Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander & Ottawa Centaurs Team Ensemble & Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Zane Boodram, Luca Haas, Brandon Wiebe, Ottawa Centaurs Team Ensemble (Game Changers)

Additional Tags:

Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Past Abuse, Recovery, Team Dynamics, 5+1 Things, Supportive Ottawa Centaurs (Game Changers), Montreal Voyageurs | Montreal Metros Being Assholes (Game Changers), Coach/Player Relationship, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD

Language:

English

Series:

Part 2 of After the Whistle

Stats:

Published: 2026-03-02 Completed: 2026-03-25 Words: 15,528 Chapters: 6/6

The Things We See

Summary

Shane Hollander, Ottawa Centaur, is struggling to settle into his new team. He also has more support than he knows.

Or

Five times the Centaurs noticed something was off and one time they did something about it.
(A companion piece to UNDER REVIEW)

Notes

Chapter 1: Zane Boodram

Ottawa – Locker Room

Zane grins as the team piles back into the locker room, loud and boisterous, riding the clean high of a good first practice. It’s chaos in all the best ways. The door bