden rolls his eyes. “Fuck off.”

So, he thinks. All right, then. Unless this is the most twisted, elaborate prank in NHL history, Rozanov’s feelings for Shane aren't up for debate anymore. He definitely cares. 

In fact, he seems to care a bit too much. Which, hey, that’s an idea—

“You know you’ll make it worse for him too, right?” Hayden says carefully.

The silence on the line is his answer.

“Like, he literally just landed himself in the middle of the biggest scandal in hockey history,” Hayden continues. “He was confident during the game, but he’s going to start freaking the fuck out the second the painkillers wear off. If what he told me about you is true, you have to know that. He’ll be terrified. Please don’t add to it. He’s going to be worried about seeing you, worried for you, and the media is going to be vicious. To him. Not just you. And... shit, man. You’re Ilya fucking Rozanov.”

“Very impressive deduction,” Rozanov says, though the bite is completely gone from his tone. “Going to hang up and call Russian police now?”

“What? What the fuck, dude? I told you I wouldn’t put you in danger.”

“Was before you knew it was me.”

Hayden can hear the careless shrug in Rozanov’s voice. His annoyance flares up again. “I wouldn’t do that to anyone,” he says curtly. Not even you remains unsaid. “But, shit. Look. He’s out now, yeah. As a gay man. But that is very different from being out as... whatever the hell it is he was doing with you.”

There is another amused huff on the other end, and Hayden rushes to continue speaking, lest Rozanov decides to educate him on the details. “—You’re still rivals. If Crowell didn’t want to murder Shane with his own bare hands already, discovering this would definitely be the last straw.” 

“Shane might still have a career after this,” Hayden adds softly, when Rozanov doesn’t answer anything for a while. “Please don’t ruin it for him.”

“Fuck,” Rozanov whispers. The single word sounds incredibly devastated. He doesn’t even try to argue this time. 

Holy shit. Hayden genuinely feels bad for the guy now. 

“I’ll tell him, okay?” he rushes to add, desperate to fix the heavy mood somehow, and… comfort Rozanov? Sure. Whatever. “As soon as I see him and make sure he’s okay, I’ll tell him you called. I'll tell him you wanted to come. And if that’s what he wants, then fine, do it. But please, don’t make this choice for him right now. It could make everything so much worse. Just... wait for him to decide.”

There is another long, agonizing pause.

“Fuck,” Rozanov says again. Then, “Okay. I will wait.”

“Thank you,” Hayden exhales, a massive wave of relief washing over him. “I’m gonna go check with the desk again, alright? I’ll text you when I have news from the doctors or from Shane. Just... give me your actual number so I can save it.”

It’s probably a testament to how shattered Rozanov feels right now that he doesn’t even attempt a joke. He just obediently recites his phone number.

“Okay,” Hayden says, typing it into his own phone and saving the contact as ‘Lily, I fucking guess???’. “I’ll keep in touch, alright? Just… don’t make any rush decisions over there.”

“Okay,” Rozanov says. And then, “Thank you.”

The line goes dead.

Hayden slowly lowers the phone, staring at the blank screen for a few seconds. This is it, he thinks. This is officially the weirdest moment of my entire life.

He sends a quick obligatory “this is hayden” text to Rozanov, and finally puts Shane’s phone back into the duffel, where it belongs.

His own phone buzzes again, this time with an email. Wha-te-ver. He'll think about all that, and the sheer, reality-bending madness of Ilya Rozanov being Shane's secret not-really-ex-boyfriend later. Right now, he needs to get to his best friend and make sure he’s going to be alright. 

Hayden has never been particularly good at compartmentalization. But for Shane, he can at least try.

* * * * *

The white noise of the hospital room is deafening. 

Every rhythmic hiss of oxygen makes Shane’s skin crawl.

The physical pain is a sharp, localized agony, but the quiet, high-frequency beeping of the vitals monitor is worse—it feels like someone lifted the lid on his skull and invaded every single corner of his brain.

Even worse than the pain, though, is the sheer, violating presence of the machine. There is a thick, rigid plastic tube punched directly between his ribs, buried deep inside his chest cavity to pull the trapped air from his collapsed lung. He can feel it with every micro-movement. Every tiny, shallow breath forces his internal tissue to pull against the plastic edge, followed by a sickening, wet gurgle from the suction box hooked to the foot of his bed. 

He is pinned here. Trapped. 

He is dimly aware of the existence of the world outside of this room, but it’s entirely unreachable. 

He cannot stand up and walk away. He doesn’t even have his phone. He’s forced to stay in his personal high-frequency hell for what feels like hours and hours.

He’d flatly refused the heavy narcotics the nurses tried to push into his IV. He couldn’t afford to be loopy. He couldn’t afford the luxury of drifting off while his entire world is crumbling around him. At least the doctors finally stopped asking him stupid questions—who even cares whether or not he has head trauma at this point?

On the ice, he had felt strong. For a few brief, terrifying moments of defiance, he’d felt like the captain he was supposed to be—fearless, powerful, important.

Now, lying under the harsh fluorescent lights in a flimsy hospital gown, he just feels stupid.

The door to his room clicks, beginning to swing inward. Shane tenses automatically, his heart rate monitor spiking into a frantic, erratic beep. He’s not sure what he expects—a wave of reporters, or a furious league official, or his coach. Or, even worse—his parents, looking tired, and so, so disappointed.

But it’s just Hayden.

Shane sags against the thin mattress, tension leaving his shoulders all at once. It’s a pathetic, involuntary reaction—like he’s a tiny duckling imprinted on the first person to show him kindness today. Repeatedly anchoring himself to his best friend so he doesn’t have to drown in this nightmare alone.

Instead, I’ll just drag him down with me all the way to the bottom, a dark, bitter part of Shane’s brain supplies. Shane nervously swallows.

“Hey, buddy,” Hayden says softly, closing the door behind him. He steps closer to the bed, eyes immediately darting to the IV line and the digital keypad on the pump. He frowns. 

"The nurse said you wouldn't let them hook up the pain button. Are you insane? You have a literal garden hose coming out of your ribs, Shane."

"I'm fine," Shane croaks, his voice thin and strained. "I need to keep my head clear.”

Hayden’s jaw sets, a flash of genuine, sharp irritation breaking through his expression. "Oh, brilliant,” he says dryly. “Exceptional strategy, Cap. Let's just sit here and white-knuckle a collapsed lung while the monitor throws a literal tantrum because your heart rate is pushing one-forty. That makes total sense."

"I can't be foggy right now, Hayd," Shane snaps back defensively, though the sudden force of his own voice immediately makes him wince in pain. "I need to know what's happening."

Hayden stares at him for a long, heavy second, looking entirely unimpressed, before he nods to himself and pulls up a plastic chair to sit next to Shane, seemingly letting the topic go for now. "So, how are you doing, then?"

“Amazing,” Shane says.

Hayden raises an eyebrow.

“Well,” Shane relents, looking down at his own bandaged chest. “As alright as can be, I guess.”

“Legs move? Tube working?”

“Yep. Just... painful, mostly. And weird. I can feel it shifting inside me every time I talk.”

“If only there was a magic button you could press to make that happen less,” Hayden says dryly. 

They stare at each other for a long moment.

“…Or,” Hayden predictably gives up first, “I guess we can learn to live with that.”

“Yeah.” Shane breathes out, relieved. His eyes slide down to Hayden’s right hand. The knuckles look swollen, the skin split open and stained an ugly, deep purple. Hayden is guarding the arm close to his body. The guilt hits Shane all over again, cold and sharp. “How are you, Hayd?”

“My lungs are perfectly fine, thanks.” Hayden says.

It’s Shane’s turn for the meaningful eyebrow raise. 

Hayden rolls his eyes. “I guess we’ll see, right?” he says, his tone softening into something weary but resolute. “I don't regret it. Either way.”

“Thank you,” Shane says, the words feeling entirely inadequate for the weight of what Hayden has sacrificed for him today.

“Don't mention it.”

“Did you talk to Jackie?”

“Yeah. We're good.”

“She's not angry at me?”

“Why would she be angry at you?”

Shane looks away, staring at the sterile white wall. He swallows hard, his jaw tightening. “I mean... if I didn't start it on the bench, you wouldn't have had to... If I had just kept my mouth shut—”

“Dude, she's worried about you. She specifically told me to tell you she loves you. Besides,” Hayden grins, “apparently me punching Comeau in the face was hot.”

Shane’s head snaps up, a sharp spike of agony shooting through his ribcage as the movement tugs violently against the stitches holding the tube in his skin. “You punched Comeau? I don’t... why? When?”

“Locker room. Right after they wheeled you out. Don't worry, you'll see it on the evening news.” Hayden waves his uninjured hand dismissively, but the word ‘news’ triggers an immediate, icy spike of panic in Shane’s chest.

“Hayd—,” Shane breathes out. “The transmission... The mic… Did they cut the feed?”

Hayden’s expression drops. “They didn't.”

“At all?”

Hayden shakes his head. “It stayed live. The whole game. I’m sorry.”

Shane’s breath hitches, the monitor beside him escalating into a frantic, high-pitched chime. His breathing grows shallow and fast. It hurts to expand his chest, but the pain is secondary right now. The panic is louder. 

The whole game.

The words repeat in his mind like a death sentence.

Every single conversation on the bench. Every crack in his voice, every second of him falling apart in front of thousands of people—it was all out there.

The shield of his privacy hadn't just been pierced; it had been totally pulverized. The entire hockey world had just listened to the Voyageurs captain come out as a gay man while suffocating on the ice. 

He was definitely fired. He’d never wear the C again; he’d probably never step foot in an NHL arena again, at least not without hearing the whispers. And the shame—the absolute, burning shame of the realization that everyone now knew exactly what his own team had been saying about him behind closed doors. 

Everyone knew how pathetic he really was.

Before he can fully spiral into the darkness, Hayden’s phone erupts into a violent, loud buzz. Hayden pulls it out, glances at it, and declines the call, keeping his focus entirely locked on Shane.

“Okay,” Hayden says, his voice shifting into a businesslike, grounding rhythm. “First things first—I talked to your mom.”

“Oh.” Shane glances at the darkened phone in Hayden’s hand, his heart still hammering against his ribs. “Is that her?”

“Ah. No,” Hayden mutters, casting a weird, unreadable glance at the screen before shoving the phone back into his pocket. “Your parents are on their way from Ottawa. They should be here in a couple of hours.”

Shane nods numbly. He looks down at his blanket, his throat tightening as a completely different brand of terror sets in.

“Do you want to talk to them before they get here?” Hayden asks gently.

Shane closes his eyes, his mind instantly racing away from him. 

“I... I can't,” Shane whispers.

He can't handle hearing their voices over a speaker right now on top of everything else. 

He knows they won’t yell, or anything. They probably won’t even sound angry. But they will speak in that careful, fragile voice, tip-toeing around the wreckage of his life, avoiding a massive, suffocating mountain of things not being said. And that quiet tension of conversations yet to come would be a thousand times worse.

Hayden doesn’t say anything, the silence stretching out between them. Shane’s stomach drops. His best friend is looking at him right now and realizing just how much of a coward he really is, unable to even speak to his own mother on the phone.

“No, I mean—” Shane rushes to explain, immediately catching his breath as the tube pulls against his ribs. “I want to do it face-to-face. Not over a phone call. I—“

Hayden’s phone buzzes again.

“Fuck,” Hayden mutters, yanking the phone back out and aggressively slamming the decline button. He looks up, taking in Shane’s expression, and his face softens. “Shane. I understand. It's okay. I'll text her right now and tell her that you're alright, just sleeping. Don't worry about it.”

Shane swallows. “Thank you.”

“It's gonna be okay.”

The words are barely out of Hayden’s mouth when the phone begins to vibrate a third time. 

Hayden snaps. He accepts the call, barking directly into the receiver. “Oh my fucking god, what?!”

Shane watches him from the bed, completely bewildered. He doesn’t think he ever heard Hayden talk to someone like that, except for their rival teams on the ice—or lately, to their own teammates. Is it someone from the league? 

“Dude, I just got here,” Hayden growls, pacing over to the narrow hospital window. “I told you I’ll call you back—yes, because like I said, I just got into his room.” He exhales a heavy, ragged breath, turning around to lock eyes directly with Shane. 

“He’s alive,” Hayden says into the phone, his voice dripping with deliberate, heavy emphasis. “I am looking at him now with my own two eyes. Now let me talk to him, and I’ll call. You. Back.” Hayden lowers the phone for a second, before raising it back up and quickly adding, “Do NOT come to Montreal. I swear to God.”

He slams the button to end the call, letting out a long, exhausted breath. Shane watches him silently, anxiety levels spiking through the roof. 

Hayden looks drained, his shoulders slumping as he stares out the window at the city lights. Shane doesn’t think he’s ever seen his friend look this defeated before. And it’s all because of him.

“Hayd?..”

“Do you think you need to buy tickets to see the glowing fish?” Hayden asks in a flat voice, still looking out the hospital window. It doesn’t seem like he’s looking at anything in particular.

“What?”

“Like. Glowing fish. In Puerto Rico. Y’know, blue waves and shit?”

“…You mean plankton?”

Hayden swivels back to face Shane, pointing a finger at him like he’d just solved a complex mathematical equation. “Plankton! That’s what it was! Thank you.”

“…Hayd?”

Hayden giggles. “Oh god,” he says, shaking his head before meeting Shane’s eyes again. “Just to reiterate, I regret nothing. But man, this is the most insane day of my fucking life.”

“Hayden!” Shane snaps, desperately. “Who was on the phone?” 

“Oh.” Hayden glances down at where his phone is still clutched in his hand, as if he’d briefly forgotten about its existence, then shoves it deep into his pocket. “Lily.”

Shane freezes. For one impossible second, the physical world vanishes. Even the foreign, pulling sensation of the tube inside his chest disappears under a wave of absolute, freezing shock.

“…Or Ilya, I guess,” Hayden continues conversationally, seemingly oblivious to the level ten stressful event he has just triggered. “Fuck, that felt weird to say. Remind me to never try again. By the way, I already said it to him, but, like, you guys really suck at choosing code names, y’know? Like, sure, I didn’t figure it out initially, but I could have, is what I’m saying—”

“What?” Shane whispers, his voice dropping so quiet it almost gets buried by the hiss of the oxygen line. “You... Hayden, what?”

“—I mean, it sounds basically the same, and with him living in Boston—”

“Hayden!” Shane chokes out, loud enough to interrupt his rambling. “You talked to him? To Ilya?”

Hayden stops. He seems to finally notice Shane’s reaction, and his own expression shifts into something much more sober and serious.

“Shit,” Hayden sighs, rubbing the back of his neck with his uninjured hand. “I guess I was still holding out hope that it was some kind of a highly elaborate prank. Like, subconsciously.”

Shane’s mind spirals into a violent, sickening freefall. The one secret that he thought he managed to keep wasn’t a secret anymore. 

Hayden knows. Hayden knows he has just thrown away his career and reputation for someone who had been actively lying to his face. Shane had played the part of the heartbroken, tragic victim, letting Hayden defend him, all while hiding the fact that he had been sleeping with their biggest rival for a decade.

Hayden is going to leave. He’s going to walk out of this room, and Shane will be entirely, completely alone in the wreckage, with no one to blame for that but himself. 

“Hayd...” Shane whispers. 

“He wants to come here,” Hayden says, efficiently cutting through Shane’s current spiral by immediately introducing an entirely new one.

Shane blinks, his brain short-circuiting. “Here? To the hospital?”

“Yeah. Says he can make the drive in five hours.”

“Drive?” Shane frowns. “What, from Boston?”

“See! That’s what I’m saying!” Hayden throws his hands up, looking deeply vindicated. “Like, who even does that?”

“Why... why would he come here?” Shane asks, his mind racing backward over a year of excruciating, agonizing silence. 

Hayden shrugs. “He said he needs to see that you’re okay.”

“He didn't... we don't...” Shane’s voice cracks, his fingers gripping the thin hospital blanket until his knuckles turn white. “Boston is playing Toronto in two days. The playoffs, Hayd. He can't just leave.”

“Yeah, he’s aware.”

“And?”

“He said he doesn't care. Doesn’t give a shit about hockey right now. Direct quote. Well, almost.”

“People will see him,” Shane says, frantic. "The media—"

“Told him that as well,” Hayden nods, crossing his arms. “There’s a literal sea of reporters all around this place.”

Shane stares.

“He doesn’t care about being outed either,” Hayden says, answering his silent question. “Just wants to be here. With you. To make sure you’re okay. Apparently.”

“…he doesn’t care about being outed,” Shane echoes flatly after a few beats.

His first sob catches him completely off guard.

He almost folds forward on instinct, both hands flying to his face—

The movement is a catastrophic mistake. Pain explodes through his side as his chest expands, the tube shifting just enough to make everything inside him feel wrong. He can’t curl in on himself, can’t breathe properly, can’t stop crying without making it hurt, and can’t cry without making it worse.

Hayden is beside him before Shane even realizes he’s moved, one arm wrapping around his shoulders, steady and solid.

“Hey. It’s okay. Shit. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have told you right now,” Hayden mutters into his hair.

“No, it’s... fuck... Hayden...”

“It’s okay. I’m sorry, buddy.”

“Why now?” Shane asks after a few moments, his voice muffled and broken against Hayden’s jacket. “He doesn’t care about being outed now? It’s been a year, Hayd. A fucking year.”

“I know,” Hayden says, giving him a supportive squeeze before slowly pulling back. He looks around the room, desperately searching for something practical to do to make it better. “Water?”

Shane nods. His breathing is slowly improving. “I’m sorry.”

Hayden shrugs, passing him the plastic cup from the bedside table. “Wild day, huh?”

Shane weakly smiles at him, taking a small sip of water, careful not to let the movement jar his side.

“Look, I can call him back right now and tell him to fuck off,” Hayden offers. “'Shane’s alive and well, thanks for asking, please never call again.'”

Shane stares into the water cup, seriously considering the offer. Or at least pretending to seriously consider it. Part of him desperately wants to protect himself from the inevitable pain of seeing Ilya just to have him leave again. Plus, he is an absolute emotional wreck; he doesn't want Ilya to see him like this, weak and broken in a hospital gown. But the thought of Ilya actually stopping the calls and slipping back into the past makes his stomach twist into a tight knot.

“No,” Shane says softly, setting the cup down and wincing through the sharp pull the minor movement causes him. “I... I want to talk to him. I think. Just... not today. When I’m less...” He makes a vague, overwhelmed gesture with his hands.

Hayden nods. “Okay.”

Shane lets out a small, breathless chuckle. “He’s coming anyway, isn’t he?”

“No, I don’t think so,” Hayden says.

The answer lands before Shane remembers it was the one he’d wanted. And, oh, that hurts. He had just said he didn't want Ilya to come, but hearing that Ilya was actually staying away—Ilya, the most stubborn man on earth who never backed down from doing what he wanted—it still feels like a rejection.

“…I mean, yeah, missing the fucking playoffs and being outed didn’t scare him in the slightest,” Hayden continues, leaning against the bedside rail. “He’s incredibly determined, I’ll give him that. But I think he started thinking more rationally when I told him that he was only going to make it worse for you.”

“For me?”

“Like, emotionally. And with the league, too. I mean, management wasn't exactly thrilled about you being gay by yourself. I personally wouldn't want to be the one to inform Commissioner Crowell today that you were being gay with a rival captain, too.”

The sheer, absurd gravity of the sentence hangs in the air for a second. Shane’s chuckle escapes before he can stop it. He immediately clamps a hand against his side, hissing through his teeth.

“Ouch, yeah.” Hayden winces sympathetically. “Don’t do that.”

“No shit,” Shane breathes, his ribs aching with the residual movement. He gives himself a few moments to steady his breath again.

“So he really wanted to come?” Shane clarifies, fully aware of how pathetic the question sounds. He needs to know for sure. 

Hayden rolls his eyes, but his voice is kind. “Yeah. You can’t even imagine. Took literally everything I had in me to convince him not to.” 

Shane settles back, his nerves finally calming down a bit. Then, a technical question hits him. He frowns. “Wait. How did he even get your phone number?”

“Oh,” Hayden says, looking instantly guilty. “It’s. I, um... I called him. Actually.”

Shane freezes again. “You knew?”

“No! No!” Hayden stammers, holding his hands up defensively. “I… Fuck. So I had your phone, right? And your mom was calling you, and she was obviously panicking after the broadcast. I thought... well, I thought you wouldn't want her to worry if I could help it, so I talked to her. From your phone. I’m sorry?”

Shane frowns, confused. “No, it’s... thank you. I’m glad you did.”

“Okay. Good.” Hayden shuffles his feet, refusing to make eye contact. “So,” he says. “You had a bunch of missed calls from 'Lily’, too.” 

Shane suddenly has a distant feeling that he knows where this is going. 

“I wasn't going to call back at first,” Hayden continues. “Like, it wasn't my business, and honestly, I thought the dude probably deserved to worry for an hour or two anyway. But then I saw the texts.”

Shane looks at him, waiting.

“He said he was coming here, to Montreal. I didn't need to know who he was to know that it was a terrible, dangerous fucking idea for both of you. So, I called back. We... talked. I convinced him not to come unless you decide that you want him here. Promised to keep him updated. It went... surprisingly okay, all things considered,” Hayden finishes, watching Shane like a man standing before a judge, waiting for his sentence.

Shane looks back. On any other day, he thinks, he’d be furious about the invasion of his privacy. But this is today, and as he looks at Hayden’s tired eyes and bruised knuckles, all Shane can feel is gratitude. 

Somehow, Hayden managed to take care of both him and Ilya in one go.

“What a fucking day,” Shane whispers, leaning his head back against the pillow.

Hayden chuckles, relieved. “You’re telling me? I almost had a fucking heart attack inside a hospital waiting room.”

“Not the worst place to have a heart attack,” Shane murmurs. Then, “Hayd?”

“M?”

“Are you... are you okay with this?”

“Listen, buddy,” Hayden’s chuckle has a slightly hysterical edge to it this time. “I am not at all prepared to even attempt to understand this situation right now. We’re gonna deal with the urgent shit, patch your lung up, prepare for our mutual forced retirement, and then after all that is done, we can meet up for a beer—or twenty—and talk about... this.” 

Shane swallows hard. “Are... are we okay?”

“What?” Hayden turns to take in Shane’s expression for a moment. Then his face softens. “Oh. Yeah. Of course we are. I mean, I’m confused as fuck, yes, but I’m on your side. Always.” He reaches out, awkwardly patting Shane’s shoulder.

Shane feels his eyes welling up all over again, the suffocating, crushing weight of the world suddenly feeling just a little bit lighter. “Thank you.”

The door clicks open again, and a nurse steps into the room carrying a plastic tray of medical-looking things. 

“Just need to run some standard post-procedure checks,” she says, looking toward Hayden. "I'm going to need you to step out into the hallway for a few minutes, sir."

“Yeah. Sorry, just a sec,” Hayden tells the nurse, then turns back to the bed. “Listen, I have a feeling he’s gonna start blowing up my phone again the second I step out there. Do you want me to call him back now, or do you want to do it yourself later?”

Shane looks at Hayden, then at the sterile, white walls of the room.

“Yeah,” he decides. “Call him.”

“Alright. Can I tell him what you said? About talking to him later?”

“Yeah. Whatever. Just... don’t make me sound too pathetic.”

Hayden lets out a genuine chuckle, his hand already on the door handle. “Buddy, I don’t think it’s physically possible for anyone to sound more pathetic than he does right now.”

Shane smiles weakly, a tiny, genuine spark of warmth settling into his chest against the cold plastic of the tube. “Tell him I definitely won't talk to him if he misses the game,” he says to his friend’s retreating form, and hears Hayden's laughter echo in the hallway as the door clicks shut.

* * * * *

The waiting room welcomes Hayden like an old friend. 

As soon as he’s alone, any playfulness he felt in Shane’s room disappears, leaving him deeply, emotionally exhausted. 

The old linoleum makes a faint rustling sound under his feet, but, mercifully, it doesn’t scrape at his brain. The cold, bright lights make the room somehow feel even emptier, allowing him to lean against the wall and forget about everything outside of his own head. 

He doesn’t even have the energy for daydreaming anymore. He just needs a minute. 

Just one. 

He’ll settle for half, actually. 

Just a few moments to close his eyes and not feel like he has to urgently do something. 

He ends up taking about 13 seconds before giving up and pulling out his phone. Rozanov is worried. He’s waiting for him to call. For some inexplicable reason, that takes priority today. 

Hayden unlocks the screen, taps the contact labeled ‘Lily, I fucking guess???’, and forces himself to hit dial. Unfortunately, the call connects immediately. 

“Pike?”

“He doesn't want you to come here," Hayden says, because if he doesn’t get straight to the point now, there’s no guarantee that he’ll be able to later. 

A long, heavy pause echoes over the line. 

"Okay. I won't come," Rozanov says after a few moments, his voice completely devoid of any emotion.

Hayden’s brain abruptly catches up. "Wait," he cuts in. “Fuck, Rozanov, hold on. I didn't mean it like that.”

"Pike—"

"Today. He doesn't want you here today,” Hayden rushes to clarify. “Because he's scared and overwhelmed and dealing with too much already. His parents will be here soon, for fuck's sake! And—“

Hayden stops, suddenly able to seize another Important Thought he was supposed to convey: “He said he wants to talk to you. After. Potentially. When he's better. If you want that too."

"Of course I want,” Rozanov snaps. Then he takes a deep breath, and his voice evens out. “What is happening? What did doctors say?”

Hayden lets the back of his head press into the cold surface of the wall. "Well, he’s got a couple of broken ribs, but we already knew that. Apparently one of them punctured his lung during the game. Traumatic pneumo-something. I don’t remember. Means the lung collapsed."

"Fuck," Rozanov exhales. "Can he breathe? Did they do surgery?"

"No, no surgery. They put a tube in him," Hayden explains, trying to make his voice sound as grounding as possible—because the words he’s saying certainly aren’t. "Like, into his chest. So the lung can inflate again. I know it sounds scary, but he’s awake, and he’s fully alert, so, like,—“

“Fully alert?”

“What? I mean, yes, but—“

“He refused medication.” It isn't a question. Rozanov states it with an absolute, infuriating certainty. 

Hayden blinks. “Yeah, he did,” he confirms. “I’m still kinda pissed off about that. Like, what’s even the point?”

“Control thing,” Rozanov sighs. Hayden doesn’t ask. “Is he in a lot of pain?”

"He's trying not to show it, but yeah, it's bad," Hayden says, letting his head roll back against the wall. "He—“

Hayden freezes.

At the far end of the corridor, the heavy double doors of the Emergency Department swing open with a loud, mechanical hiss. Two people hurry through the threshold, their expressions rigid and frantic as they immediately march toward the receptionist's desk.

Huh. They really made it to Montreal in record time.

“…He what? Pike!” Rozanov demands, his sharp voice cutting through the speaker, abruptly reminding Hayden that he was in the middle of a conversation.

“Wait,” Hayden hisses, dropping his voice to a frantic whisper. “Fuck. His parents are here.”

“What? With you? Are they in the room?”

“No, they’re at the reception desk. They didn’t notice me yet,” Hayden says, backing up a step until his shoulder hits the wall beside Shane’s door. His heart rate spikes, a sudden rush of protective panic flooding his chest. If Shane was spiraling into a total crisis before, facing his parents right now might just become his final straw. “Shit. He’s gonna freak out. I don’t—“

“Go.”

“—What?”

“Go to him. Now. Before they do,” Rozanov says.

“Oh,” Hayden says. “Yes. Okay.”

He ends the call, shoves the phone into his pocket, and turns the handle to slip back into the room.

* * * * *

The quiet that settles over the room once Shane is alone again is neither peaceful nor comforting. He lies perfectly still, staring at the ceiling tiles, while his mind races through every possible disaster waiting outside this room:

The media circus. The league. The investigation.

Thinking about any of that hurts. But, the alternative is thinking about Ilya, so catastrophic rumination it is.

Hayden slips back inside the room, looking a lot more panicked than he did when he left. Shane’s heart rate monitor instantly ticks upward, just as his brain registers the sound of footsteps approaching in the hallway—hurried, sharp, and echoing. 

“They’re here,” Hayden whisper-shouts at him from the doorway. “Parents,” he clarifies, uselessly, seconds before the door swings open and Yuna Hollander marches into the room. 

Shane freezes, his fingers knotting into the thin hospital blanket. 

The world fades away, leaving only him and his mother. 

She looks exactly the way he expected—pale and murderous, ready to face a firing squad, or the entire NHL management in one go. He can track her gaze darting to the clear oxygen lines tucked into his nose, the IV pump, and the plastic drainage box gurgling on the floor.

Then their eyes lock across the room. 

Suddenly, she doesn’t look quite as deadly as she did a few seconds ago. 

"Shane," she breathes out. "Oh, baby."

Within seconds she’s at the side of his bed, her hands hovering over his chest, his head, touching the side of his face frantically but gently, as if holding him and looking him in the eyes is enough to tell her everything she needs to know about his state. Who knows—maybe it is. Some kind of a unique motherly superpower. He’ll have to ask Jackie later. 

Shane’s pulse quickens again. The tube shifts. Impossibly, he thinks the pain is getting worse. It doesn’t matter. Right now, he has to deal with his mother. 

“How are you feeling?” she asks. She looks so, so worried. He needs to fix this right now.

“I’m fine—“

“—I was so scared—”

“—Mom, it’s okay—“ 

“—Does it hurt a lot?—” 

(Not important, not the point, the point is—)

“—Mom,” he says, forcefully. “I’m sorry.” 

“Oh,” she says, pausing for a moment. “No, baby. Don’t. You have nothing to apologize for.”

“But I—“

“Nothing,” she repeats with an emphasis, pulling back to look him in the eyes.

Shane shakes his head. That can’t be right. He needs to explain. She needs to understand. 

He can’t find the words, though.

Just like any other time today when he didn’t know what to do, Shane looks at Hayden.

Hayden immediately straightens from where he’s been slumped against the wall, like he’d been waiting for instructions. He gives Shane an uncertain thumbs-up, followed by an elaborate eyebrow movement that probably means, You okay?

God. He must be exhausted.

Shane can’t seem to stop making everything worse for everyone around him.

He is still looking past his mother’s shoulder, directly at Hayden, when he whispers, “I think I broke everything.” 

His voice breaks on the last word. His throat suddenly feels very tight. 

“You didn’t—,” his mother starts, fierce determination in her voice. “Shane, look at me,” she says, framing his face with her hands again. “You didn’t do anything wrong. If something is broken now, then it’s not your fault, and I will fix it, okay? I’ll fix everything. I promise.”

“Mom, you can’t fix this.”

She quickly wipes under her eyes, looking straight at him with that familiar, terrifying expression she always wears when she’s ready for battle—the same one Shane wears before a game. “Watch me.” 

Her eyes are still shining, but there is a hint of humor in them now. Reluctantly, Shane feels a small, shaky smile tug at the corners of his mouth. 

“You don’t have to worry about anything,” his mom adds, reaching out to run gentle fingers through his hair in a soothing motion. “You just rest now.”

She bends to press a kiss to his forehead.

Something inside Shane snaps in half. For the first time in a long time, it’s not a very painful kind of snap. 

He can’t remember the last time she gave him a forehead kiss. He’s not even sure it ever happened before. He suddenly realizes that he doesn’t want to keep worrying about everything. He does want to rest. 

He wants to rest so badly. 

“Mom,” he chokes out, “mom, it hurts so much.”

A dry sob reverberates through his chest, immediately increasing the pain tenfold, as if to illustrate the point.

“It’s okay, baby. We’ll fix this,” mom says, looking at the IV pump beside the bed. “Why is this not running?” she asks the room at large. There is a distinct note of steel in her voice that was not there before. 

Uh oh. 

For a brief second, Shane’s eyes frantically meet Hayden’s across the room. The two twenty-six year old boys exchange identical looks of pure terror as Yuna Hollander rises back to her feet and assumes a murderous expression again. 

“Don’t worry,” she says to Shane. “I’ll deal with it very quickly.” Her tone of voice suggests the type of ‘dealing with’ more characteristic of a mafia boss. 

As his mother leaves the room in quick, confident strides, Shane sends a quick mental apology to every single nurse on shift. 

Once Yuna’s all-consuming presence is no longer in the room, Shane slowly starts to become aware of other things in his immediate surroundings: the rhythmic, wet gurgle of the suction box on the floor. The beeping of the monitor beside him. The presence of his father at the foot of his bed. 

His father’s smile is tired, but still warm. “Hey,” he says, pulling up a plastic chair to sit down next to Shane.

“Hi,” Shane whispers in response. 

“What a day, huh,” his father adds dryly when no one says anything else for a while. 

Shane smiles. Across the room, Hayden lets out an involuntary snort. Both Shane and David turn toward him at the same time, having briefly forgotten he was still in the room.

Hayden freezes. “Sorry,” he says quickly. “I should probably—” He gestures toward the door before hesitating. “Unless…” His eyes flick to Shane.

“Oh.” Shane nods. “Yeah. I’ll be okay.”

Hayden visibly relaxes. “Good. Great. Then I’m gonna…”

“Wait, Hayd—”

“—Yeah.” 

He’s already halfway out the door. Shane watches it swing shut, his thanks and apology still caught in his throat.

“He’s a good friend,” his dad comments softly. “I’m really glad you have him.” 

“Yeah,” Shane says, his eyes still on the door. “Me too.” 

His dad sighs, turning to face Shane again now that they’re alone. “So, are you gonna let your mother pump you full of the good stuff now?”

Shane glances at his father, and doesn’t even bother to pretend. Of course he knows.

Funny. Ten minutes ago the thought would’ve terrified him. Now he almost finds himself desperate for some medical-grade oblivion. 

“Don’t think I have much of a choice anymore,” Shane says. "She's... she's really not angry?"

"Oh, she is," his dad answers immediately. "She's furious. Why on earth would you play with broken ribs, Shane?"

"Dad," Shane groans. 

"She’s not angry about the broadcast, if that's what you're asking," his dad clarifies, his tone shifting into something more gentle. "She would have preferred to know about the team,” he adds more pointedly. “Thinks she could have changed something.”

“Unlikely," Shane mutters, looking down at the blanket. 

"I know," his dad says softly. “We still wish you told us.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

His dad reaches out to place a warm, heavy hand over Shane’s, grounding him against the hospital room. “None of that now. Now you rest, and let your mother handle everything.”

Shane’s not completely sure, but he thinks he manages to fall asleep even before the drugs hit his system, lulled by the repetitive motion of his dad’s thumb brushing over his hand. 

* * * * *

Standing out in the quiet hallway, Hayden is hit by a sudden, jarring wave of simply not being needed anymore. 

Who would’ve guessed how nice of a feeling it is. 

He's done. The hand-off is complete. Shane can be taken care of by people who actually know what they’re doing.

For the last few hours, he’s been the designated adult in the room. Now, he’s just a very tired, very bruised hockey player occupying a square foot of hospital linoleum.

Now that he’s officially, genuinely not in charge, the adrenaline begins to leak out of his system at an alarming rate. The physical reality of the night hits him all at once—a staggering, coordinated assault on his senses. His fractured hand throbs in heavy, nauseating waves. His knees ache. His shoulder is stiff from an on-ice collision, his throat is parched, and he has absolutely no idea when he last ate. He’s completely, utterly hollowed out.

If he passes out in the hospital waiting room, they won’t just kick him out to the street, right? 

Sharp, decisive heels click against the floor. Hayden blinks his eyes open to see Yuna Hollander march back down the corridor. She looks like she just finished tearing into the hospital's primary attending staff and rearranging the entire department's hierarchy to her liking. But when she catches sight of Hayden, once again slumped against the waiting room wall, she stops. 

Before Hayden can even think about saying something, Yuna crosses the distance between them and pulls him into a tight, fierce, uncompromising hug.

Hayden freezes. He hesitates for a fraction of a second, his remaining functional brain cells completely short-circuiting. Slowly, carefully avoiding her with his broken hand, Hayden wraps his good arm around her shoulder and awkwardly pats her back.

"Thank you," Yuna whispers into his jacket, the two words heavy with a depth of emotion that catches him completely off guard.

“Oh,” Hayden mumbles. “Sure. Anytime.”

She pulls back, gives him a tight but genuine smile, and slips back inside Shane’s room to join her husband.

The hallway falls silent again.

Everything is exactly as it was a few seconds ago, except for the new, tiny bit of warmth inside his chest. 

Hayden takes a deep breath, collecting whatever scraps of energy he has left, and starts walking.

Sure, piña coladas are fun. Passing out on the dirty linoleum sounds like an amazing idea. But nothing can beat the feeling of crawling into bed next to his wife. 

His warm, soft bed, and his amazing, perfect wife. 

He turns toward the exit, mentally calculating how long it will take for a cab to get him across the city, when the phone in his pocket gives a sharp, violent vibration. 

He takes it out and glances at the screen. 

Lily, I fucking guess???: 1 new message.

Hayden stares at the screen for three long seconds. 

“Absolutely fucking not,” he mutters to the empty hallway, before shoving the phone back into his pocket with a lot more force than necessary, and finally walking out of the Montreal General emergency department. 

Jackie. Bed. Now.

Chapter End Notes

Can you tell that I like Hayden? 🤔

Anyway, hi! I’m back! Sorry for the wait.

I just wanted to say that while I’m not ready to commit to a definitive chapter count just yet, all of the major character arcs are already mapped out, so I have no intention of dragging the story out just for the sake of it. The next chapter should pick up the pace a bit.

Also, I do acknowledge that canon Hayden is not exactly an amazing friend in TLG. But! I also believe that if he’d gotten to see some of Ilya’s good sides early on, he would’ve been a lot more supportive of their relationship. So in this story, I’m trying to explore a version of events where Hayden and Ilya develop a sort of mutual respect and understanding from the get-go, while still actively disliking each other. Don’t worry, Hayden will still have plenty of opportunities to fuck up. :)

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this one!

Chapter 3: Ilya Rozanov’s Team-Building Initiatives

Chapter Summary

[The Boston Bears develop a passion for environmental activism. Shane goes for a swim.]

Chapter Notes

i have been informed that i am apparently writing "angst".
my bad.

[April 28, 2018]

“—and welcome back to TD Garden, where the Boston Bears are playing host to the Toronto Guardians for Game One of the Second Round! I’m Gordie Vance alongside Ray Higgins, and Ray, a lot of folks are curious to see how Toronto responds tonight after that… tumultuous end to the first round up in Montreal.”

“You’re absolutely right, Gord. It’s been an emotional rollercoaster of a week for the hockey world, but at the end of the day, these two teams have a Stanley Cup to chase. We have to assume the Guardians are locked in and ready to play some serious hockey.”

On the smallish, wall-mounted hospital room TV, Cliff Marlow is giving a standard, polished pre-game interview.

Within days after his last game, Shane is already reduced to a footnote.

*

[Part 1: Denial & Anger]

@NHL_Updates_Unofficial

Still no official statements from the NHL, the Montreal Voyageurs, the Toronto Guardians, or Shane Hollander, three days after the Game 5 incident.

@ChirpCentral

Multiple broadcast clips from the Montreal vs. Toronto Game 5 have now surpassed 20M views across platforms.

@DailySlapshot

We still have zero response from Montreal management regarding the in-game mic situation involving Shane Hollander. Repeated requests for comment from our team have gone completely unanswered.

@alex_t_1998

I know literally nothing about sports law but even I know there are going to be massive legal consequences for everyone involved in this.

↳ @rozanovs_left_pad

orrrr… knowing the NHL, it's more likely just gonna be consequences for Hollander

↳ @captainshane_supremacy

 🫠

↳ @PikeNation_35

why is everyone forgetting Hayden Pike in all of this like he didn’t carry that whole broadcast on his back??

↳ @hollander_defense_attorney

he also wasn’t the one who was actively being called slurs for months…

↳ @CentreBell_93

we literally have no proof of that other than hollander’s words!!!

↳ @hollander_defense_attorney

do you have working ears be honest

@AdmiralsAnchor

Regardless of context, a player being told there is a team petition to remove him from the roster MID-PLAYOFF GAME feels like something the league should maybe not allow to happen

@bearsgirl81

i know it’s not really the time or the place, but we have to talk about that final goal eventually

@hollander_4_ever

if hollander actually quits hockey and starts playing curling watch me become a curling fan in the span of seconds.

↳ @pikes_right_hook

and hayden too?? can we stop forgetting hayden?? 

@shanehollanders_wife

can someone please just tell me if my baby is alive??? Is he okay???

↳ @FiveForFighting

“baby” he is a 26 year old professional athlete. aren’t you 13 or something?

↳ @shanehollanders_wife

i’m 14:(

@RinksideRumors

Shane Hollander is supposedly stable and recovering in a Montreal hospital.

↳ @daily_shane

source?

↳ @shanehollanders_wife

source??? 

@ShaneHollanderDeservesBetter

@scotthunter @hozier @obama do something??? 

↳ @GordieHoweHatPrick

he’s not even the president anymore…

↳ @ShaneHollanderDeservesBetter

idc im not american

↳ @GordieHoweHatPrick

…?

@GoldAndBlackAttack

“Second best.” That final goal. The way his whole world is falling apart on a live mic and he’s still thinking about Rozanov. These guys REALLY hate each other, don’t they

@coffee_and_cats

Can we talk about Hayes being the only decent person on the Toronto bench? Protect him at all costs.

*

The TV keeps murmuring in the background, but Shane barely registers the words. He lies propped up against a mountain of stiff white pillows, staring blankly at the screen. They removed the chest tube that morning—an experience he’d rather never repeat—but the pills they’ve switched him to do a decent job. His ribs still hurt. Everything still hurts. It’s just… farther away now.

His parents moved him into one of the nicer private rooms. TV. Nice view. Plenty of space. 

He couldn’t care less.

His mother is currently doing the same thing she’s been doing for the past couple of days—pacing by the window with her phone pressed to her ear. Every conversation sounds the same: short, clipped, increasingly irritated. Shane doesn’t ask. For once, neither does she volunteer the details. She just looks pissed off ninety percent of the time.

Yuna ends the call with a venomous stab of her thumb against the screen and drops the phone onto the bedside table.

"That was Farah," she says, her voice tight. “Apparently, the league issued a formal directive to all active players and staff. They’re treating everything from Game Five as part of an ongoing legal matter.”

Shane blinks at her.

“Active players aren’t allowed to comment publicly. Neither are teams. They’re claiming it’s to 'preserve the integrity of an ongoing internal investigation,' but it’s a gag order, plain and simple.”

“Oh.” Shane says, then shrugs. “Makes sense, I guess.”

Yuna purses her lips and looks at him like she wants to add something, but then she just picks her phone back up, and goes to make another call. 

His mother and Farah are dealing with everything. Legally, that is. 

The only productive thing he’s done since getting off the ice was to ask them to include Hayden in whatever it is the two of them are doing. He feels bad for adding problems to their plate, but he feels even more guilty about ruining Hayden’s life. When he brought it up, mom just said that she was going to do it anyway. It’s better for both of them to deal with this as a united front, she said. They really are in this together now.

99% of the reporters stopped paying attention to the hospital. It sounds good on paper, but for some reason Shane feels even worse. Even the people who are literally created to harass him and ignore his privacy to get information don’t care about him anymore.

And, sure. Internally, Shane appears to be extremely popular with the NHL’s legal department. Externally, there’s silence. Crickets. The Boston-Toronto game is this evening. Life goes on for everyone. 

Not everyone, his mother keeps saying. People want answers. People write to the league. They write him messages of support. 

And hate. But mostly, support. A huge number of viewers is outraged at the league’s silence. 

They’ll forget about it, though. Go root for different teams. Stop watching hockey altogether, maybe. It won’t matter in the long run. Hockey is built on the backs of the old and conservative. The more time passes, the more his last game stops looking like a brave act of defiance, and more like a child’s tantrum.

Shane feels embarrassed just thinking about it.

There are no statements from his side, either. He doesn’t think there ever will be. He’ll go to his cottage and sleep for a decade until people forget that Shane Hollander ever existed. 

Maybe he’ll start a carrot farm.

“The players are coming out now. Let’s head down to the ice.”

Shane’s heart gives a sudden, painful thud against his ribs. He looks up at the ceiling tiles. 

Ilya hadn’t tried to contact him since the day of the game. Shane knew, logically, that Hayden had told Ilya to wait for Shane to initiate contact. But frankly, Shane doesn't think he will. 

He wants to. He’s been running the thought through his mind over and over again. But he won't.

Because if he tries, and Ilya doesn't answer, it will shatter him completely.

The chances of Ilya completely ignoring him were slim. The chances of Ilya answering, making sure that Shane was alive, and then continuing on with his life were astronomical. 

For now, Shane could pretend that nothing happened. Hayden talked to him, sure, but Shane didn't. Shane didn't hear his voice. Shane didn't know for sure that Ilya really was worried about him. 

Maybe Hayden misunderstood. Maybe it was a medication-induced fever dream. 

As far as Shane’s concerned, Ilya broke it off more than a year ago, and they haven't talked since. It’s technically the truth. It’s the only way for him to keep going.

In fact, if he squints just so, the entire Bears roster becomes one blurry patch of black and gold. Ilya could be out tonight. Shane wouldn’t know.

Maybe Ilya never existed at all.

“Um,” one of the commentators says, his voice kind of strangled. “We’re seeing some… interesting equipment choices from Boston tonight.”

Shane thinks that whatever is happening on the screen, the ceiling tiles are infinitely more interesting.

“…Looks like the entire roster, actually.”

“…Yeah. Yeah. Seems this way.”

His mom looks up from where she’s furiously typing on her phone. Shane hears her take a sharp inhale. 

“Shane,” she says. 

Ceiling tiles. 

This is a normal game. Everyone forgot about him. Please, let it be a completely normal game. 

“…Lots of colorful sticks out there,” the commentator says carefully. 

“Shane,” his mother says again, with emphasis.

Shane takes his last few breaths of peace before finally looking over at the screen.

Predictably, his stomach drops.

His mother abandons her phone entirely, leaning forward on her elbows, her eyes flicking all over the screen where the Bears are starting warm-ups.

The familiar, uniform blur of black and gold on the screen is violently disrupted by smudges of bright color.

Every single Boston player is using pride tape tonight. 

*

“—Barrett carries it across the blue line, moves it deep into the corner. St-Simon retrieves it behind the net.”

The game happens. The clock ticks down, a blur of whistles, line changes, and standard playoff intensity. 

“Kent tries to gain the zone, but Marlow strips him of the puck. Boston turns it back the other way.”

Nothing out of the ordinary happens. Both teams attempt to score. Both goalies block. If it wasn’t for the tape, it would look like any other game.

But the tape is there.

And that’s really, really bad.

Because Ilya Rozanov does not do things halfway. Not in hockey. Not in breakups. And certainly not in statements. And Shane really doesn’t want to know what’s coming next.

“St-Simon stepping up physically tonight, pushing Aucoin into the boards. No whistle on the play.”

The tape is ridiculous. It’s tacky. It’s flashy. It’s perfectly visible no matter how much Shane squints his eyes into a blur. It completely ruins his illusion that Ilya doesn’t exist.

“Puck loose in the circle, Marlow fires a pass to Rozanov—and he hammers it home! Boston takes the lead!”

Another problem with the tape: both him and his parents are extremely aware of it. And sure, they’re fine with him being gay. He knows that. Of course he knows that. But they haven’t really discussed the topic much—or at all—since his last game. There were more important matters, after all—his injuries, the legal stuff, the hospital transfers—and by the time they finally had a quiet moment, the conversation seemed redundant. What’s there to talk about? They all know that they know. 

In the end, all three of them, by some silent agreement, did the emotional equivalent of acknowledging the elephant with a sideways glance and a barely-there nod before going about their business.

Right now, the elephant is very politely standing in the corner of the room, wrapped head to toe in mother-fucking neon pride tape. It’s so bright the color feels like it's reflecting off the sterile, hospital-white walls. His parents are breaking world records for the number of not-so-discreet glances per minute, both at him and at each other.

It makes Shane's skin crawl.

Shane grinds his teeth and locks his eyes onto the ceiling tiles. Thanks, Ilya, he thinks. Now he has to avoid looking at his own parents, too.

“Barrett tries to center it, Rozanov closes the gap quickly and delivers a solid check.”

“Toronto’s top line is getting zero breathing room tonight.”

“Are they?…” his dad asks the room at large, his voice trailing off.

“Yes. Yes, I think so,” Mom replies. Shane can feel her looking at him again.

Ceiling. Tiles. Count them.

His jaw is starting to ache from how hard he's clenching it.

“Shane—” Yuna starts, but she is thankfully cut off by the television.

“Kent wins the draw… Marlow steps right into his path, forcing him up against the glass. Boston is taking away all his space.”

“Shane,” she tries again, her voice firmer this time.

“They’re just normal game checks,” Shane grits through his teeth, eyes glued to the ceiling. “The commentators said so.”

“They certainly appear that way,” Yuna says, her voice dripping with an undercurrent of sharp satisfaction.

“Mom.”

Forty-seven seconds later, the commentary spikes again.

“Aucoin across the red line… Rozanov steps up with a big shoulder check. Aucoin goes down hard, and he’s staying down.”

“The whistle blows now as Aucoin has not gotten up. He is in some serious discomfort after that collision. Totally clean, caught him right in the middle of the ice, but that is a heavy, heavy impact.”

Shane sits up, forcefully ignoring the sharp, tearing burst of pain the sudden movement causes in his side, and looks directly at the screen. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees his mom half-extend a hand as if to push him back down onto the pillows, but she stops, her own eyes glued to the replay.

No one fights while the medical staff scrapes Aucoin off the ice and leads him down the tunnel. Toronto and Boston players stare at each other like they’re trapped in a high school production of Romeo and Juliet. It’s eerie. Typically, under these circumstances, Kent would be losing his mind, screaming insults and trying to provoke a bench-clearing brawl. Instead, he’s standing a good distance away, looking strangely unsettled.

Ilya Rozanov is standing near the red line, staring directly at him.

Shane sees red.

A year.

Ilya disappears for a year because staying away is supposedly the safest thing for both of them.

And now that Shane is weak and wounded in a hospital bed, suddenly Ilya is not only planning night trips to Montreal, but he’s out there attacking people to protect Shane's honor, rallying his entire team to do the same.

What right does he have to defend Shane, anyway? What right does he have to risk his reputation, his standing with the league, his career, his legal status in this country, for Shane? None.

If he ever had that right, he lost it a long time ago. He didn’t care then, so he shouldn’t care now. And he certainly shouldn’t be risking everything for a person he didn’t even want.

Ilya needs to be invisible. He needs to put his head down, play standard hockey, and keep his mouth shut so the league doesn’t have an excuse to target him, not skate around with pride tape, sending a rainbow-colored middle finger to a direct league directive.

It’s fucking stupid. Ilya shouldn’t be stupid. Ilya is one of the smartest people Shane knows, and despite his occasional reckless moments, he usually has an iron-clad sense of self-preservation. That same sense of self-preservation that got them into this fractured, broken situation in the first place.

And now, apparently, it doesn’t exist anymore. Because healthy, happy Shane wasn’t worth the risk. But the broken, pathetic, hospitalized version apparently is. 

It’s insulting. 

It’s terrifying. 

“Puck dropped. Barrett and Carmichael immediately tangling up away from the play, linesmen stepping in early—”

David clears his throat. “I think Boston might be upset.”

“You think?” Shane hisses.

“Hard to say,” David shrugs, glancing at him with concern. 

“Whistle blows... and Kent gives Marlow a heavy shove into the boards! Marlow turns around—the gloves are off! We’ve got a fight!”

“Marlow lands a heavy right hand! Kent tries to answer, but Marlow’s got hold of him!”

“Nice punch,” Yuna says, her phone long forgotten in favor of watching the game. 

Shane whips around to look at her. “Mom!”

“What?”

“How can you support this?” Shane asks, his voice rising.

“They’re doing this for you,” Yuna says. There is a dangerous glint in her eyes. “Of course I support it.”

“But they’re—” going to get themselves in trouble, Shane cannot bring himself to say. Ilya is going to get himself in trouble.

While Shane is stuck in this hospital bed, completely useless, unable to help him. Because Ilya is stupid and irresponsible and has the worst fucking timing in the universe.

Shane’s phone buzzes on the mattress. 

Considering the fact that his mother had personally deleted all his news, social media, and email apps, and blocked most of the league’s official contacts from reaching him, the list of remaining options is incredibly small. 

Shane glances at the screen.

Hayden: alrigh

Hayden: im not saying i understand 

Hayden: but im kinda starting to?

Shane picks up the phone and furiously types out a response. 

Shane: It’s not funny!!

Shane: He’s going to out himself and get himself fired and deported!!! 

Hayden: dude, relax

Hayden: they can’t fire the whole roster

Hayden: they haven’t actually done anything so far 

So far is the exact part that scares him. Hayden is right—they haven’t given the league a real handle to grab onto yet. Pride tape isn’t against the rules. Checks aren’t against the rules. Marlow dropping the gloves isn’t unusual in the slightest.

But Shane highly doubts it will stay this way through the end of the game, and especially the post-game interviews. Ilya doesn't do subtle.

Five minutes left in the third period.

Aucoin hasn’t returned to the ice. 

Marlow is still sitting in the penalty box, looking entirely unbothered after beating the absolute shit out of Kent.

St-Simon scores, extending Boston’s lead to 4-1. At this point, the Bears are basically guaranteed to win.

On the screen, Ilya and Carmichael both look up toward the rafters, checking the replay on the jumbotron.

Then at each other.

Then, in perfect synchronization, both of them slowly turn toward Barrett.

Shane swallows.

*

“—we saw a massive spike in physical play tonight, specifically targeted at Toronto’s top line,” a reporter says from the crowd. “Was that part of the game plan coming in?”

Cliff Marlow, tired, sweaty, and sporting a fresh red welt under his left eye, stands before a crowded wall of microphones. There is an unmistakable satisfied glint in his eyes. “Game plan? It’s just hockey, man,” he shrugs.

“There were a lot of heavy hits on Barrett, Kent and Aucoin specifically.”

“Those guys play a lot of minutes,” Marlow says. “They’re gonna get hit.”

“You also picked up five minutes for fighting Kent.”

“Like I said, intense game,” Marlow says easily.

(“Good,” Yuna murmurs. “If they don’t admit to a pattern, the league can’t prove intent.”)

“Cliff, to follow up on that,” another reporter breaks in, leaning forward. “What about the pride tape?”

“What pride tape?” Marlow asks, his face an absolute blank slate.

(Shane lets out a bitter, dry chuckle. “That’s laying it on a little thick, don’t you think?”)

“The rainbow tape,” the reporter clarifies, sounding slightly bewildered. “The tape you and the rest of the roster had on your sticks for the entire game?”

“Oh,” Marlow says. “Really? That’s nice.”

“So… that wasn’t a coordinated team statement?”

“Of course not,” Marlow says. “I was using it for the coral reefs, actually.”

A heavy beat of silence fills the press room.

Shane blinks.

“…The coral reefs?” the reporter repeats slowly.

“Yes!” Marlow smiles, leaning closer to the microphone. “I love coral reefs,” he adds, his voice suddenly serious and somber. “They’re disappearing, you know? Pollution. Global warming. It’s a big problem, but many people don’t know. Or they don't care. It’s sad.”

“So, just to clarify for the record… you’re using pride tape tonight to raise awareness about… marine ecosystems?”

“Yes!” Marlow’s smile widens. “Did you notice the colors? They’re so bright and beautiful. Just like coral reefs when they’re happy and healthy. We need to keep them this way, don’t you think?”

“Of—of course—” the reporter stammers, completely derailed.

Beside the hospital bed, David starts shaking with silent laughter. Shane and Yuna both turn to look at him.

“Sorry,” David says, raising a hand to cover his mouth, though his shoulders are still shaking. “Sorry. The coral reefs. That’s brilliant!”

Shane stares at the screen, his chest tight. It isn't brilliant. It's reckless.

Before the reporter can salvage the interview, the broadcast feed cuts away from the podium to a clip of Connors standing in front of a different media backdrop.

“Could you tell us why you chose to use the pride tape tonight?”

“Well, Autism Awareness Day was earlier this month,” Connors says. “I kind of felt bad about not acknowledging it back then, but hey, better late than never, right?”

The reporter frowns, glancing down at their notepad. “You’re using rainbow pride tape for autism awareness?”

“Yes! It’s just like the symbol, isn’t it? A rainbow ribbon wrapped around itself. Except here, it’s wrapped around a hockey stick.”

“…I thought the symbol was a blue puzzle piece,” the reporter says, confused.

“Oh, no, no, no—“

*

“—bees.”

“…Bees?” 

“The bees are disappearing, aren’t they?” Carmichael looks at the reporter with an intensity that borders on terrifying. He’s sitting in his stall in the locker room, skates off, and the purple-red bruising from the game’s heavy hits already blossoming prominently across his bare shoulders.

“So,” the reporter says slowly. “The pride tape… the stripes… they represent the stripes… on the bees?”

Carmichael looks extremely offended by the suggestion. “What? No. That would be stupid. The colors of the tape are for the colors of the flowers that bees eat. Obviously.”

“Obviously,” the reporter echoes. Carmichael gives them one last dirty look, turns his back, and aggressively begins rummaging through his duffel bag to signal that the interview is over.

*

(“This is ridiculous,” Shane says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Ridiculous and stupid.”

“It is,” Yuna says. “It’s excellent. The league is going to be absolutely furious, and there isn't a single thing they can do about it.”)

*

“It’s Carmichael’s birthday in two months,” St-Simon proclaims to the small cluster of media around him, not even looking up from whatever he’s furiously typing into his phone.

The reporter blanks. They don’t seem to have any actual follow-up questions for that. “His… birthday?”

“Yes,” St-Simon says, still texting. “He really likes bright colors, see? So we’re, like, decorating. In advance.”

“Right,” the reporter says, shaking their head before remembering their actual job. “Was the decision to… decorate… made by Rozanov?” 

St-Simon’s head whips up, his eyes narrowing. “Meaning?”

“I mean—it looks like a highly organized, unified effort across the entire roster. It’s logical to assume that the team captain—”

“You think we wouldn’t make an effort for Carmichael’s birthday without Roz telling us to?” St-Simon interrupts, his voice dropping into a dangerous, threatening register.

“Oh, no—I mean, I wasn’t implying—”

“We’re a team. A family,” St-Simon says. “We don’t need to be ordered by our captain to care about someone. We just do. Together.”

“…Of course. Thank you.”

*

Down in the concrete hallway outside the locker room, a single, rogue reporter manages to intercept Ilya as he walks toward the exit, his gear bag slung over his shoulder.

“Captain Rozanov! Could we get a quick comment from you?”

Ilya stops, turning slowly. “Comment?”

(Please, Shane thinks. Please don’t say anything stupid.)

“Your team seems to be bringing awareness to a lot of different causes on the ice tonight.”

Ilya gives a short, solemn nod. “Good. Many causes deserve awareness.”

“Which one are you personally supporting today, then?”

“Workplace safety.”

The reporter pauses, the microphone dropping an inch. “…Pardon?”

“Is Health and Safety Day today,” Ilya says, his voice flat, completely devoid of his usual post-win charm. “Worker’s Memorial Day, too. For people injured at work.”

Shane’s breath hitches in his throat. He stares at the screen, his heart hammering violently against his splinted ribs. 

“Very important cause,” Ilya continues, looking dead into the camera lens. “Lots of terrible injuries preventable with proper management.”

“…Could you expand a bit on the ‘proper management’ part?”

Ilya tilts his head, looking mildly confused by the question. “I’m the captain, yes? Means I am management for my team. It’s my responsibility to do research and to keep them safe.” 

Shane lets out a relieved breath. That wasn’t terrible. Arrogant and unnecessary, but not absolutely disastrous. 

The relief doesn’t last long. 

“Right,” the reporter says. “And would you please clarify how exactly the pride tape relates to the issue of improper management and workplace injuries?”

The look Ilya gives the reporter reminds Shane of the velociraptors in Jurassic Park—cold and calculating, but slightly amused all the same, in some dangerous, detached kind of way. 

“Why would it be related?” Ilya asks.

“…Well, you are using it.”

“And?” Ilya blinks. It’s just a millisecond slower than normal. 

“….And I was wondering if it had anything to do with… recent events?”

“What recent events?”

“…It’s been all over the internet. The Game 5 broadcast in Montreal.”

“Ah,” Ilya says. “I don’t go on the internet too much during playoffs. Too many distractions, you understand?” He smiles at the reporter. It’s terrifying. “No, I only check official NHL channels to see if there is something important.” He shrugs. “Did not see anything.”

“….Right.”

“More questions?” Ilya asks, the picture of politeness and innocence, as if he’s not actively playing Russian roulette with the league's front office, using Shane’s destroyed lungs as a punchline.

“….No. No, thank you. Have a good evening, Captain.”

Ilya turns on his heel and walks out of the stadium.

“Rozanov’s not that bad,” Yuna muses somewhere to Shane’s right.

Shane seethes.

* * * * *

[Part 2: Bargaining & Depression] 

“Please, 

stay alive. 

If you don’t, 

I’ll have to die, too. 

You’ll go straight to heaven, of course—

—and frankly, I doubt I could follow you.”

Ilya’s phone buzzes the moment he steps outside the arena.

His heartbeat quickens. 

He thinks he knows who it is, but he doesn't want the disappointment just yet if he’s wrong. So he doesn’t look. Not yet. He shoves his hands into the pockets of his coat and walks towards the river instead. 

Technically, Ilya is cheating. He held strong for days—he didn't call, didn't text. But nobody said he couldn't stage a bit of a performance. And if he knows Hollander as well as he thinks he does, he won't be able to stay silent after a game like that.

Ilya stops for a moment to protect his cigarette against the cold night wind as he lights it. He did exactly what he wanted to do on the ice tonight. He’s satisfied. He’s happy, even. If there is a heavy feeling of dread in his stomach, and a restless frustration still boiling deep inside him like an active volcano, it’s just him being tired. A normal post-adrenaline drop. That is all.

He leans against the railing, looking out at the dark water. The Charles River Dam is a complex bouquet of sensory experiences—the sounds of Boston at night, the lights of the city reflected off the surface of the water, the smell of mud and river silt, the ugly concrete structure itself—it all feels like home. 

Ilya took a walk by the Moskva River on his last day in Russia—after the funeral, when he already knew he wasn’t coming back. He walked for hours, listening to the traffic, smelling the water, watching strangers pass by, and desperately looking for something to miss. The city was familiar enough to hurt when thinking he won’t see it again, but there was an emptiness of sorts behind the feeling. 

Almost every memory he has of Moscow is an empty chestnut shell—prickly on the outside, but hollow inside.

The physical places that held the memories closest to his heart are completely gone. The old family apartment was sold. The tiny, quiet park with the rusty swing set where he played as a child was torn down, replaced by a massive, brightly colored plastic playground—mass-produced and soulless.

The ancient little corner shop where he had been buying his vodka and cigarettes since he was thirteen looked exactly the same, but somehow, that only made it worse. Peering through the glass panel, he thought he saw the exact same cashier who had worked there for a decade. It might have been a trick of the light, but he didn't go inside to check. Either the woman was a stranger, or she was the same and wouldn't recognize him, or she was the same and would. All three options were equally terrifying for different reasons.

So he had just walked the riverbank, touching the stone parapets. The stone was old, unchanged, cracked under the weight of a century, but it wasn’t as comforting as he thought it would be. 

History, but not his. 

Ilya put his heart in people, not places. 

One of those people was long buried. The other might or might not have just sent him a text message.

Ilya sighs. No time like the present.

He finishes his cigarette, flicks the butt into the dark, and pulls the phone from his pocket. 

Pike: 1 new message.

So he was wrong.

The sudden flash of anger is quickly overpowered by a wave of intense frustration. 

He hates the lack of information. He wants to know everything. Ideally, he wants to be there in Montreal, inside that hospital room, from the very beginning. He knows he could handle it so much better than Pike did. He’d know exactly what sounds or materials to keep away from Shane when he's miserable. He’d know when to tell people to shut up and leave the room. If he had been there on day one, things would have been better.

Or maybe they wouldn't. 

The realization that he might not actually know Hollander as well as he thought is a heavier disappointment than the lack of a text itself. Besides, Hollander doesn't want him there. That is a boundary, and Ilya will not cross it to make things worse for him. He is a deeply selfish man, yes, but not about this.

He shouldn’t be angry at Pike, anyway. He’s been incredibly useful—whatever information Ilya does have, he owes entirely to him. 

Since the initial emergency passed, Pike has become significantly more selective with his updates, keeping his texts brief and impersonal. But the facts he provides are clear:

Shane's condition: Bad, but improving.

Did he accept the medication: Yes, thankfully.

Parents: Situation seems fine. They are at the hospital every day.

The League: No updates. It’s a massive legal mess. Shane’s agent and mother are handling everything on behalf of them both, and Pike doesn't have the mental capacity to follow the details.

The Voyageurs: No updates there either. Pike says the entire team is under strict instructions not to contact either of them.

How did the Voyageurs know about Shane: Shane told them everything himself.

Why would he do that: Sorry, you’ve reached the limit of your free daily answers from Hayden Pike. Try again tomorrow, or preferably never.

Ilya sighs, sliding down until he's sitting flat on the concrete walkway. He doesn't care if the ground is dirty or freezing. His shoulder throbs, and a dull, familiar ache is starting to spread across his ribs and thighs as the adrenaline completely drains out of him. He barely registers it. He just pulls the pack out of his coat pocket to grab another cigarette, looking up at the stars. Please, he thinks absently, with no particular thought behind the prayer.

The phone buzzes in his palm.

Slowly, he sets the unlit cigarette and the pack down on the ground beside him. Takes a deep breath, and looks at the screen.

Jane: 1 new message.

Ilya freezes.

Then, a laugh of pure relief breaks from his chest. He looks up at the dark water, then back down at the lit screen. Jumps to his feet, spinning around on the walkway, holding the phone tightly against his chest as a massive wave of butterflies explodes in his stomach.

He feels like a child. He is happy. He is giddy.

He does know Hollander after all. He watched the game, and he texted. He probably waited until his parents finally left the room for the night before he did. 

Ilya’s hands are shaking as he unlocks the screen to read the text.

Jane: Seriously?

Ilya stares at the word. 

Oh, Hollander must be furious.

A massive grin spreads across Ilya's face. What an absolute privilege, he thinks, to have Shane Hollander be angry at you.

He sits back down on the cold concrete, leaving the cigarettes forgotten on the ground. 

He’s still smiling when he looks up at the stars again, and whispers, 

thank you.

“Please, 

just stay with me.

Can’t you see? 

I can only live through you. 

The love I carry for you 

would be more than enough 

for both me 

and you.”

* * * * *

Ilya answers within a minute.

Shane: Seriously?

Lily: hi

Lily: are you okay??

Lily: hurts a lot?

Shane lets out a long, slow breath, careful not to expand his lungs too much.

Shane: I’m fine.

Shane: This was really stupid.

Shane: And dangerous.

Shane: They can punish you too now.

Lily: too?

Lily: they did something already??

Shane rolls his eyes at the screen.

Shane: Not yet. 

Shane: Not as far as I know, at least. 

Lily: good

Lily: are you still in the hospital?

Lily: do you have good painkillers now?

Shane deliberately ignores the small, persistent burst of warmth in his chest, forcing himself to stay on topic. Mainly: his sheer annoyance with Ilya.

Shane: Ilya.

Shane: I’m serious. 

Shane: Now is the worst possible time to put yourself in danger for no reason. 

The indicator shows Ilya typing, then stopping. The cycle repeats twice more, until a single line appears:

Lily: i had a good reason.

Shane bites his inner lip, staring at the words. He has no idea how to reply to that without stepping into dangerous territory. Before he can figure it out, another message pops up:

Lily: can i call you?

Shane looks around the empty, darkened hospital room. 

What does he have to lose, really?

Shane: Okay.

The screen changes to an incoming call, and Shane slides the bar to answer. He swallows hard, adjusting the phone against his ear. “Hey.”

“Hi.”

Shane can hear the background noises of distant traffic and the sharp whistle of the wind. Ilya must be outside. Neither of them speaks for a long moment, the quiet stretching out. Shane feels his nerves tightening by the second. 

“Impressive game,” he says, just to break the silence. “Nothing says ‘I care about workplace safety’ like purposefully injuring three people at your workplace.”

Ilya lets out a short, nervous chuckle. “Yes, well. I did say I care about safety of my team.”

“I noticed,” Shane says, leaning back slightly into the stiff pillows. “Did you give them cue cards for the interviews?”

“Ah, no. They looked for causes to support themselves. Homework.”

Shane rolls his eyes. “I guess that explains the bees. How did you even convince them to do it?”

“Didn’t have to,” Ilya says. “Was their idea, mostly.”

“Really?”

“Yes. I wanted to murder all Toronto.”

“Aw,” Shane says flatly. “Was that a compromise?”

“Yes.” Ilya’s voice sounds completely serious. “Coach would not allow pride tape for more than three murder attempts. Said we have to choose between statement and… massacre.”

“Well, the statement certainly went through. Even my parents like you now.”

Ilya takes a sharp, audible breath. Shane freezes, mentally berating himself for letting the conversation slide into something personal.

Silence stretches between them for a few seconds. Then, the characteristic, sharp click of a lighter echoes through the line. Shane has a sudden, completely irrational thought that he actually sort of misses the smell of Ilya’s cigarettes.

“They were okay?” Ilya asks quietly. “When you talked. After the game.”

Shane swallows the lump in his throat. “Yeah. They’re fine with the… well. You know. They're still angry that I didn’t tell them about the team, though. And that I played injured.”

“Yes. Was very stupid to do it.”

“Coming from the person who just pulled… whatever the hell that was tonight?”

“I am not injured,” Ilya argues.

“It could be worse than that, Ilya. You could be fired. Or outed.”

“Maybe,” Ilya says. Shane can practically hear the careless shrug through the phone.

“Ilya.”

A pause.

“…Shane.”

Shane closes his eyes. “Why did you want to come here?”

Ilya matches his tone, his voice serious. “Needed to see that you were okay.”

Shane nods automatically, then sighs, looking up at the ceiling and shaking his head against the pillow. “And then what?” he asks. 

“What?”

“You’d come here. Make sure I’m not dead. Potentially out yourself to the world in the process,” Shane says, a bitter, sharp edge creeping into his tone. “Then what? We pretend it never happened and go right back to ignoring each other’s existence?”

“…If you wanted to, yes,” Ilya says carefully.

“No,” Shane snaps. “That’s what you wanted.”

The line goes completely silent for a long, agonizing moment.

“I don’t want that now,” Ilya says, his voice barely above a whisper.

“What do you want, then?”

Another long silence follows. Shane can hear the distant wind on Ilya's end before a heavy, resigned sigh breaks through.

“You.”

Shane’s breath hitches. “What.”

“I only want you. I did before, too. I never stopped.”

“You seemed to stop just fine last year,” Shane bites out. He knows it’s a lie. He knows it’s cruel. He wants to be cruel now.

Ilya speaks slowly, choosing each word with agonizing care. “I wanted to… to give us a chance. At normal life. To be happy. No danger. No hiding.” He exhales heavily. “I wanted you to be happy.”

“Gee, thanks,” Shane says, his grip tightening on the phone. “I feel so much happier now. Do you?”

“No,” Ilya says bluntly. “Feel like I died that day.”

It’s the tone—completely devoid of armor, painfully honest—that cuts straight through Shane's defenses.

A pathetic, involuntary sniffle escapes Shane's nose. “Fuck,” he breathes. His throat tightens, the sudden constriction making his lungs throb. 

“Hollander,” Ilya says, his tone immediately spiking with worry. He definitely heard that. “Shane. Fuck. I’m sorry.”

“I know,” Shane says. Logically, he knows Ilya is probably apologizing for almost making him cry, but the emotional, exhausted part of his brain chooses to interpret it differently. “I know you’re sorry. I know it hurt you, too. You think I don’t know that, Ilya? But it’s not… you can’t just say sorry and reverse it. Or just show up at the hospital like I was supposed to be waiting for you to come back the whole year.”

“I never expected you to wait for me,” Ilya says, his own voice shaking.

“But I did!” The words burst out of Shane’s mouth before he can stop them. “I waited the whole fucking year! And I would have waited longer! But I…”

He’s full-on sobbing now, the tears spilling over his cheeks. It’s embarrassing. The heavy, convulsive gasps hurt him physically—a sharp, stabbing punishment with every breath, but he can’t stop the dam from breaking. 

Shane forces himself to take a few shallow, ragged breaths, trying to steady his voice. “You broke my fucking heart, Ilya. You said you died that day? You fucking killed me first. Do you see the difference? You did this to both of us. You left me, and it all fell apart.” His voice cracks, dropping to a broken whisper. “Everything fell apart without you. I was so fucking alone. I couldn’t tell my parents about you, or Hayden. I lost my whole team. And I… I missed you so fucking much. Every day. I still miss you.”

“I miss you too,” Ilya whispers, completely shattered.

“I wish you were here right now,” Shane says. Then, driven by a wild, desperate impulse, the words slip out in a language he'd spent years practicing in secret: “Хочу чтобы ты был здесь.”

A choked, strangled sound comes through the line. Then, Shane hears something he’s only ever heard once before—a sound that makes his chest ache completely independent of his injuries.

Ilya is crying, too. 

“You learned how to say it,” Ilya whispers.

“I did. You were supposed to teach me.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” Ilya is clearly falling apart on the other end of the line. “I’m so sorry, Shane. Just tell me what to do. I’ll come to Montreal right now. Car, plane, I don’t care. If you want me to come, I’ll come. Break all laws to do it.”

“I know,” Shane says, closing his eyes again as the tears start to dry on his skin. “I know you would. But it wouldn’t change anything, would it?”

“What?”

Shane knows that Ilya is telling him the truth. He can hear it in his voice. He knows. But he’ll never be able to fully believe it. 

He wants to ask Ilya to come here right now and hold him, make him whole again. He also never wants to see Ilya again. Because the pain he feels now? He won’t survive that again. He’s not strong enough.

“Ilya, I can’t…” Shane tries to control the trembling in his chest. “I can’t let you back into my life just to wait for you to leave again.”

“Shane—”

“—And even if you think you wouldn’t do that, you can’t possibly promise me that,” Shane rushes to add. “People change. Life happens. You cannot promise me forever, and I cannot accept anything less.” His voice cracks again. “I can’t do it a second time. I can’t lose you again. Please, Ilya.”

Shane doesn’t even know what he’s asking for anymore. He’s begging for a magical solution to a problem that doesn't have one. If one existed, he knows Ilya would fight the world to get it for him.

“I’m sorry,” Ilya whispers after a long, agonizing silence.

The words sound final. It’s both an apology and a quiet confirmation—there is no magical solution, and they both know it.

“I know,” Shane says softly. “Me too.”

They remain on the line, two pathetic, stupid, supposedly adult men listening to each other fall apart over the phone, with absolutely nothing left to say to make it better. 

Ilya had just given him everything, and absolutely nothing, all at the same time.

“—Would you like the whole sea, 

bright with distant

 sails? 

Or music 

that has never existed before? 

Would you like me

 to murder the neighbors 

whose voices keep you up at night?

The whole sun 

as your personal lamp?

The Alps, right beyond your window? 

…Or,

 would you like me to give up my songs?

Would you want me 

to give up every single song 

I’ve ever written

 for you?”

[Lyrics from «ХОЧЕШЬ?» by Zemfira. 

Transcreation by anelaavotarum.]

*

[April 29, 2018] 

Shane wakes up late the next morning to the vibration of his phone against the mattress.

Hayden: 1 new message.

Shane grabs the phone immediately, his stomach dropping the second he reads the name. Not Ilya.

He doesn’t remember how the phone call ended last night. The meds and the emotions had blurred the edges of his memory, leaving behind only the lingering echo of Ilya’s voice. He doesn’t even know if Ilya is okay. Shane, at least, had been safe in a hospital bed with his family nearby. Ilya had been out on the street, alone, sounding completely wrecked.

There are no texts from him today. No missed calls. Either something happened to him (a thought too unbearable to dwell on), or he’s asleep (highly unlikely), or… it’s over. Shane had spent the entire call being cruel and mentally unstable, effectively destroying his final chance of ever having Ilya back. 

The exact chance he wasn't supposed to want anyway. Didn’t want anyway. 

Shane stares at the screen.

Hayden: hey

Hayden: are you okay?

Without really thinking it through, Shane unlocks the phone and presses the call button.

Hayden picks up on the second ring. “Hey, buddy. You alright?”

“Hayd. I fucked up,” Shane chokes out. His throat feels tight. He cannot remember ever asking another person for help this directly before, but the pressure in his chest is unbearable. He needs to say it out loud or he’ll burst.

“What? Shane—”

“I don’t know what’s happening to me,” Shane says in a terrified whisper. 

“Shit,” Hayden says. In the background, Shane can hear the distinct sound of a child’s voice, followed by the clatter of a plastic toy hitting a hard floor. Hayden murmurs something low to… Arthur?, his footsteps echoing as he walks down a hallway and shuts a door to quiet the noise.

The familiar background sounds throw Shane into a sudden spiral of guilt. He closes his eyes. What is he even doing? Hayden has his own family, his own broken hand, and enough of Shane's actual career drama to deal with already. Now Shane is dumping his emotional baggage on top of it.

“Can you tell me what’s wrong?” Hayden asks carefully, his voice dropping. “Is it… is this about last night?”

The question surprises Shane clean out of his spiral. “What?”

Silence hangs on the line for a beat.

“Hayd,” Shane says, his voice tightening. “What do you mean, last night?”

Hayden sighs. “Rozanov called me.”

“When?”

“Like, five minutes ago, maybe?”

Shane exhales, his shoulders dropping slightly. Ilya is okay. Physically, at least.

“He didn’t insult me once, can you imagine?” Hayden continues, though there’s no real humor in his voice. “Didn’t really sound like himself.”

“How did he sound?”

“I don’t know. Tired. Soft.”

Shane presses the back of his hand over his eyes. More guilt.

“He said you two talked last night and it upset you,” Hayden says. “Asked me to check on you. Like, actually asked. Used his magic words and shit.”

“He didn’t want to check on me himself?”

Hayden chuckles dryly. “Believe it or not, that was the first thing I asked him. Like, he doesn't actually pay me to be his secretary.”

“And?”

“He said he doesn’t want to make it worse.”

Shane keeps his eyes shut, listening to the hum of the hospital's ventilation system.

“Does he?” Hayden asks quietly, when Shane doesn’t say anything for a while. 

“What?”

“Make it worse?”

“No. Yes. I don’t know,” Shane says, his fingers twisting into the hospital sheets. “It might just be me.”

“Do you wanna… talk about it?” Hayden asks. His tone makes it entirely obvious that he does not.

Shane shakes his head against the pillow. Would talking even change anything? The facts are already set. “I think I… I think I just need to think about it right now.”

“Okay. If you’re sure.”

“I am. Thanks, Hayd. And… I’m sorry.”

Hayden sighs. “Don't worry about it, alright? Just get some rest. I'll text you later.”

The call clicks off.

*

Shane Hollander has never been an impulsive man. With the strict exception of hockey, he has never been a particularly proactive one, either. 

Throughout his entire life, he had been perfectly content to let circumstances work themselves out, usually with his mother directing traffic in the background.

The only times he can remember being genuinely proactive involved Ilya.

Like: 

Sinking to his knees in front of Ilya for the very first time in that hotel room. He had been terrified, his hands shaking with nerves, but he had wanted it so badly that he did it anyway. That single moment changed everything.

Then, talking to Ilya in Tampa. Telling him he was gay. Telling him he wanted more than just quick, hidden encounters. That he liked him. That he wanted him.

Shane tries to think of other moments, but his brain comes up empty. The only two times in his life when he had been genuinely brave, it was for Ilya. 

Every good thing in his life had been directly tied to Ilya. Then Ilya left, and the foundation crumbled.

Though, as he stares blankly at the white ceiling tiles, Shane remembers one other moment of bravery. One that hadn't involved Ilya—at least not directly—but it was the exact moment that set his current destruction into motion.

February 12, 2018. Two and a half months ago.

They had just finished a grueling practice, the air in the locker room thick with the smell of sweat and damp gear. Shane had been sitting in his stall, staring at his skates, completely hollowed out. He hadn't been paying attention to the noise around him until his own name started bouncing off the concrete walls.

"Hollander's completely checked out again," one of the wingers had laughed, throwing a roll of sock tape across the room. "What's the matter, captain? Lily put you on ice?"

"Leave him alone," another added, chuckling. "She probably found a guy who actually speaks more than three words a day."

"Seriously, Shane. It's been months. Just call her and apologize for whatever boring thing you did."

“…If she’s even real.”

“Okay, but have we considered that it’s a code name for his mom?” Drapeau chimed in from the corner of the room, immediately exploding with laughter at his own joke. 

“…Well, in this case I’d definitely apologize.”

Hayden snorted. “Fucking idiots,” he whispered somewhere to Shane’s right with an amused shake of his head. 

The teasing was standard locker room noise. It wasn't malicious. They didn't know the facts. They still thought "Lily" was a woman Shane had been seeing occasionally, when the opportunity turned up. 

Increasingly, some of them seemed to think Lily did not exist at all. Funny, how the most insane theories sometimes are the ones that come closest to the truth. 

Shane still doesn’t remember the exact trigger. He just remembers the sudden, familiar impulse he usually got right before chasing down a loose puck. He finished changing, stood up, and faced the room.

The laughter died instantly. Twenty-four hockey players stopped moving, turning to look at their captain.

“You’re right,” Shane said, flatly. “Lily was a fake name.”

The silence that followed was palpable, the kind of heavy, suffocating drop that happens when the air is sucked straight out of a room. A roll of tape stopped rolling across the rubber floor, clicking against a bench. 

“Not because she didn’t exist,” Shane continued, his voice echoing way too loudly against the concrete walls. “But because Lily is a guy. A guy I was seeing. A guy I really liked.” His voice cracked on the last word. He pretended not to notice. “And now I’m not seeing him anymore, and no apology is going to change that, and none of this is fucking helping.”

The locker room stayed frozen. Nobody spoke. Nobody blinked.

Shane didn't wait for a reaction. He turned on his heel, grabbed his bag, and walked straight out of the room. He remembers briefly catching the look on Hayden’s face just before the door slammed—a mixture of shock and intense guilt. 

Shane had heard Hayden’s voice calling out his name, his heavy footsteps rushing down the concrete hallway to follow him, but Shane hadn't stopped until he was out of the arena, closing his eyes against the freezing, sobering gust of wind. 

He never truly went back into the same locker room after that. 

Things only grew steadily worse, colder, and more isolated—until April 25th, when Shane made yet another stupid, impulsive decision, and destroyed his life entirely with a live microphone.

Shane thinks that maybe he should be legally forbidden from attempting to be brave. Why does he even keep trying? 

But he knows why. It’s because of that specific feeling—the precise fraction of a second when you’ve already done the stupid thing, but the other foot hasn't dropped yet. 

The moment he stood in front of his teammates telling them about his feelings for a man, before the information really sank in for them, and they could react. 

The moment he stood on the ice with his best friend by his side, the entire world on the other end of his mic. When nothing else mattered.

Those are the moments between life and death. A star becoming a supernova, outshining an entire galaxy for a single second before it dies completely. In those brief flashes, he feels infinite. He feels like a captain. Like he could do anything, be anything in the world, if only he tried hard enough.

A handful of brave moments in twenty-six years of his life—chasing a puck, chasing Ilya, chasing the approval of the masses. Every single one of them a statement. A declaration. 

Giving away pieces of himself, and desperately asking for love in return.

Right now, looking around the empty hospital room, Shane doesn’t feel like he has any pieces left to give.

But as he stares at the silent phone in his hand, a small, stubborn thought forms in the back of his mind:

…Could he ask for it anyway?

*

[Part 3: Acceptance & Finding Meaning]

@NHL_Updates_Unofficial

No official statement from the NHL following the Boston Bears' widespread use of Pride tape during tonight’s Game 1.

@GuardiansTillIDie

“Awareness about workplace injuries,” and then they go out and physically injure three guys?? Boston can dress it up however they want. Those hits were absolutely targeted.

↳ @bearsgirl81

good?

@DailySlapshot

We still haven’t received any response from Boston management regarding tonight’s events.

↳ @rinkrat22

girl go ask literally anyone else in the nhl 😭 i think boston already said everything they wanted to say

@CoralReefAlliance

We appreciate the unexpected awareness! 🪸🏳️‍🌈 While we can’t confirm any direct connection between coral reefs and hockey sticks, healthy oceans—and inclusive communities—make the world brighter.

@samlikesmovies

every hockey player has apparently signed a blood oath to communicate exclusively through riddles today

↳ @FiveForFighting

idk i thought they were being pretty direct

@mtlfan1997

Why is every single person from Montreal still silent?

@CoffeeAndChaos

So the Boston Bears—who have spent years building a reputation as the league’s biggest assholes—are somehow the ONLY team to publicly acknowledge blatant homophobia and harassment? Cool. Cool cool cool.

↳ @spooky_season_always

tbf they’re not exactly beating the “assholes” allegations tonight either

@BigBadBearsFan

honestly the most impressive part of the entire night was marlow managing to say all that with a straight face

↳ @MarlowsOnionRing

considering the number of concussions he gets per month, i wouldn’t be surprised if he was actually serious

@RozanovsRightWing

“did not see anything” 💀💀💀 omg slay queen 💅

@TD_Garden_Party

connors being the only one to do his research properly is the least surprising development of 2018

*

On the morning of April 29th, Shane Hollander makes the decision to take some control of his life back.

In the early evening of the same day, he clenches his fists, takes a deep breath, and turns toward his parents sitting in his hospital room.

“Hey, Dad?” Shane says.

“Yeah?”

“Mom.”

Yuna doesn’t look up from her phone when she answers. “Yes, baby?”

“Mom,” Shane says again. He swallows hard, deciding to get straight to the point before he runs out of bravery. “Mom, I’m gay.”

That gets her attention. She looks up at him like a deer in the headlights, freezes, and then looks over at his dad before looking back at Shane again.

“Well,” she says, swallowing. “Yes? I mean…”

“You haven’t said anything about it,” Shane says.

“Oh,” she says. “But… you do know we support you, right?” She genuinely looks scared.

“I do,” Shane says. And he does, mostly. But still. “…But we haven’t talked about it.”

Yuna looks terrified. David sighs, reaching over to take her phone directly from where it’s clutched in her hand. He turns it off and places it face down on the bedside table. “Let’s talk about it, then.”

Now that they are both looking directly at him, it becomes a lot scarier. Shane swallows, looking away. He didn’t really prepare what to say once he got to this part. “It’s just that… God.” He rubs his face with his hands. The movement doesn’t hurt that much anymore. “With the team… you said that you’d want to know. Even if you couldn’t help. That something was happening. To me.”

“Of course we did. We do,” his dad says softly.

“Of course,” Mom echoes. “What happened, baby?”

Shane takes a deep breath. 

It starts slow. It starts incredibly awkward. But it starts, and once it does, Shane finds that he wants to keep talking.

He doesn’t tell them about Boston—because his mom is probably better at putting the pieces together than Hayden—but he does tell them the other details he told Hayden and Jackie. The work visa, the high-profile job, the homophobic home country, the family in law enforcement—all the necessary context to describe their situation. Why it was doomed from the start. Why, at some point, he started to hope that it wasn’t. How it all fell apart anyway.

And they listen.

And then he keeps talking.

He tells them things he didn’t tell Hayden. Things he hasn’t told anyone until now. The way Ilya always seemed to know what he needed just by looking at him. The way he looked at him in those rare, peaceful moments, lying together in a dim room, pretending their reality wasn’t real. The way Ilya fell apart in his arms after saying that they couldn’t be together in Tampa.

Shane Hollander, twenty-six years old, sits propped up in a hospital bed, and for the first time in his life, tells his parents that he fell in love.

Somehow, by the time he says it out loud, the concept is not as horrifying as it was before.

“So, what are our options?” Yuna asks, pacing around the room. “The US can grant asylum if returning to his home country is dangerous—”

“Mom—”

“—Or if you got married, he could apply for permanent residency in Canada—”

“Mom!”

David stands up and wordlessly guides her back to the chair while she’s still muttering about contacting Canadian immigration authorities. “You know you don’t have to decide anything now?” he asks Shane.

“I… don’t?”

“No. No one expects you to make all the important decisions today. There’s way too much happening. Take your time. See what you feel is right.”

Shane swallows. “What if I decide too late?”

“Is that even possible?”

“Dad, I was terrible to him. I hurt him so much. What if he—”

“Never forgives you? Stops loving you?”

Shane freezes. The word is still alien to him, even about himself. Saying it about Ilya, out loud, with his parents, feels like taking a thousand steps at once. But somehow, it fits.

“…Would you?” his dad prompts gently. “If the roles were reversed?”

“No,” Shane says. “But—”

“Do you think he doesn’t love you as much as you love him?”

Shane freezes again. Even Yuna seems to have forgotten about immigration policies and is following the conversation intently.

“I think that’s the problem,” Shane says eventually. “We make each other feel too much. It’s just going to destroy us both.”

“Is he worth it?” David asks.

“What?”

“Is he worth getting destroyed for?”

Shane stares, mind suddenly blank. 

“…Risk-reward analysis?” Yuna offers.

A beat, then Shane and his dad glance at each other, and simultaneously start cracking up. The pressure bubble inside Shane bursts. Laughing hurts his ribs, but the relief he feels is stronger than the pain. 

This conversation didn’t help in the slightest. But, it also kind of did.

*

@SaveTheVoyageurs

i do think it’s weird that the guy who’s actively hated hollander for a decade is suddenly waving rainbow flags around for his sake

↳ @rinkrat22

ikr? there has to be more to the story

↳ @RozanovsRightWing

orrr, hear me out, he’s a decent human being??

↳ @nycpizza4life

bro he’s literally russian no one’s risking their whole careers and potentially jail time just to be a decent human being

↳ @RozanovsRightWing

nazi ass logic

↳ @nycpizza4life

HUH

↳ @shanehollanderfan

what if he’s queer too??

↳ @soft_hockey_hours

omg he gives me bi vibes 🥰

↳ @miles_to_go

…are we just assuming people’s sexualities now? 

↳ @spooky_season_always

you’re new here aren’t you

↳ @GoldAndBlackAttack

Ilya Rozanov is literally the straightest human being on earth, are you people actually insane??

*

On April 30th, Shane unlocks his phone. He deliberately avoids the news apps, the social media, and the thousands of other notifications that have been screaming for his attention. 

Instead, he goes directly into his chats.

There are plenty of unread conversations waiting for him—though only a small fraction of what had been there a few days ago, before Yuna started blocking numbers for him. His eyes slide past the unimportant names and numbers to the few that actually matter.

Lily. No new messages. His thumb hovers over the chat for a long moment, but eventually, he scrolls past. It isn't the right time.

J.J. Three new messages. He doesn’t need to open them; Hayden had already told him that he briefly spoke to J.J. on the phone the day after the game. J.J. had confirmed that the entire Voyageurs roster was under extremely strict legal orders not to contact Shane or Hayden in any capacity, and then, after he had made sure Shane was going to survive, he asked Hayden that neither of them reach out to him for a while unless it was absolutely necessary. 

Shane honestly hopes J.J. is handling the fallout okay. At least he doesn’t have to see the rest of the team every single day anymore. 

Shane scrolls past.

Rose. Twenty-six new messages. The last one was sent the day after the game. The first had been sent over two months ago.

Rose had noticed something was wrong with the team, of course. Everyone had. But unlike the others, she wouldn't just let it go. She wanted answers and explanations, and Shane really hadn't wanted to give them to her. He couldn’t lie to her as easily as he lied to his parents, and trying to convince her that he had everything completely under control had been utterly exhausting. Not talking at all had simply been easier. Better—or so he had convinced himself at the time.

Shane stares at her contact name for several minutes. Then, gathering a bit of that leftover bravery he had found the day before, he taps the call button.

*

@NHL_Updates_Unofficial

BREAKING: Boston players claiming the Pride tape used in Game 2 represents "endangered arctic birds' migratory patterns" during post-game presser.

↳ @MarlowsOnionRing

😭😭😭 the commitment to the bit is unreal

*

On May 1st, Shane finally gets discharged and goes home. He feels better, lighter—like the world is a bit more real, brighter, and wider outside the sterile hospital walls.

*

…Then, the reality of his recovery sets in, and it gets worse.

By May 3rd, he is staying at his parents’ cottage, doing very little besides sitting around and watching the playoffs. His mother looks more murderous with each passing day. Shane still doesn’t ask what’s happening, but the tight line of her jaw feeds right into his steady background anxiety.

Physically, he is practically useless. Every single time he has to walk up the cottage stairs, a sharp, tight ache flares in his chest. A matching ache hits him every time a Boston vs. Toronto game flashes on the TV screen, and he catches a glimpse of Ilya on the ice. The rainbow tape is still used by the whole team. Every time a reporter brings it up, Ilya flatly declines to comment.

Shane stares at the TV screen, the truth settling heavy in his gut: he is never going to get over this man.

Increasingly, he finds himself wondering if he should just give up. 

Should he just accept whatever it is Ilya is willing to offer him? Accept that the fear and uncertainty are permanent fixtures of his life now, and see where that takes him? Accept whatever, just to have Ilya close to him again?

*

@AdmiralsAnchor 

I understand why league management is staying quiet. I do not understand why we’ve heard absolutely nothing from dozens of other NHL players.

↳ @SaveTheVoyageurs

now that you mention it… where IS scott hunter? i honestly thought he’d say something

↳ @spooky_season_always

girl just because he’s gay doesn’t mean he has to throw himself into every fire 😭 he’s got his own playoffs to worry about

↳ @nycpizza4life

yeah yeah you want to suck hunter’s dick, we get it.

↳ @ScottyDoesntKnow_HKY

he’s not the league’s fairy godmother. no pun intended 

↳ @SaveTheVoyageurs

but he IS a PUBLIC FIGURE with an ENORMOUS platform. that tends to come with a certain degree of responsibility

*

On May 4th, during the New York vs. New Jersey broadcast, the camera briefly cuts to the stands, showing Kip Grady sitting in the crowd wearing a Hunter jersey. A sharp, ugly wave of jealousy hits Shane right in the chest. He doesn’t even know what he’s jealous of, exactly—them being all happy and in love, sure—but as the camera pans back down to the ice, the feeling deepens. 

Hunter actually gets to play. Hunter is still in the playoffs, chasing the Cup, while Shane is rotting on a couch in Ottawa. The sport he has built his entire identity around is continuing without him, and the vacuum it leaves behind is terrifying.

Later that evening, Shane sits at the wooden kitchen table, mindlessly moving his ugly, disfigured metal shoe around the board. “You still owe me two thousand,” he mutters. “You landed on Boardwalk. With a hotel.”

David groans, counting out his remaining cash. “You’re ruthless.”

“I’m efficient,” Shane corrects. 

The game does nothing to distract him. He’s not at all ready to think about the absolute destruction of his career yet. He can’t face the reality of the league investigations, or what happens to his life if he never goes out on the ice again. And there is only one other thing he can think about that can drown out the hockey-related anxiety with any kind of success. 

“I just want him back,” Shane says quietly, not looking up from the board. “But I know it’s going to be a disaster.”

David hesitates, adjusting his thimble. “Maybe,” he says. “Or maybe it will be the greatest thing in your life. You can’t know that for sure, Shane.”

“But I need to know,” Shane insists, his fingers tightening around a plastic green house. “I can’t take this a second time, dad. He left, and it broke me completely.”

“Did it? You were still playing hockey. You were still moving forward.”

“I was empty,” Shane says. “I was empty, and I was entirely alone.”

“Did you have to be?” David asks gently.

Shane freezes, his posture going rigid and defensive.

“I didn’t mean it that way, son,” David says with a sigh, reaching across the board to gently tap Shane's knuckles until he lets go of the plastic piece. “I just think you sometimes underestimate how much people truly love you.”

*

On May 5th, Hayden sends him a photo of a drawing.

In the picture, a hospitalized version of Shane is depicted looking a lot more violently injured than he ever was in reality. The artists had used an aggressive amount of red crayon—Shane hadn’t realized wax could look quite that expressive.

At the bottom, written in neat, uneven block letters, it reads: Get well soon! Ruby & Jade.

Shane looks at the image on his screen for a very long time.

*

Later that evening, Rose sends him a text out of nowhere. It isn't a cautious check-in or a carefully worded inquiry about his health—she’s just sharing a mundane, funny piece of her day, complaining about a fellow actor who managed to miss the same cue seven times during today’s rehearsal. 

And suddenly, the pieces click together in Shane’s mind.

Rose actually likes talking to him. She misses him, even. 

Somehow, in the background of his mind, he had assumed that Rose stayed friends with him out of pity. That Hayden kept him around out of pure convenience, because they shared a locker room and were similar in age. But looking at his phone now, he suspects that he was wrong. 

For years, his highly analytical brain had managed to miss mountains of obvious evidence. 

Maybe he can actually be loved. Maybe he is worth something to the people in his life. 

And maybe, just maybe, he can start setting his own rules instead of simply accepting whatever is handed to him.

*

On May 6th, Shane opens his chat with Lily.

He sits on the edge of his bed, scrolling through the texts, imagining just how terrified Ilya must have been after his injury. 

Gradually, Shane scrolls up. He spends hours reading backward, wading through years of hidden jokes, deflections, and the painful, heavy silences of their worst moments. It's a complicated, fractured mess of a history. 

But it is history. And it’s theirs.

*

@RozanovsRightWing

the silence is getting louder than the original broadcast at this point

@NHL_Updates_Unofficial

[Image: A shot of the TD Garden stands filled with handmade "We Stand with Hollander" signs, looking down at the Boston bench where a row of player sticks are all wrapped in Pride tape for warmups.]

@nycpizza4life

it’s been a week. there’s still no new information. can we finally talk about something else?

@WeWantTheCup_TOo

yeah, the hollander discourse is getting very old very fast

*

On May 7th, Shane goes for a walk down to the edge of the lake, where the small wooden pier creaks softly against the gentle movement of the water.

The air is crisp, the sun just starting to dip below the tree line, casting long, golden shadows across the ripples. He catches himself thinking, absently, that Ilya would probably love it here.

The realization hits him squarely in the chest—he is still thinking about Ilya as a permanent fixture of his future. 

He doesn't want to live the rest of his life without ever seeing Ilya standing on this pier. Without Ilya meeting his parents properly. Even if it means risking that horrific, agonizing pain all over again, Shane suddenly thinks that experiencing just one sunset together, here, in the place where he grew up, would be totally worth it.

In this scenario, he imagines them swimming out into the deep water together, laughing and daring each other to try and reach the bottom. The lake is probably freezing right now, but the surface looks incredibly tempting.

Anyway, Shane thinks, why does he even need Ilya here to experience it? Why can’t he swim by himself? What exactly is stopping him from doing what he wants right now?

Shane absently pats his pocket to ensure his phone isn't on him—probably left it on the porch table—and steps off the edge of the pier.

*

Ilya picks up on the second ring. 

“Hollander?”

“Ilya,” Shane breathes, an unnatural, steady confidence humming through his veins.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes.” Shane is currently shivering on his porch steps, but that’s not the point. “Amazing. Perfect. Can you talk?” 

“You do not sound okay,” Ilya says. Through the line, Shane hears the familiar click of a lighter.

“I’m fine. I just went for a swim.”

“A swim?”

“Yes. Took a dip in the lake. It was very enlightening.”

“A swim,” Ilya repeats slowly. “In Canada. In May. In a lake. With a punctured lung.”

“Oh!” Shane says, pressing a hand against his shivering chest. “I thought there was a reason I shouldn’t have done that…”

“Hollander—”

“—Listen, I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Ilya asks, his tone turning instantly cautious.

“For the way I talked to you last time. It wasn’t fair of me to blame you for everything that happened.”

Silence stretches over the line, followed by the heavy exhale—presumably of smoke. When Ilya speaks, his voice sounds completely blank. “It was the truth.”

“No! Well, yes, kind of,” Shane says, his teeth literally clicking together now. “But it still wasn’t right for me to say it that way. I know you were doing it for both of us.”

“I was w— Hollander. You’re cold. Are you still outside?”

“Doesn’t matter. Ilya—”

“You are at risk of pneumonia right now, yes? Are you standing outside after swimming in a cold lake?”

“Sitting, technically.” Shane grits out. “It’s fine. It’s just my clothes. I’ll change in a minute, I just need to do this first.”

“You are wearing wet clothes?!”

“Ilya. Please.”

“Hollander.” A heavy, frustrated sigh comes through the receiver. “Need to do what?”

Shane takes a second to steady his breathing. He can be brave. For this, he can. You miss a hundred percent of the shots you don't take, or whatever.

Shane takes another deep breath. “Did you mean it?”

“Mean what?”

“Everything you said. That you miss me. That you… that you still want me.”

“You know I did,” Ilya says, his voice sounding quietly hurt.

“Sorry,” Shane says. “It was a very emotional phone call. I just wanted to make sure—”

“Hollander.” 

“—Can you wait?” Shane asks.

“Wait?”

“For me. I’m…” Shane lets out a tiny, self-deprecating chuckle. “I’m a fucking mess right now, Ilya. I have been for a while. I think I’m getting better, but some days are still really bad, and... It’s…this… whole situation… it isn't helping. But I don’t think it’s you making me worse. I think it’s just something I have to work on by myself to get right. To get better. I want to get better.”

Shane shifts his weight on the cold wooden step before continuing. “And I… I want you, too. I want to try. Just, not right now. And I think I’ve known that for a while, but I was too terrified to admit it. Because what if I’m asking for too much? What if you tell me no? But then I realized that you did it first. You were brave first, and I told you no. And now I jumped into a freezing fucking lake, and it was miserable, but I did it. I was brave and I did it. So now I’m doing this, too.” 

Shane grips the phone tighter against his ear. “I’m being brave again, and I’m asking for what I want. Ilya. Can you please wait for me?”

The silence stretches out so long that Shane briefly wonders if the call dropped.

“Wait for you,” Ilya repeats, his voice flat and unreadable.

“I’m sorry,” Shane says, his confidence faltering. “It’s the best I can do right now.”

Ilya audibly exhales. “Is more than I had before.”

Shane swallows hard against the lump in his throat. “So...”

“I will wait,” Ilya says. “Of course I will wait.”

Shane exhales too, his whole body slumping in relief. “Thank you.”

With the adrenaline fading, the damp cold finally cuts straight through to his bones. He shivers violently.

“Are you still outside?” Ilya asks.

“What? Oh. Yes. Shit. It’s fucking freezing.”

“Go inside. Now.”

“Yeah. I just—”

“Now.”

“Alright, alright. I’m inside,” Shane mutters a minute later. “Wet clothes off. Towel on. Happy?”

“Happier,” Ilya says. Shane can hear the smile in his voice. “Now a warm shower.”

Shane rolls his eyes, smiling. He feels a lot warmer already. “Alright.”

“Hollander?”

“What?”

“You said some days it’s bad,” Ilya says, the light tone vanishing. “Bad how?”

Shane is thrown entirely off balance by the sudden shift. “Um. I don’t know? Not as bad as it was before. Just sad, mostly. Or, like, hopeless. I don’t know. It’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid. You will tell someone if it gets worse?”

“What?”

“Your parents. Pike. You will tell them if you need help?” 

“Ilya, it’s really not that serious.”

“It is,” Ilya says flatly after a beat. 

“Okay,” Shane says carefully. “I promise I’ll tell someone if it gets worse.”

“Thank you.”

Shane clears his throat, leaning against the hallway wall. “Good luck tomorrow.”

“Toronto needs luck,” Ilya scoffs, a hint of a smile returning to his voice. “We don’t.”

Shane chuckles softly. “Good night, Ilya.”

“Good night, Shane.”

*

The next day, on May 8th, Boston officially wins the second round of the playoffs. 

*

@NHL_Updates_Unofficial

THE BOSTON BEARS ADVANCE TO THE EASTERN CONFERENCE FINALS! 🐻

↳ @rozanovs_left_pad

LET’S GO BEARS!!! 

@TD_Garden_Party

for the first time in my life i don’t particularly want to watch the finals… i just can’t bring myself to be excited about hockey rn with everything going on

@AdmiralsNation

FINAL SCORE: NY 4, NJ 2. If New York wins the next game, New Jersey is officially out of the running.

*

It’s May 10th, 2018. 

Two weeks since Montreal’s last game. 

Two weeks of hidden battles and outward silences. Two weeks of incomplete information and league investigations.

In Ottawa, Shane Hollander quietly and with no fanfare turns twenty-seven at his parents' cottage. It isn't a perfect day, but it isn't a bad one, either. His healing is neither fast nor linear, but for once, he feels like he actually has time. He is surrounded by people he loves, and who love him in return. He is even making plans—nothing concrete yet, just vague ideas—but as he looks out over the calm lake, he finds himself wondering what Ilya will be doing come July.

In New York, the Admirals finish the final game of their series against New Jersey—thus securing their place in the Conference Finals against Boston. After the utterly exhausting, grueling series, the team finally earns a few precious days of rest, which they are no doubt hoping to spend enjoying private, uninterrupted time with their loved ones.

In Boston, Ilya Rozanov closes the NHL website, finishes his cigarette, and books the earliest available flight to JFK.

Chapter End Notes

:)

 

hi again!

i am 🤏 this close to interrupting my own text with author's notes, my immortal-style, because i have so!! much!! shit!! to say!!!

believe it or not, i finalized the timeline of this fic way before i went to google "are there any holidays on april 28" and got TWO MOTHERFUCKING WORK SAFETY DAYS. actual accidental fucking goldmine.

this chapter features my first attempts at both smau and translating songs. i had a lot of fun experimenting with both!

btw, i did NOT expect translating lyrics to be so hard?? russian language really went "why say lot word when few word do trick," and now i have to add more words and decide what those words will be? too much responsibility.

but, i really wanted this song in this chapter. i've been listening to it on repeat while writing. i'm now seriously considering writing a few ilya character study one-shots based on the songs i think he'd listen to.

anyway, i am so, so excited for the next chapter already!! it's so fun to write! we're getting a new major character AND a new pov!!

Chapter 4: Yuna Hollander’s Conspiracy Board

Chapter Summary

[Various scheming happens. Several characters from 2018 get a glimpse of what their lives will look like in two years.]

Chapter Notes

hi! i just want to say that while i’m taking a loooong time answering comments, i really do appreciate every single one of them, and i will get to them all eventually!! they help me so much!!

whenever i get another wave of doubt about my writing, i go to my email app and open one notification at random like an advent calendar to make myself feel better.

so genuinely, thank you so much, everyone!! i love you all! and i hope you’ll like where this is going :)

 

reminder:

“*” signifies a scene break

“*****” signifies a POV change

[Present time — May 11, Ottawa]

Yuna sits in the cottage laundry room, the heavy door firmly locked, her laptop balanced on top of the silent washing machine. Behind her, the camera frame captures nothing but a blank, beige wall. Nobody has any reason to suspect she is hiding from her own family next to a basket of dirty towels.

Technically, she has a perfectly good home office down the hall, but that door doesn't have a lock—a detail she didn’t even really notice before today, when she is apparently needed for a top secret meeting. 

The video conference currently has three windows active. 

The first is hers. 

In the second, Hayden Pike sits in a huge office chair, some bookshelves and a decently sized award shelf in the background. His right hand is still trapped in a rigid brace, resting uselessly in his lap. The audio from his feed has managed to be an absolute disaster in the two minutes she’s been in this meeting—right now, somewhere deep in the house, a child screams at a pitch that defies physics, followed by the unmistakable sound of pottery shattering. Hayden doesn’t even flinch. He uses his left hand to slowly work through a family-sized box of dinosaur-shaped crackers, lifting them to his mouth one by one. The microphone picks up every crunch with agonizing, high-definition clarity.

In the pinned host window, sharing a single camera frame, are Scott Hunter and Ilya Rozanov.

Hunter looks like a corpse. His eyes bloodshot, a dark purple bruise blooming across his left cheekbone. Game 6 against New Jersey, triple overtime, almost twenty-four minutes on the ice, and at least three significant impacts to the head and upper body, Yuna’s brain supplies automatically. He sits completely motionless on a standard, wheel-less wooden dining chair. Rozanov, by contrast, seems to be vibrating with energy, although in an equally unhealthy way. He has apparently claimed the room’s only rolling office chair, so he’s celebrating the fact by constantly turning side to side, the hardware letting out a rhythmic, high-pitched creak. Every few seconds, he rolls an inch closer to Hunter, bumping into his chair. Hunter’s eye twitches. Otherwise, he remains perfectly still, staring into the camera. Yuna isn’t entirely convinced he’s blinked since she joined the meeting.

Because Yuna joined five minutes early—she has manners, after all—and most of the others did the same, after the initial introductions the meeting has spent several minutes in uncomfortable silence, interrupted only by the occasional squeal of Rozanov’s chair and Hayden’s relentless crunching.

Hayden decides to break the silence first, clearing his throat. "So, Mrs. Hollander," he says, his voice booming over the speaker.

"Hayden," Yuna acknowledges flatly.

"How's Shane doing?"

"Good,” Yuna says. “Good. He's sleeping. I hope."

"Lucky him," Hayden mutters pointedly, and bites into a new cracker. 

Rozanov smirks, and spins his chair a full ninety degrees and back again.

From Hayden’s feed, another heavy thud shakes his background wall. A faint muffled wail follows. Hayden sighs, looking off-camera. "Guys! I’m on a call!" he shouts, quite loudly. Yuna flinches. 

She would never admit it out loud, but in moments like this, she is quietly grateful she only had one child. Still, watching Hayden completely ignore a sound closer to a detonating warhead than child's play, she reasons that dealing with multiple children is probably excellent preparation for the nerves. A person can’t have too much of those, especially when stuck in a tortuous legal disaster. 

From which she is taking away valuable time by sitting in a laundry room to witness this. 

A sharp chime echoes from her laptop speakers. 

@f.jalali joined the call.

A fourth window finally appears, showing Farah sitting in a pristine, brightly lit office, looking entirely professional.

Hunter clears his throat, blinking himself awake as he straightens in his seat. 

“Great. Thank you for joining us, Ms. Jalali. Now that we’re all here, we can start the—"

*

[Earlier this day — May 11, Ottawa]

“—meeting. With you and his agent.”

Yuna blinks. Her desk has disappeared beneath stacks of player union bylaws, draft legal correspondence, medical paperwork, and no fewer than three copies of the Montreal Voyageurs team handbook. She hasn’t seen the wood surface in days.

Getting a sudden, mid-morning phone call from Scott Hunter—who apparently got her number from Hayden Pike—was nowhere on today’s schedule.

“A meeting,” Yuna repeats, reaching for her planner. “Regarding what, exactly?”

On the other end of the line, Hunter clears his throat. “I’m afraid I can’t say over the phone. It’s a lot to explain. The gist of it is, we have a proposal. An idea of how to… help Shane. Potentially. But since we don't have access to any official details about his contract status or the internal investigation, I'm worried we might accidentally make the situation worse, not better.”

Yuna processes the information in order. “We?” she asks. And then, sharper: “Details about the case?”

“I understand it’s highly private, for obvious reasons,” Hunter says quickly, his tone delicate. “Which is why I think it’s best for us to walk you and Ms. Jalali through our plan, so you can tell us whether the strategy is viable, or whether it interferes with whatever legal strategy you’ve already put in place.”

“Mr. Hunter,” Yuna says, rubbing her temple. “I appreciate the concern, but I’m struggling to see what, realistically, you could do to improve this situation.”

“We just want to help,” Hunter says quietly. “Look, Mrs. Hollander. I know this sounds strange. But if you can spare us thirty minutes, I think you’ll understand what we’re trying to do. Please. We really just want—”

*

[Present time — May 11, Video conference]

“—to make sure our actions will not harm either Shane or Hayden.”

Farah nods on screen, her expression perfectly composed and professional. “I’m glad you decided to contact us before doing anything. It is an incredibly complicated situation.”

Hunter throws a triumphant I-told-you-so glance at Rozanov, who merely huffs and appears to barely refrain from rolling his eyes.

On her side of the screen, Yuna raises an eyebrow. 

In the past couple of weeks, Rozanov clearly demonstrated himself to be decent enough to protect her son, brave enough to do it publicly, and smart enough to deny just enough to escape immediate league execution—all qualities she deeply respects. Unfortunately, he is still the same arrogant, antagonistic asshole he’s always been. 

Still, Yuna reminds herself, she doesn’t have to like him to acknowledge that he’s a valuable ally to have. 

“So,” Hunter starts. “As you all probably know—”

He’s interrupted by the heavy, ominous groan of a door opening.

“Sorry,” a raspy voice mutters off screen.

A figure Yuna barely recognizes as Kip Grady wanders into the camera frame, his hair pointing in three different directions, dark circles under his eyes that rival Hunter’s. He squint-blinks into the laptop screen, waving a limp hand at the monitor. “Hi, everyone,” he mumbles, before leaning down to place two cups on the table. They join the graveyard of at least three abandoned mugs already covering the table surface.

“Normal black coffee for the captain,” Kip mutters, sliding one toward Hunter. “And one unholy potion of espresso and Red Bull for our dear guest.”

“Thanks, Kip,” Hunter mutters.

“Thank you, Kip,” Rozanov says with a lot more feeling, gracing the man with a beaming smile. 

Hunter rolls his eyes so hard it looks painful. Kip produces a muffled, amused chuckle, patting them both on the shoulder before shambling back out of the room and closing the door behind him.

Hunter clears his throat again, hopefully preparing to get to the point as fast as possible. Yuna sits a bit straighter. 

“Wait,” Hayden says suddenly. He’s staring intensely at his screen. “Is Rozanov at your house?”

“Unfortunately,” Hunter says.

“Why is Rozanov at your house?” Hayden sounds genuinely horrified, as if Hunter had casually announced he was housing a rabid raccoon.

“That,” Hunter says, punctuating his sentence with a massive, jaw-cracking yawn, “is a very good question.”

“You’re hurting my feelings, Scott,” Rozanov pouts. “But it’s okay. I know that deep down, you enjoy my company.”

“I really cannot express how much I do not,” Hunter says, exhaling a long, weary sigh. “But unfortunately, removing him is not an option. Anyway, as I was saying—”

“Can’t you kick him out?” Hayden interrupts, still heavily frowning. “Or, like… ask him to leave?”

Yuna closes her eyes to breathe for a second. She likes Hayden, she reminds herself. Farah is scrolling through something on her phone with a look of profound, professional detachment.

Rozanov leans back in his chair and starts cackling, a loud, obnoxious sound that echoes through the audio feed.

Hayden opens his mouth, then quietly closes it again.

Hunter slowly lowers his head, rubbing his temples with both hands. “I’m wondering,” he mutters into his palms, “have you ever tried asking Rozanov to—“

* * * * *

[1 day ago — May 10, New York]

“—leave.” Hunter stands in the doorway in his flannel pajama pants. He looks completely dead on his feet, his expression borderline murderous.

Ilya smiles, leaning casually against the doorframe. “Hello, Scott. Nice to see you too.”

“How did you even get into the building?”

Ilya shrugs. “I have my ways.”

“What kind of an—"

“Aren’t you going to invite me in? Very impolite of you.”

“Rozanov,” Hunter says. “You cannot show up at my apartment, in a guarded building, at eleven PM with no prior warning and actually expect me to invite you in.”

“But—“

“No.”

“Scott.”

“No.”

Ilya looks at him for a few seconds, assessing. Then he sighs loudly and takes a step back, nodding to himself. “Very well,” he says, his voice sad. “I’ll go. I really expected better from you, Scott. But you’re right. I cannot just show up and expect people to care about others.”

“What?—"

“Guess I flew all the way to New York for nothing,” Ilya says, projecting pure disappointment.

“You fl— whatever.” Hunter pinches the bridge of his nose. “Rozanov. What the hell are you on about?”

“Ah, so you also don’t go on the internet during playoffs, yes?” Ilya says. “I approve. Good for concentration.”

“Rozanov—"

“There was a game recently in Montreal,” Ilya continues conversationally. He might or might not be examining his nails. “Very interesting game. People keep talking. Though,” he sighs, “I guess you really didn’t know. Considering that you haven’t said anything.” He looks back up at Hunter, his gaze pointedly cold. 

Hunter stares back. For a few seconds, Ilya genuinely thinks the man might punch him. But eventually, Hunter just exhales a heavy, defeated breath and slumps against the doorframe, looking somehow more tired than he did two seconds ago.

Ilya waits a beat. “So,” he says pointedly. “I guess I will be going now.”

Hunter glares at him, but it’s half-hearted at best. “Oh, fuck you,” he mutters. He sighs, opens the door wider, and walks back inside the apartment, leaving it open behind him. “Kip!” he shouts into the dark hallway. “We have a guest.”

Ilya smirks to himself and follows him in.

*

“So,” Hunter says.

“So,” Ilya says, taking an aggressive slurp of his coffee.

They sit opposite each other at the kitchen island, like they are managing a hostage negotiation. Hunter is stirring a mug of herbal tea, presumably to keep calm. Kip stands at the head of the island, arms crossed, throwing glances at them both with a heavy mix of worry and deep suspicion. 

Hunter sighs. “Rozanov, don’t be a dick. You obviously came here to say something. So say it.”

Ilya leans back, looking at Hunter with an evaluating stare. “What’s your plan?” he asks. 

“Plan?”

“Well, yes. You have been silent for two weeks now. I’m assuming it’s because you have a plan.” Ilya lets the silence stretch for a bit before adding, “Because if you do not have a plan, Scott, then I will have to make other assumptions.”

“A plan,” Hunter repeats flatly. 

“An idea of a plan, maybe,” Ilya shrugs, keeping his eyes locked on Hunter’s. “Something that will help Hollander. Or do you just not care?”

Hunter glares, a spark of anger cutting through his exhaustion. “Of course I care.”

“Really?” Ilya says. “I haven’t seen that yet.”

“What, did you want me to skate around with pride tape, too?” Hunter snaps.

“Maybe,” Ilya shrugs. “I would expect you to come up with something on your own, but if you are not feeling particularly creative, pride tape would be a start.”

“It would have been an end, too. You do understand that no one would believe me if I said it was to protect the rainbow shrimp or something? I don’t have any sort of plausible deniability here.”

“So what, you’re… scared?” Ilya asks. “Thought you were supposed to be our Gay Jesus. Or did you retire from that instead of hockey? Got your support last year, and now everyone else—” Ilya snaps his fingers, eyes briefly flicking to the side. “What is the English expression? Something about monkeys—”

“Hey,” Kip cuts in sharply, stepping closer to the island. “That’s really uncalled for. You don't know what we've been dealing with here!”

Ilya studies him for a moment. Kip is certainly brave. Ilya approves.

“Wait.” Hunter lifts a hand before Kip can say anything else. “He’s right.” He turns back to Ilya. “Look, Rozanov, you’re right. I did get a lot of support. But do you know what else I got? A VIP seat at the top of the commissioner’s personal shit list. Do you know how many meetings I had with my lawyer per month since I came out, because the league hates every single word coming out of my mouth now?"

Ilya opens his mouth, but Hunter talks right over him. “…Since Montreal, you probably got, what, an email asking you not to comment? Maybe a word from your coach?" Ilya shrugs. "Because I had six separate in-person meetings to ensure I will not create unnecessary complications. They’ve hated me for months for my social media activism, but they had no legal reason to ask me to stop. Now? If I say something, anything, it will be a direct violation of a league directive. They will bury me before you can blink!”

Ilya leans back. “So you are scared,” he says flatly. 

“Yes, I am!” Hunter says, voice rising. “And you know what else? I am also entirely useless. What can I do, even if my hands weren’t tied? March to the front office and demand they don’t fire him? Post a message for tolerance and peace on twitter?”

“Messages can be effective. Social opinion matters a lot,” Ilya says. “You know that. You know that better than anyone.” 

“Yes, but to get the social opinion to the point where it would actually affect something, it would have to be a specific message. Something that touches people. And I can’t do specific when I have zero information about what’s happening—”

“You could ask—” Ilya starts.

“I have!” Hunter throws his hands up. “He’s not answering! I emailed him. I asked him to call. But he’s not answering! And without knowing what is happening there, what could I post? 'Homophobia bad?' Sorry, but I’m not risking my entire career for that.” Hunter leans back, rigid, hands folded defensively in front of his chest, daring Ilya to press further.

Ilya leans forward, placing both hands flat on the table. “So,” he says slowly, a corner of his mouth twitching up. “You would risk your entire career for a message that is effective.”

Hunter goes very still. He and Kip look at each other for a few seconds, sharing a swift silent conversation. Then Hunter swallows and turns back to face Ilya fully. “Did you have something in mind?” 

“Maybe,” Ilya says, fully smirking now. “Answer the question.”

“Depends whether the risk is worth it.” Hunter says flatly. 

Ilya glances at Kip.

“Oh,” Kip looks uncertain. He glances at the corridor. “Do you want me to—"

“This affects you too,” Hunter says firmly. “If I’m doing something, you get an equal say.” He looks at Ilya in a challenging way.

Ilya looks at Kip, evaluating. “You’re his boyfriend, yes?”

“Fiancé,” Kip corrects flatly.

Ilya smiles, an actual wide, open smile. “Fiancé!” he says. “That’s great! Congratulations!”

“Thanks?” Kip says, looking a bit uncomfortable.

Ilya turns back to Hunter. “You trust him, yes?”

Hunter looks offended. “Obviously I—”

“—So we have no problem here,” Ilya shrugs, relaxing fully into the chair. 

Hunter and Kip look at each other. Kip sighs, although he looks a lot more relaxed now, as well. “I’m just gonna get more coffee,” he says. “I have a feeling this won’t be a short conversation.”

“Get one for me, then, please,” Hunter sighs, finally abandoning his untouched herbal concoction. He turns back to Ilya. “And never call me Scott again. It’s creepy.”

“I know,” Ilya says. 

*

“So,” Ilya says once they reconvene with fresh mugs of coffee, and Kip pulls up his own chair, actually joining them at the island. “You want to help Hollander, yes?”

“Of course I do,” Hunter says. He sounds sincere. And guilty. Good. “I hate that this is happening.”

Ilya nods. “But do you really want to help. Not just… a hashtag, or something,” he waves his hand. “Actually help.”

“Hashtags can be very useful,” Hunter says defensively.

Ilya gives him a long, flat look.

Hunter sighs, his shoulders dropping. “Yes,” he says. “I really do want to help. But I’m not agreeing to whatever it is until I actually hear it.”

Ilya nods. Fair enough. “So,” he starts. “We need the league to promise that they will not punish Hollander. That Montreal will be punished instead. That they support queer players, and they will continue to support us.”

“And I need a rocket ship,” Hunter mutters, looking at the table. Then he freezes. “Wait. Us?”

Kip looks up from his own mug in surprise. 

Ilya raises a single, amused eyebrow.

“But you’re… With all the women…” Hunter gestures vaguely into the air. 

“Wow,” Ilya says flatly. “Gay Jesus is biphobic. Inspiring.” He slurps his coffee. 

“Holy f— Rozanov. It’s midnight after a playoff series, cut me some slack. Are you actually coming out as bisexual to us right now?”

“Wasn’t planning to,” Ilya shrugs. “You asked.”

“When did I—"

Kip lets out a sharp snort, immediately covering his face with his hand. “Sorry,” he whispers, his eyes bright with amusement. 

“Nevermind,” Hunter says, his face turning a spectacular shade of red. “Or, like. I mean. Thanks for telling me, and whatever the fuck.” He looks incredibly uncomfortable. 

“Inspiring,” Ilya says again. Kip is silently shaking with suppressed laughter, the last of his suspicion seemingly evaporating into pure amusement. Ilya is enjoying himself a lot more than he expected to when he knocked on the door.

“Anyway,” Ilya says before Hunter can respond. “There is a way to get them to agree to this.”

“I’m all ears,” Hunter says.

“There is one thing the league hates more than they hate gay people and scandals.”

“Which is?” Kip asks.

“Losing money.”

“Losing money,” Hunter echoes.

“Yes,” Ilya says. He leans back and takes a very slow sip of his coffee. “It’s good timing now,” he adds conversationally after a few seconds. 

“Oh my god, Rozanov, do you want a drumbeat or something?” Hunter says, his irritation flaring back up. “Get to the point.”

“Good timing for what?” Kip asks, leaning forward, fully hooked. 

“Boston plays New York on Monday," Ilya says, pointedly raising an eyebrow. 

“Believe it or not, I’m aware.”

“Conference finals,” Ilya continues like Hunter didn’t say anything. “Happen to be very expensive games.”

A heavy beat of silence falls over the kitchen.

Hunter puts his cup down with a hollow, echoing thud. 

“Oh my god,” Kip whispers.

* * * * *

[Present time — May 11, video conference]

“Oh my god,” Hayden says, once he’s climbed back into the chair he fell from a few seconds earlier. “What?”

For several long seconds, no one else speaks.

“A players' strike,” Yuna repeats slowly, her eyes wide. Even Farah has abandoned whatever she’d been doing on her phone, blinking at the screen.

“Holy shit,” Hayden mutters. “Holy shit.”

Rozanov is grinning with his whole face. Even Hunter seems satisfied with the effect his words produced.

Farah visibly recovers first. “Tell me the details,” she says, her eyes bright with interest.

“Right,” Yuna says, unconsciously leaning closer to the screen. “You mentioned a plan. There is a plan, right?” Oh, there had better be a plan.

Hunter nods, once again straightening up in his seat. “So,” he says. “As you all probably know, New York is playing against Boston in the conference finals.”

“Nah,” Hayden mutters, apparently to himself. “I don’t think any of us are particularly interested in hockey here.” He still sounds like he’s in shock, staring blankly at his desk. 

Hunter glares. “It’s polite phrasing,” he says. Rozanov snorts with laughter, the movement sending his chair to turn and bump directly into Hunter’s. 

“Anyway,” Hunter continues, looking directly at the screen. “As I was saying. New York is set to play Boston on the evening of the fourteenth.” He pauses.

“Do you want a drumbeat?” Rozanov stage-whispers.

Hunter glares harder. “…On the morning of the fourteenth, at approximately eight AM, the Admirals will publish a statement, announcing that out of solidarity with Shane Hollander, the team will not be playing.”

“Unless?” Yuna says. “If it’s a strike, there have to be conditions.”

“Yes, of course.” Hunter clears his throat again. He has an actual list he’s reading off. Yuna approves. Yuna approves so hard. “First of all, obviously, we’ll need them to promise, publicly, that Shane will not be in any way punished for what happened during the broadcast.” He glances up at the screen. “Of course, the same goes for—”

* * * * *

[1 day ago — May 10, New York]

“—Pike.”

“What?” Hunter looks up from the island. He still looks like he is functioning in a heavy daze.

“We need to add Pike to the list of demands,” Ilya says, tapping a finger on his coffee mug. “He is under investigation, too.”

“Oh,” Hunter says. A flicker of genuine guilt crosses his face. “Shit. I didn’t even think about Pike. Good of you to remember him.” 

Ilya scowls. “It’s not about him. Hollander wouldn’t like it if we didn’t include his friend.”

Hunter looks unconvinced, but he nods anyway.

“…So, just to be clear,” Kip says slowly. “You’re proposing voluntarily giving up the chance to win a Stanley Cup, while also openly defying the league and costing them an obscene amount of money?”

“Not necessarily giving up. If they agree to what we’re asking, we can still play,” Ilya shrugs.

“…I’ll take that as a yes,” Kip says dryly.

Hunter keeps staring blankly at the marble countertop.

Ilya sighs, dropping his shoulders. “You said you want to help. This is the best way. Fast. Effective. Sends a message.”

“I mean, yes!” Hunter says, his voice having a slight hysterical edge to it. “But this… this is huge.”

A corner of Ilya’s mouth twitches up. Hunter sends him a glare. Ilya lifts his hands in a mock-placating gesture and keeps his mouth shut.

“I’d have to talk to some people first,” Hunter says, his mind clearly starting to catch up. “Kip, obviously—”

“I’m right here,” Kip says.

“—In private,” Hunter adds. 

Kip shrugs.

“…My agent, the NHLPA, probably,” Hunter continues. “We need to properly assess the legal risks.”

“Will your team agree?” Ilya asks.

“What? Oh. Yeah, I think so. They won’t like it, but they’ll do it if I ask. Yours?”

“Yes.”

Hunter studies him for a second, but lets it go.

“You could get more people,” Kip muses, his head propped up on his hands. “More players.”

“There are only four teams left in the season now,” Ilya says. “And I don’t think the West would support this.”

“No, probably not,” Hunter mutters.

“They could still help, though,” Kip says. “Other players, I mean. The ones whose seasons are already over. They could post statements. Create visibility. Show… solidarity. It could make a big difference.”

“That’s true,” Hunter says. He glances at Kip with a small, warm smile that Kip immediately returns.

Ilya suddenly finds himself interested in what exactly Hunter spent so long examining on the table surface. 

“…Yes,” Hunter continues, his voice more confident now. He sits up straighter. “We could get more people. I know some guys who would help for sure. We could probably find more. Raise a proper social media storm.”

“I can feel you thinking about hashtags,” Ilya says, smirking. 

“Hashtags are an incredibly useful operational tool for situations like this, Rozanov!” Hunter retorts. He doesn’t even sound tired anymore.

“God, if we’re really doing this, we should dream big, right?” Hunter continues. He is practically vibrating with excitement. Kip watches him with affection and a hint of amusement. Ilya can tell that no private conversation is needed—Kip will not be a problem, either.

“—Like,” Hunter continues, “we shouldn't just ask for a pass for Shane. We could ask for something more permanent. Something lasting. Something like—”

* * * * *

[Present time — May 11, video conference]

“—new inclusion initiatives, long-term policy adjustments, and structural accountability,” Hunter reads off his notepad. He looks up. “We want real, systemic changes.”

“They will never agree to all of that,” Farah says firmly. “They will make you forfeit first.”

For all of Farah’s professional skepticism, Yuna can tell she is just as quietly thrilled about the scale of the idea as she is. 

Rozanov smirks, leaning back. “Forfeit to who?”

Even Hunter seems to be running on a low-frequency wave of excitement now. “Like I said, the Admirals will publish their statement on Monday morning. About an hour later, the Bears will follow with an identical statement.”

“You won’t play?” Yuna asks, leaning forward. “Boston won’t play?” she clarifies, because the format of the meeting makes it impossible to tell exactly who she is looking at.

“Nope,” Rozanov says, popping the ‘p’ and doing a smooth, full 360-degree spin in his office chair in one fluid motion.

“And your whole team agreed to that?” Yuna presses.

“They will,” Rozanov says.

That is not the answer she was hoping for. 

“Will they really?” Hayden asks. He still looks like he’s trying to process a severe blow to the head.

“I am telling you they will,” Rozanov repeats with a massive roll of his eyes. He sounds entirely, effortlessly confident.

Yuna, Farah, and Hayden all share an identical, deeply skeptical expression across their respective video windows.

“But—” Hayden starts.

“—Why are you not asking the same about New York?” Rozanov cuts him off irritably. 

“That’s fair,” Farah concedes. “Will the Admirals agree to this?” 

“I’m sure they will,” Hunter says. He glances sideways at Rozanov. “Both of us contacted our alternates, as well as several other trusted people on both teams this morning. Their support is already secured, and I’m confident the others will follow. We want to speak to the others in person during training tomorrow, when Rozanov returns to Boston.”

Farah nods slowly.

A handful of trusted people isn't the whole team, but Boston did already prove they will go to great lengths to support Shane. And the Admirals obviously love Hunter. This could work. This could actually work.

“I think this could work,” Yuna says out loud.

“I agree,” Farah says. “It could. But we need to be incredibly careful with how we act and who we share this information with before Monday. Can I ask a few logistical questions?”

“Of course,” Hunter says. “We want your input.”

“Why not post the two statements simultaneously?”

Hunter and Rozanov share a look. Rozanov sighs and motions for him to continue. 

“Two reasons,” Hunter says, turning back to the camera. “Risk, and image.”

“Risk?” Hayden echoes.

“Image?” Yuna asks.

“Image. Yes, that makes sense,” Farah says thoughtfully, tapping her chin.

“How?” Hayden asks.

“We’re trying to avoid making it look staged,” Hunter explains. “Well, as much as possible, anyway. Obviously, people won’t believe we coordinated a full strike in an hour. But we think that an illusion of a gradually expanding, snowballing movement will generate more public engagement. People respond to momentum.”

Yuna nods along to the explanation. This does make sense. 

“Of course,” Hunter continues, casting a brief glance toward Rozanov. “As the actual instigator, it would make more sense for Rozanov to go first—”

“Sorry?” Yuna interrupts.

“Instigator?” Hayden repeats. “This was your idea?” he asks incredulously. A moment later, his shoulders slump. “Why am I even asking. Of course it was your idea,” he mutters, shaking his head at his desk.

Hunter blinks, momentarily derailed by the outburst. 

“Yes,” he confirms. “Rozanov was the one who approached me with the idea. I’m mostly following his lead, for now.”

“Doesn’t really seem this way from over here,” Hayden points out. 

Rozanov tilts his head in quiet agreement.

“This was your idea, too,” Hunter says.

“Doesn’t mean I have to like it,” Rozanov shrugs.

“Why doesn’t Boston make the first statement, then?” Yuna asks.

“That really wouldn’t be the best idea,” Farah says carefully. 

“Why?” Hunter says. “I mean, obviously we came to the same conclusion. But we want to hear your thoughts, too.” 

“Boston already made their statement with the pride tape during the Toronto series,” Farah explains. “It reduces the impact of a supposedly wide movement if the exact same team is always initiating. Plus, Boston has an established reputation for trouble. A protest coming from them first could be perceived by the public as aggressive—threatening, even. And we already have empirical proof that the public responds well to explosive statements from Mr. Hunter.”

“That’s what we thought, as well,” Hunter nods. “We went through some internet discussions last night. People perceive Boston’s stunt with the tape as brave, but also provocative. Like they were deliberately making a statement against the league office, rather than strictly defending Shane. Shane got an entirely different response after his game. People believe his reaction was a genuine cry for help born out of pure desperation, and they respond well to that. We couldn’t find a single negative comment about Shane that wasn’t immediately challenged. The fact that he has never caused trouble before is a popular argument in his defense.” 

“I agree,” Yuna says, nodding. “I’ve been monitoring the response to Shane’s game. That is exactly what I saw, as well.”

“So you’re okay with that?” Hayden pipes up. He has slumped sideways in his chair again, his legs slung over the armrest. “People thinking Hunter came up with that, when it was actually your idea?”

Rozanov looks like he really isn’t okay with that, but he just sighs. “I want this to work. It’s true, people won’t follow me. But they will follow Hunter.”

Yuna studies him for a moment. That… wasn’t what she expected.

“Generally—” Farah starts.

“—Sorry,” Hayden interrupts, grabbing the edge of his table with his left hand to yank himself closer to his desk. His chair protests loudly. “Sorry.”

Farah nods, pausing to let him continue. Yuna grinds her teeth together, bracing herself for several more minutes of useless tangents.

“Could we circle back to the first reason?” Hayden asks. “The ‘risk’ one?”

Oh.

“Is not important,” Rozanov says, dismissing it with a careless wave of his hand. 

“Sounds pretty important to me,” Hayden argues. He’s actually sitting upright now, his voice serious.

“Hunter is being paranoid,” Rozanov says with an eyeroll. For the first time during the meeting, he sounds rehearsed. “Relax, Pike.”

“Sorry, but I agree with Hayden,” Yuna says, cutting off Hunter’s indignant sputtering before it can even start. “Mr. Rozanov, your presence in the country is directly tied to your employment, isn’t it?”

Rozanov goes silent for a few moments. Under the collective pressure of four people waiting for him to answer, he finally sighs, stops spinning, and sits up straighter.

“I am here on a work visa, yes,” he says, his tone shifting into something serious for once. “But the league will not fire me. It is very unlikely.”

“Unlikely is not impossible,” Farah says carefully. Yuna nods in agreement.

“Exactly,” Hayden says. “And even if they don’t fire you, you’re still a Russian citizen. Don’t they have strict anti-gay laws over there?”

“Anti-propaganda laws,” Rozanov corrects, sounding entirely unimpressed.

“Pretty sure organizing a massive, multi-million dollar gay labor strike counts as propaganda,” Hunter says dryly.

Rozanov scoffs. “Look,” he says, sounding almost impatient to move on from this topic. “I talked to my lawyer. They won’t extradite me. It is too expensive and not worth the trouble. If they revoke citizenship—”

“They can do that?!” Hunter interrupts, his head snapping toward Rozanov. “You didn’t tell me they could do that!”

“…If they revoke my citizenship,” Rozanov repeats, forcefully, “I can apply for asylum. See? No problem.”

“I see quite a lot of problems with that,” Hunter mutters. Yuna silently agrees.

“But if you do have to go back,” Hayden presses, refusing to let it drop. Rozanov glares into the lens. “…Because of this, or because of family stuff, or documents, whatever. What happens then? Will they arrest you at the border? Are you going straight to jail? Isn’t your brother a cop, or whatever it is you call Russian—”

*

[2 weeks ago — Montreal]

“—law enforcement.” Shane swallows. “It’s illegal where he’s from, and his family wouldn’t help. Well, his father is dead now, but his brother would probably sell him out himself.”

Shane’s fingers are clutching the hospital bedsheets. He barely meets her eyes during this conversation, and shamefully, Yuna is glad that he can’t. Facing his direct gaze right now would be infinitely worse.

Watching the broadcast live had been one of the absolute worst experiences of her life. She had already felt the crushing weight of failing as a mother in that moment, but she did what she always does: she threw herself into being useful. She tried to convince herself that action is enough. That this is what he has always needed from her, and that is what he needs now.

Of course it’s fine that her son is gay. It changes nothing about her love for him. And the best way she knows how to show that is by treating it as exactly what it is: nothing that needs to be urgently addressed or fixed.

David did suggest talking to him about it once, but even he could ultimately tell it wasn’t the best idea. Shane seemed entirely out of it, giving short answers and drifting deep in his own thoughts. It was not the time for an important, terrifying conversation.

Or so she thought.

Until Shane started it himself. God, he looks absolutely terrified. Yuna hates herself for making him feel like he had to carry that fear all on his own, and she feels completely paralyzed because she is terrified, too. She doesn't want to talk about it. She doesn't want to look so closely at the evidence of just how badly she failed him.

“I didn't mean for any of it to happen,” Shane says, staring down at his hands. “It just… we couldn’t stop it. I tried, with Rose. And he tried, too, I think. But we couldn’t. We were in too deep from the start.”

In love. He has been in love for what sounds like years, and she didn't even notice. She had been blind to the gravity of her son's life.

“So, what are our options?” Yuna says, the words flying out of her mouth like a shield. “The US can grant asylum if returning to his home country is dangerous…”

Please work, she thinks desperately. Please tell me I can still salvage even a tiny bit of this. Please accept my love, and my help in the only way I know how to express it.

David steps in. David talks to Shane. David makes it better—not with legal strategies or structural suggestions, but with actual, comforting words. Yuna has never been good at doing that. It had never seemed like a problem before today—where she was lacking, David would always pick up the slack. They worked together. They were a perfectly matching set. David could handle the emotions while she paid attention to the important things. She had always liked that division of labor.

“Is he worth it?” David asks gently.

Shane opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. 

Yuna perks up. This is her territory. This is what she is actually good at. Maybe she can still save the day.

“A risk-reward analysis?” she offers hopefully.

Shane and David both look at her, and then they start laughing. 

That is a good thing, Yuna tells herself. Laughter is good.

The suffocating tension of the hospital room slowly fades away.

The suffocating tension in her chest deepens.

*

[Present time — May 11, video conference]

Yuna shakes her head, forcing herself to come back to reality. The beige walls of the laundry room snap back into focus.

Right now, she needs to be what she has always been good at: useful. This is not the time for emotional ruminations about her son and his ex-boyfriend—right now, she has to focus on Rozanov. 

After all, Yuna is a master of compartmentalization. 

“Pike,” Rozanov sighs on screen. “I’ll be fine. Stop reading my Wikipedia page and go relax.”

“I’m not—” Hayden starts.

“Pike.”

Hayden grinds his teeth together in visible frustration. “I’m serious, Rozanov. Shane won’t be happy if you get—” He cuts himself off. He suddenly looks nervous, shifting uncomfortably. “I mean,” he starts again, “if anyone gets into trouble over this.”

Yuna’s eyebrows climb up. Hayden is still visibly vibrating with anxiety. Rozanov’s face, meanwhile, has become a completely blank mask. 

Without saying another word, Rozanov stands up, stalks over to the monitor, and taps at the keyboard for a few seconds.

A message flashes across Yuna’s screen:

*The host muted @h.pike*

“Ah,” Rozanov says, slumping back into his chair with exaggerated relief. “Better.”

A rapid succession of messages pops up in the meeting chat window:

h.pike: 🖕

h.pike: sorry @y.hollander @f.jalali

h.pike: @s.hunter too

Rozanov leans forward, taking control of the keyboard again.

i.rozanov: you know you can send direct messages here?

h.pike: oh

h.pike: really?

h.pike: thanks

h.pike to @i.rozanov: 🖕

“Alright,” Hunter says, reaching over to yank the keyboard out of Rozanov’s hands. “Let’s get back to the actual topic, shall we?”

*The host unmuted @h.pike*

“We’ve had this exact discussion several times throughout the past night,” Hunter yawns, effectively punctuating his sentence. “Even if, apparently, not all the details were fully disclosed to me,” he adds, pausing to throw a sharp glare at Rozanov. “The result remains the same. Since I am only risking my career and my personal reputation—”

(In his window, Hayden silently mouths the word ‘only’ to himself, shaking his head in disbelief.)

“—and Rozanov has already put himself at risk with the previous statement,” Hunter continues, “it is only fair for me to step up and take the majority of the blame. For the rest of it, Rozanov has made it clear that he is prepared to face the consequences, whatever those may be, and we are going to respect his decision.”

It suddenly occurs to Yuna that until now, she’d mostly been thinking about Rozanov in terms of what he could accomplish. She hadn’t really stopped to think about the fact that he was risking his own future, too.

“Why are you doing this?” Yuna asks carefully.

“What?” Rozanov asks.

“You have already shown your support,” Yuna says. “You did a lot more than anyone else in the league dared to. Why are you risking… literally everything to do this now?”

Another heavy silence hangs in the call. Farah follows the exchange with mild interest, waiting for the conversation to return to the part where she is relevant. Hunter keeps his eyes fixed on Rozanov, his expression unreadable. Rozanov looks down at the floor.

Then, Rozanov blinks a few times, lifting his head to face the camera. 

“Hollander is the best player in the league,” Rozanov says. Yuna is surprised to recognize the tone as his media voice. “I like hockey. I like competition. Without players like Hollander, there is no competition.” He shrugs. “League becomes boring. Hockey becomes boring. If hockey is not interesting anymore, why keep playing anyway?”

“We are literally both in the conference finals right now,” Hunter mutters under his breath.

Rozanov shrugs again, a glimmer of his usual smirk returning. “You get lucky sometimes.”

“I won the Stanley Cup last year!” Hunter shoots back.

“Hollander has two,” Rozanov counters. “Plus, you will retire soon, yes?”

“I am only two years older than you!”

“Three.”

“It’s—anyway.” Hunter visibly cuts himself off. He turns back to the camera. “I do apologize for all the distractions. I’m sure you all have other business to attend to today.”

Farah nods pointedly, though there is a hint of amusement in her eyes.

“The core point of this meeting,” Hunter continues, pulling his notes back into view, “is to ensure that our plan, even if it cannot ultimately help Shane's legal standing, will at the very least not cause—”

* * * * *

[A few hours earlier — May 11, New York]

“—even more problems for them! We can’t possibly know that!” Hunter is pacing a frantic, erratic path across the hardwood floor. He is on his third cup of coffee, the sun finally bleeding through the high apartment windows. It is roughly seven-thirty in the morning. “We need to talk to Shane.”

“Hunter.” Ilya groans. He is finally starting to show signs of exhaustion, too, laying flat on his back on the carpet with his head tucked under the shadows of the kitchen table. Hunter’s footsteps send small, rhythmic vibrations through the floorboards right into Ilya’s skull. Every now and then, Hunter’s foot bumps against his frame. He doesn’t even bother to complain. “We are not talking to Hollander about this.”

The footsteps stop abruptly. “Seriously?” Hunter asks. “You’re literally about to go to war for the guy, but you can’t even handle a conversation with him?”

“Hunter,” Ilya says again, his voice somewhat muffled by the furniture. “Use your fucking brain. Hollander is already in deep shit with the league. We talk to him about this, he is automatically instigator.”

“Oh,” Hunter says. “Shit. You're right.”

“Can’t you just ask his agent?” Kip’s voice pipes up from the living room couch. Ilya had assumed he was long asleep—there had been a throw pillow resting over Kip's face for at least the last hour.

The pacing starts right back up. “They won’t tell us anything without Shane’s explicit permission. It’s all confidential. It’s a dead end.”

Hunter’s foot accidentally collides with Ilya’s ribs again. The dull thud triggers a sudden, violent spark across a single, dormant neuron connection in Ilya’s sleep-deprived brain.

His eyes fly wide open.

“Same agent,” Ilya says to the underside of the table.

“What?”

“Same agent!” Ilya repeats. He sits up in one motion, cracking the top of his head against the marble edge of the table. He is a professional hockey player—he’ll be fine. He whips out his phone, thumbs flying across the screen just to double-check that his exhausted memory isn't playing tricks on him. “Hollander and Pike have the same agent now. We don’t have to talk to Hollander. We can just talk to Pike.”

Hunter pauses, his coffee mug hovering halfway to his mouth. “How would we even do that?”

Ilya turns the phone screen around, pointedly showing him the chat.

“Oh,” Hunter says. “You actually have his number? Alright. Fair.” He pauses. The excitement disappears from his face. “But wait. Then Pike becomes the instigator.”

“And?” Ilya asks, entirely unbothered.

A muffled huff of laughter escapes from beneath the throw pillow.

“You don’t want to involve Hollander, but involving Pike is perfectly fine?” Hunter stares at him, baffled.

“Yes?” Ilya says, like it’s obvious.

Hunter still stares. 

Ilya rolls his eyes, letting out a heavy, long-suffering sigh. “Listen,” he says, holding up a finger. “They are both in trouble, yes. But Hollander is definitely in more trouble than Pike. It is Hollander the media talks about. No one even remembers Pike most of the time.” Ilya gives Hunter a pointed look. Hunter grimaces. “Plus,” Ilya adds, “Pike has already proved that he is ready to risk everything for Hollander. If he doesn’t want to help us, okay, fine, he won’t help. We won’t tell anyone we talked to him. But first, he connects us to the agent.”

Hunter looks like he’s seriously considering it. “Okay,” he says slowly. “But even if we get Pike and their agent on the phone, the situation with Hollander could be entirely different. What if we end up helping Pike, but hurting Shane?” Hunter shakes his head. “The risk is too great. If we knew that it wouldn’t make things worse, sure. But we don’t. We need to know exactly what is happening behind closed doors between Shane and the league office. And the only person who can approve of his agent sharing the information with us is Shane himself.”

Ilya grinds his teeth together and looks down at the carpet in frustration. Then toward the couch. The phone in his palm.

The chat window with Pike sits open.

Shane’s agent and mother are handling everything, a text from two weeks ago reads.

Ilya stares at the words. 

A second neuron connection snaps into place in his brain.

He hits Call.

* * * * *

[Present time — May 11, video conference]

“…Overall, it shouldn’t hurt,” Farah says. “As long as Shane doesn’t know what you’re planning.”

Rozanov nods, his eyes sharp. “We thought the same.” He pauses. “You won’t tell him? As his agent?”

“Technically, I am employed by Yuna,” Farah says carefully. “As long as she approves this, I am under no legal or professional obligation to inform him.”

Yuna nods. “Yes. Let’s keep him out of the loop, at least for now.”

“You know he won’t like it, right?” Hayden asks, and then freezes, probably remembering who he’s talking to. He shifts, clearing his throat nervously. “I mean— of course you know. I’m just—reminding you. Just in case. He really won’t like it if we all keep it from him.” He puts a heavy, deliberate emphasis on all.

Yuna watches him, evaluating. On paper, Hayden Pike isn't anything spectacular—good hockey skills, perfectly average intelligence. But there is nothing average about the lengths he’ll go to for Shane. 

Yuna lets out a slow sigh. “I know,” she says, her voice softening just a fraction. “But I don’t really see another viable option for the time being. He cannot know about this.”

Hayden nods slowly, his shoulders dropping.

“…In fact,” Farah interjects, leaning forward into her camera, “I would actually try to compile as much evidence as possible that Shane was not aware of this.”

“Evidence?” Rozanov asks, tilting his head.

“Messages. Missed calls. Any digital record of him trying to figure out what the hell is happening once the statements drop publicly. We need a paper trail proving his confusion.”

“So we should also collectively ghost him? In addition to hiding the massive labor strike.” Hayden asks with obvious disapproval.

“Yes,” Farah confirms. “If you want to guarantee the league can't penalize him for this, we will all have to completely avoid contacting him, at least for the first several hours once the strike officially starts.”

“I’m guessing I shouldn’t be anywhere near him when it starts, then,” Yuna muses.

“That would be for the best, yes.”

“I could fly down to New York for a day or two,” Yuna says. “I'll tell him it’s a necessary trip to handle his case. It’s not even technically a lie. This way, I’ll be there in person in case of sudden complications, and we can manage further planning more efficiently.”

“Sorry,” Hunter cuts in. “Further planning?”

“Well, yes,” Yuna says. “We still have a lot of details to iron out, don’t we?”

Hunter blinks.

“Of course we do,” Rozanov says.

“That was… not quite the plan,” Hunter says. Rozanov shrugs, unbothered.

“Mrs. Hollander,” Hunter says, choosing his words with extreme, delicate care. “While I truly appreciate your enthusiasm, this call really was just an entry point to ensure our actions wouldn’t cause Shane unintended harm. The further structural planning will remain strictly confidential between myself, Rozanov, and potentially the NHLPA, for security reasons.”

“And Kip,” Rozanov says.

Hunter snaps his head sideways to look at him.

“…And, what, fifty other hockey players?” Rozanov continues conversationally. “Because they will guard the secret with their lives, but Mrs. Hollander will finish this meeting and go send the strike details directly to New Yorker.”

Hunter sputters, his face flushing. “It’s not—I wasn’t suggesting—”

“I’m sure you weren’t,” Yuna cuts in. “Regardless, I am Shane’s manager, and his mother. Obviously I will be an active part of the process from here on out.”

Hunter somehow looks even more tired than he did five minutes ago. “This was so not the plan,” he mutters to the edge of his desk.

“Plans change,” Yuna says flatly. “Your plans will probably change even more once I am fully on board. But I can assure you, Mr. Hunter, all the modifications will be for the better.”

Hunter closes his mouth, seemingly out of any remaining energy to argue.

“Hunter,” Rozanov says, clapping him heavily on the shoulder. The force of the impact makes Hunter slump visibly lower into his chair. “You wanted to know for sure that we will not cause harm to Hollander. Now you have his mother and his manager on the team! It is great news, yes?”

Rozanov sounds entirely pleased, though Yuna thinks she can sense the edge of something threatening hidden behind the cheer in his voice.

“Yes,” Hunter says. “Yes, it is. Fantastic.” He clears his throat. “Mrs. Hollander, welcome aboard.”

Yuna nods graciously. “Thank you.”

“I won’t be able to fly out until Sunday evening,” Farah pipes up. “But there are plenty of flights earlier in the day for you, Yuna.”

Yuna nods. “Mr. Rozanov,” she says, turning her focus back to the screen. “I’m assuming by Sunday you will be back in New York?” He nods. “Excellent,” Yuna continues. “I think it’s best if we exchange contact information and coordinate our travel accommodations so we are all staying at the same hotel. It will make a lot of things easier.”

“I can make a group chat?…” Hayden offers, raising his hand. “I mean… I already have all of your numbers saved anyway.”

“Good,” Yuna nods. “That’s even better.”

Hayden looks relieved to actually be useful to the operation in some way.

Hunter looks completely done with everything. “Just reiterating one last time that Shane cannot know a single thing about any of this.”

“Obviously,” Yuna says.

“Send me your initial statement drafts as soon as you have them typed up,” Farah says.

Rozanov is beaming. 

For the first time in days, Yuna feels something dangerously close to hope.

Finally, she thinks. They’re actually doing something. 

*

Once Yuna finally emerges from the laundry room—her back and her butt aching from sitting on a stiff stool for so long, but in higher spirits than she’s been this whole week—she can see through the kitchen window that Shane is awake. He has taken his coffee down to the pier, sitting quietly by the lake. He seems to spend a lot of time looking at the water lately. He says it grounds him.

Shane has been doing a lot of things recently that he never used to do. Like spending more time outside in general. Eating food outside of his strict diet plan. Sleeping in late—far later than he ever did even as a child. He certainly wasn't awake yet when the meeting started.

She isn’t sure whether it’s a good thing or not. Bad for his discipline, her first impulse suggests. Probably good for his recovery, though. He does seem more relaxed these past few days, as if the crushing weight has lifted just a fraction. But she knows the league situation hasn't let go of him for a single minute. After all, hockey has been his whole life since he first laced up a pair of skates at the age of three.

Her phone buzzes sharply in her pocket. She pulls it out to find a rapid-fire succession of notifications already flooding the screen.

Hayden Pike created a group chat.

Hayden Pike added you, Farah, Scott Hunter, and 1 other.

Hayden Pike: okay i made the chat

Hayden Pike changed the chat name to: Hollander defense squad 💪

[Unknown number]: ah yes very secretive

[Unknown number]: hollander would never know

Hayden Pike changed the chat name to: Hollander defense squad (don’t tell shane) 💪

[Unknown number]: i see why montreal kept you around

[Unknown number]: to catch the puck you need to think like a puck

Hayden Pike: 🙄

Hayden Pike: wait

Hayden Pike: im the admin!!!

Hayden Pike removed [Unknown number] from the chat.

Scott Hunter: Hayden, add him back. We need him for the scheduling logistics.

Hayden Pike: he can plan his own scheduling logistics from exile

Scott Hunter: Hayden.

Hayden Pike: fiiine

Hayden Pike added [Unknown number] to the chat.

[Unknown number]: 🖕

Yuna hesitates, staring at the screen. Hayden was right about one thing during the call—Shane will hate that they are keeping this from him. He’ll probably feel betrayed, even. She really doesn’t want him to feel that way about her, especially now, when the balance between them is already so fragile. And it’s not as if keeping this a secret is strictly necessary—it isn’t as though they couldn’t manufacture a few confused messages afterward.

But as Yuna looks out at the pier where Shane sits, looking at the water so peacefully, she remembers how desperate he had been recently to avoid talking about anything league-related. He needs rest, not more stress. She can protect him from that, at least.

Besides, Yuna made a promise.

Two weeks ago in a sterile Montreal hospital room, Yuna had promised her boy—her broken, exhausted boy who was in so much pain—that she would fix everything. Now, she might finally have a chance to do it. She feels useful. She feels like she can actually help.

And it’s all thanks to Ilya Rozanov, of all people.

Rozanov, who, while the rest of the world sat in shock waiting for press releases, rallied his team and made a statement first.

Rozanov, who is now planning a player strike just to ensure her son can keep playing the game he loves.

Rozanov, who is apparently risking everything to do it.

Rozanov. Who is in the US on a work visa. Who has a high-profile, highly visible job. Who is from a country with notoriously homophobic laws, and, according to Hayden, whose brother is in law enforcement—a detail that is completely absent from his Wikipedia page. Yuna checked as soon as the meeting ended. And then she kept reading.

There wasn't much information that wasn't strictly his career history, but there was enough to piece a small picture together: loved hockey since he was a toddler; lost his mother at the age of twelve; had moved across the ocean to a foreign, unfamiliar country completely alone when he was still a teenager. Yuna briefly imagines a teenage Shane in that exact situation, and her heart sinks.

She suddenly can’t remember why she ever hated that boy as much as she did.

He was an asshole, sure, except... Yuna can’t actually recall a single thing he’s ever done or said that was genuinely terrible. Arrogant, overconfident, boastful—all incredibly irritating traits, especially in conjunction with the fact that he was the only player in the world who could consistently beat Shane. That had been more than enough reason to hate him back then, and apparently enough to keep hating him for a decade on pure inertia.

Rozanov said he would be bored without Shane. Frankly, from everything Yuna thought she knew about him before this meeting, that statement made some sense on a surface level. It matched the arrogant, competitive image Rozanov had built around himself.

But now, Yuna is starting to suspect there is a great deal more to Ilya Rozanov than she previously thought. And below the surface level, 'Ilya Rozanov is risking deportation and jail time because he’ll be bored without Shane Hollander' is a batshit insane sentence. 

On the other hand, 'Ilya Rozanov is risking deportation and jail time because he’s in love with Shane Hollander, and he is ready to take any risk necessary to protect him and his own future in the NHL as a queer player,” sounds a lot more likely.

It’s sound. It’s logical. It connects all the dots perfectly, including Hayden’s shifty behavior and cryptic comments during the meeting.

It is also a completely insane thing to even consider.

There are millions of people who come from homophobic countries and have work visas! Some of them must have police officers in their families. Lots of them, realistically! There must be some labor or immigration statistics she can look up on the internet to prove it.

There is a distinct tug at the back of her mind that she can’t quite quantify—something telling her that she is on the right track. It reminds her of when Shane was young, those rare moments when she could just tell he needed her without any outward signs. Some kind of an innate mother's instinct.

Yuna ignores it.

She really cannot theorize about this without more concrete data. And she shouldn't—she has far more important things to focus on right now than creating wild conspiracy theories about her son’s love life.

(“We used to meet when we were playing in his city,” Shane’s voice rings out in her memory, echoing from their conversation in the hospital. He paused then, thinking about his words carefully. “Or when he was in Montreal for work.”)

Yuna briefly considers the possibility that she is experiencing a severe caffeine overdose. She shakes her head and goes to pour herself a fresh cup anyway.

She has a strike to plan, after all.

*

[Present time — May 12, Video conference]

When the video conference link connects the following day, the atmosphere is obviously different.

Yuna sits at the cottage's small dining table, taking advantage of the rare moment when Shane and David are out of the house. Today they are attempting a ‘hiking trip’ on one of the easiest trails nearby—a compromise to let Shane exercise without putting too much pressure on his chest. 

Scott Hunter looks significantly more rested than he had twenty-four hours ago, though the lines around his eyes are tight with stress and pressure. Hayden is still marooned in his home office, but his desk is now a sprawling crime scene of takeout containers, half-eaten pastries, and soda cans, as if he’s been camping out there for a while.

Then there is Rozanov.

In contrast, he looks exhausted. His laptop seems to be propped up on a kitchen island, presumably in his house in Boston, where he is slowly moving around the kitchen in a plain, slightly faded grey t-shirt, his hair damp from a recent shower, dark circles under his eyes. Surprisingly, he looks younger than he did yesterday, when he was spinning around in his chair and teasing Hunter. 

Yuna stares at his feed for a moment, a strange realization dawning on her. Every single time she had seen Ilya Rozanov over the past decade, he was either riding a massive wave of post-game adrenaline, actively antagonizing her son on television, or operating on red-bull fueled hysteria like he had yesterday. Is that how Rozanov looks during quiet moments in between? Kind of …human. Just a tired twenty-six-year-old man making a sandwich while the other participants are getting situated. 

“Alright, let's begin,” Yuna says, keeping her voice crisp and professional—the Hollander battle voice. “We have limited time, so let's stick to the agenda. I want to know if our immediate objectives from yesterday were met.”

On his screen, Rozanov pauses what he’s doing, a faint, barely perceptible smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. 

Hunter clears his throat, leaning into his camera. “New York is fully on board. It took some explaining—especially regarding the legal implications—but once we talked things through, the vote was unanimous. The Admirals are all in.”

Yuna nods, marking a neat check on her legal pad. “Thank you, Mr. Hunter. Mr. Rozanov?”

“Yes, same,” Rozanov says. “Team agreed. We are in.”

Hayden pauses with a piece of donut halfway to his mouth. “Did they really?”

Rozanov looks up from whatever it is he’s doing, his expression perfectly flat. “Yes? That is what I just said.”

“Like... the whole team?” Hayden presses, looking deeply skeptical. “Did you threaten them or something?”

Rozanov tilts his head to the side and blankly looks at the screen for a moment. “Why are you even on this call, Pike?” he asks. 

Hayden blinks. “What?”

“This is a planning call,” Rozanov says, leaning his hands against his kitchen counter. “You are not doing any planning. You have no team. Why are you here, exactly?”

Hayden shrugs defensively, gesturing with a plastic fork. “Hey, it was either this or help my wife organize a finger-painting seminar for thirty toddlers at the community center. Trust me, I’m exactly where I want to be.”

Rozanov looks deeply unimpressed, but he just lets out a deep sigh, and gets back on topic.

“Anyway,” he continues. “I did not threaten anyone. I told them I will not hold it against them if they decide not to join.”

Hayden’s jaw drops slightly. “And they joined anyway?”

“I am their captain,” Rozanov says slowly and forcefully. “They respect me. They know I only make the best decisions for the team, and I am—”

* * * * *

[A few hours earlier — May 12, Boston]

“—completely fucking insane!” Sebbin says, throwing his hands up in absolute exasperation. “No, seriously, are we all hearing this shit?”

“Roz, c’mon, man,” Hammersmith says placatingly from where he’s sitting. “We understand the reason, alright? We sympathize with the guy. That game was an absolute joke. But a strike? Right now? That’s really taking it too far.”

“I can use the rainbow tape, or whatever,” Dubek adds. “But voluntarily giving up the Stanley Cup? For Hollander?”

“Yeah,” someone from the back grumbles. “I get that you have some kind of pathological obsession with the guy, but we don’t!”

Against the back wall of the locker room, the Bears’ core leadership stands in a rigid, unified row. Ilya, Marlow, and Vic are all leaned up against the tile, arms folded tightly across their chests. Sitting in front of them in a low folding chair is Carmichael, wearing pitch-black designer sunglasses indoors. He looks like an incredibly unbothered, incredibly stupid mafia enforcer.

Ilya’s face remains completely blank. He shrugs. “I understand. I am not making anyone do it.”

Sebbin stops mid-motion, staring at him in disbelief.

“You’re… not?”

“No,” Ilya says. “Of course not. I understand it is a lot to ask. If you do not want to participate, I will not hold it against you.”

Around the locker room, players exchange suspicious looks.

“Of course,” Ilya continues smoothly, breaking the silence. “I will be striking, in any case.”

“Okay?” Dubek says slowly.

“So is Marlow.”

“…Alright.”

“And Vic.”

“…”

“And Carmichael.”

Carmichael tilts his head down, sliding his sunglasses low enough to look over the rims. “Sup.”

“And Connors,” Ilya adds.

From three stalls down, Connors jerks upright. “I what now?”

Ilya ignores him.

“So,” he continues, “if you think you can win the Stanley Cup without five of us, you can try.”

With every name added, the remaining Bears look progressively more horrified.

“Of course,” Marlow adds in a falsely cheerful voice, “regardless of whether you win or not, the public will probably think you’re homophobic and don’t support your own captain.”

“Sort of like Voyageurs,” Vic supplies.

“You’re making a hell of a case for that contract extension, Cap,” someone mutters bitterly from the back.

Marlow lets out a sharp, mocking laugh. “Good luck finding another captain who takes you to the playoffs five years in a row and gets you a Stanley Cup. Let us know how that goes.”

“C’mon, guys!” Carmichael groans, throwing his hands up. “We already have a Cup! You know what we didn’t have before? A chance to prove, once and for all, that we’re a better team than Montreal in every possible way. We’ll be heroes! We’ll be on the news! Future generations of hockey players will remember this day!”

The locker room remains profoundly unconvinced.

“That’s easy for you guys to say,” one of the younger players points out. “Some of us have bills to pay.”

Several others nod.

“Because your multimillion-dollar salary cannot cover electricity?” Vic asks flatly.

The player hesitates.

“…I’m personally making a lot less than the minimum after taxes and agent fees, okay?” a quiet, stressed voice pipes up from the very back of the room—one of the rookies recently called up from the AHL. “I do have a family to take care of.”

Ilya looks over.

Right. That’s the kid with all the siblings. Even by Pike standards, there are a lot of them. And he’s the oldest.

Ilya thinks about his own rookie season. Would he have taken this risk, knowing his family depended on him? He honestly doesn’t know.

Ilya exhales.

The mafia routine disappears.

“Okay,” he says, stepping away from the wall. “If we play this series, we get approximately two-million-dollar bonus split across the team, yes?”

“Are you sure reminding them about that is the best strategy, Roz?” Vic mutters.

Ilya ignores him. “So,” he continues. “If the team chooses to play, every person will get approximately eighty thousand dollars from the league.” He pauses. “If the team chooses not to play, every person will get eighty thousand dollars from me.” He claps his hands together. “Questions?”

The entire locker room freezes.

“…Are you bribing us?” Dubek asks, his voice going slightly higher.

“Obviously not,” Ilya says, offended. “Play, don’t play. Money is exactly the same.”

“Are you serious?” Hammersmith asks. “Cap, that’s two million dollars out of your pocket.”

“Of course I am serious.” Ilya looks around the room. “I am your captain. It is my job to take care of this team. I am asking you to risk the Cup and your reputation. I will not ask you to worry about your families or your bills.”

The anger in the room disappears, replaced by stunned silence.

“It really is that important to you, isn’t it?” Sebbin asks quietly.

“Yes,” Ilya says.

“Why?” Sebbin leans back against the stall, studying him. “Seriously, Roz. Why do you care this much?”

“Did you not watch the game?” Vic asks sharply.

“I did,” Sebbin says. “And I care, too. We all do. We wouldn’t have spent a week and a half googling endangered tropical animals, or risked going against the league with the tape if we didn’t.” He looks back at Ilya. “But this is different. You’re risking your job. You’re giving up a chance at another Cup. And apparently you’re throwing away two million dollars.”

From the corner of his eye, Ilya sees Marlow and Vic straighten, ready to defend him if needed. He raises one hand without looking back. They stop.

“I would risk a lot to protect any of you,” Ilya says.

Sebbin nods. “Because we’re a team. We’re family. We protect each other,” he recites, as if everyone doesn’t already know the speech by heart. “But Hollander isn’t.”

Ilya’s jaw tightens. 

For a moment, he says nothing. Then he lets out a slow breath. “I am not asking you to do this for Hollander,” he says, his voice low. “I am asking you to do this for me. This is important to me. Personally. It is something I need to do.” He looks around the room. “And I want my team with me when I do it.”

Silence.

Sebbin exhales, shaking his head—half laugh and half sigh.

The Bears exchange glances across the room.

“So, like. Theoretically,” one of them says. “If we did join. What exactly would you need us to do?”

Ilya allows himself a small breath of relief.

* * * * *

[Present time — May 12, Video conference]

The interface chimes as Farah joins the call.

“Apologies for the delay,” she says, immediately diving into logistics without skipping a beat. “I’ve narrowed down our base of operations. I found a hotel in Manhattan that fits our exact parameters. The penthouse floor has a presidential suite that can connect directly to neighboring rooms through a private corridor. There is a secure conference room, a restricted service elevator, and a private underground entrance. It is about as protected from the press as we can reasonably get.”

Yuna nods. “That should work. Did you handle the booking, or should I?”

“I’ll do it,” Farah says, tapping her pen. “I just need a few final details. Mr. Hunter, you will be staying at the hotel rather than your apartment, correct?”

“Yes,” Hunter confirms, leaning closer to his camera. “It’s safer. My apartment building is secure, but the address is public knowledge. The moment the strike goes live, there will be a media blockade outside my building. We already agreed that Kip will stay outside the city with his parents.”

“So,” Farah says. “Five bedrooms total?”

On his feed, Rozanov narrows his eyes. “Remind me again why Pike is flying out to New York?”

Because Shane trusts him, Yuna thinks. And trusted people are valuable right now. 

Besides, the strike is literally about Hayden, too.

“I was thinking,” Hunter continues smoothly, stepping right over Rozanov’s question, “it might be a good idea to get our alternate captains to join us at the hotel. Decisions may have to be made quickly, and I don’t want them to be relayed through three different phone calls.”

Rozanov nods. “Good idea. I want Marlow there. Vic and Carmichael can stay at the team hotel and keep everyone else organized.”

“Vaughn for New York, and Marlow for Boston?” Farah asks, making a note. “Does that mean we need two additional rooms?”

“I’m fine with sharing,” Rozanov says with a shrug.

“So am I,” Hunter adds.

Farah gives a single professional nod. “Perfect. I’ll finalize the booking.”

Yuna taps her pen against her legal pad in a nervous motion. “I am still deeply worried about the numbers, gentlemen.”

Hunter pauses. “The numbers?”

“There is no precedent of a player strike of this specific scale succeeding,” Yuna explains. “What happens if the league simply refuses to negotiate? They could bury this before it gains momentum.”

“The 1992 strike worked,” Hunter counters defensively. “They shut down the playoffs for ten days and forced significant changes to revenue and free agency structures.”

“The 1992 strike involved every team acting collectively under the NHLPA,” Yuna says. “There were twenty-two teams moving together as a unified organization. There are only two of you. Historically, this is much closer to the Hamilton Tigers strike of 1925, and that one did not end well for the players.”

“I disagree,” Rozanov cuts in.

Yuna stops mid-thought, taken aback. She blinks at her screen. “I’m sorry?”

“The 1925 strike was about money, yes?” Rozanov says, leaning forward against his kitchen counter. “They were fighting for themselves. It is very easy for the league to ignore one team that wants more cash.”

“We have two,” Yuna says. “It’s not that big of a difference.”

“In numbers, yes,” Rozanov says. “But we are not doing it for us. We are doing it for Hollander. And internet is not quiet. People are already angry. The league is already losing some public support. Not that easy to ignore.”

Hunter looks briefly stunned, but he quickly collects himself. “And if the league attempts to punish us specifically for speaking out against discrimination,” he adds, “they create a much larger problem for themselves. Our legal team would have a very interesting time with that.”

Yuna nods slowly. “Are we certain there will be enough public support? A lot of fans will be furious when the season stops. We saw exactly that in 2004.”

“I’m sorry,” Hayden interrupts, waving a half-eaten pastry at his camera. “Are we all just completely ignoring the fact that Rozanov somehow knows the exact details of a strike from 1925?”

Rozanov rolls his eyes. “I want to start NHL strike. I research NHL strikes. What works. What does not work. It’s called strategy, Pike. I understand it is an unfamiliar concept for you.”

Hayden opens his mouth—

i.rozanov to @s.hunter (Host): do you care about hollander

s.hunter to @i.rozanov: Yes?

i.rozanov to @s.hunter: do you REALLY care about hollander?

s.hunter to @i.rozanov: Yes???

i.rozanov to @s.hunter: mute pike.

On screen, Hunter’s eyes dart up to his notifications. He lets out a silent, weary sigh, and keeps right on talking. “If there is little support in the very beginning, then we will make more support,” Hunter says. “We have people outside our immediate locker rooms willing to help spread the message.”

“Who?” Yuna asks.

“Active players. Retired players,” Hunter says. “I also reached out to some friends over in the NWHL. They agreed to back us up on social media individually, and they even think they could leverage their contacts to get a couple of advocacy organizations to amplify the message.”

Yuna’s mind begins racing.

“Sponsors,” she says.

Everyone waits for her to continue.

“If we frame this correctly, sponsors may have an incentive to support us publicly.”

The ideas keep coming before she has time to organize them.

“Major brands spend millions cultivating socially responsible public images,” Yuna continues, already mentally sorting companies into categories. “They won’t want to be associated with a league that appears to punish players for speaking about discrimination. Even if they don’t formally endorse the strike, pressure from sponsors could force the league to reconsider its position.”

Hunter looks deeply skeptical. Rozanov, however, seems to share her enthusiasm. There is a small but genuine smile on his face as he listens to her rapidly work through the possibilities.

Insane conspiracy theories aside, Yuna finds herself genuinely liking Rozanov. What a week.

Hunter exhales. “You know, from a purely strategic standpoint, I’m almost relieved it was Shane at the center of this.”

Yuna raises an eyebrow.

“He has an immaculate reputation,” Hunter continues. “The public sees him as what he is: a captain who finally reached a breaking point after years of pressure. Not someone causing drama for attention.”

“People love him,” Rozanov says softly. “In the league. Outside the league. They will support him.”

People won't follow me, Yuna remembers him saying yesterday. But they will follow Hunter. 

She briefly tries to imagine Rozanov in Shane’s position. The image takes less than a second to form—and it’s not a good one. The media would have painted him as a reckless troublemaker creating yet another self-inflicted scandal. They wouldn’t have supported him the same way. And he knows that. 

And yet, here he is, doing for someone else what others would never do for him.

As the other participants begin logging off, Yuna clears her throat. “Mr. Rozanov?”

Rozanov pauses. “Yes?”

“I wanted to thank you.”

His expression shifts slightly.

“For what you are doing now, obviously,” Yuna continues, her voice losing the professional edge. “But also for before. The tape. It meant a lot to me to see someone stand up for Shane when no one else did.” She hesitates. “It meant a lot to Shane, too.”

For a moment, Rozanov says nothing. Then he blinks several times in rapid succession and clears his throat. “Mrs. Hollander…”

“Yuna,” she corrects gently.

He exhales. “Yuna,” he repeats with some uncertainty. “Call me Ilya, then.”

Yuna smiles. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ilya.”

She means every word.

*

Later that evening, the heavy tension of the day finally settles into something quiet and deceptively normal.

Shane and David are settled on the living room couch, a large bowl of popcorn balanced precariously between them on a cushion. It’s a family movie night—meaning Shane and David watch the movie, while Yuna stops typing furiously on her laptop just long enough to migrate to the couch beside them, and resume typing just as furiously on her phone.

The movie begins. Samuel L. Jackson with an eyepatch begins assembling a team of superheroes to retrieve a shiny blue cube. Yuna catches scattered fragments of it between emails and messages, but her attention never stays on the screen for long.

In her phone, a new notification pops up.

Hollander defense squad (don’t tell shane) 💪

Farah: Everything is booked and locked in for everyone. I’ll send you the details individually. 

Yuna looks up. On the TV, the scene had shifted to an abandoned building where Scarlett Johansson is tied to a chair, supposedly being interrogated—the scene is only understandable through the subtitles Yuna does not bother to read. On the couch, Shane is curled into the corner beside David, looking more at peace than he had in weeks.

Seeing them together like this, some of the tension finally leaves Yuna’s shoulders. Tomorrow, everything starts again. The lawyers. The meetings. The strike.

But David will be here. He’ll keep Shane steady when the world inevitably starts shaking again. Yuna will just have to make sure the world shakes in the right direction.

In the movie, an agent-looking man is talking on the phone. "I'll get Stark. You get the big guy," he says to Johansson. Johansson looks momentarily terrified, lowering the phone and saying something unintelligible that the subtitles don’t even bother to translate. 

Shane chuckles. 

“What’d she say?” David asks, not looking away from the screen. 

“Bozhe Moy,” Shane repeats slowly. “It’s like, oh my god in russian.”

It takes Yuna a moment to process what just happened. 

Then she slowly turns her head toward Shane. 

“I didn’t know you knew russian," she says as casually as she can. 

Shane freezes, his posture stiffening. "I mean… just a few words," he says, not taking his eyes off the screen. He tries for a casual shrug, but it looks more like a muscle spasm. "I hear it a lot on the ice, you know? Lots of Russian players in the league. You just… pick things up."

Yuna hums. 53 active Russian players this season, her brain supplies automatically. It could be a perfectly reasonable explanation, if only Shane didn’t look like he just committed a federal crime. 

She lightly shakes her head, and adds a new pin to her mental conspiracy board. 

On the TV screen, the Avengers keep assembling.

In Yuna’s hand, the phone buzzes with each new incoming notification. 

Hollander defense squad (don’t tell shane) 💪

Farah: Everything is booked and locked in for everyone. I’ll send you the details individually. 

(unread messages)

Hayden Pike: thanks farah

Scott Hunter: Thank you.

Ilya Rozanov: thank you

Yuna Hollander: Thank you, Farah. Gentlemen, I’ll see you all tomorrow. 

*4 people liked the message*

Chapter End Notes

shane at the end of the previous chapter: welp, my career is totally over, but at least i have time to mentally recover now ig

The Plot™, literally 3 days later: i'm right behind you, aren't i

 

my boyfriend, a.k.a. my beta reader: don’t you think you made yuna a bit *too* autistic in this one?

me, who modeled yuna’s internal monologue and her relationship with david after myself: …

 

anyway, the answer to that question is ✨yes✨, but i really wanted to explore this version of yuna, as well as how generational autism affects relationships between parents and children.
for no particular reason.

(this chapter is dedicated to my own mother, who almost exclusively calls marvel characters by the actors’ names, and who was prepared to personally take on the entire school district every time she found out i was bullied.

love u, mom.)

 

have not rewatched the avengers in at least five years btw. still somehow knew that this particular line wasn't subtitled. how did it take me 16 whole years to get diagnosed? a mystery.

 

connors did not, in fact, sign up for any of this. ilya saw him do one (1) assignment well, and was so impressed he immediately added connors to his Five Best Boston Team Members list and decided they're friends now. connors was not informed of this decision. he is, however, smart enough not to argue.

 

also, i'll be honest with y'all, i have not read the common goal. i did google the timeline, and i know scott and kip aren't supposed to be engaged yet, but! 👆 idgaf.

 

next chapter will probably take a bit longer because i want to get everything *right*.

also because i'm getting my bachelor's degree in a few days, but that's less important.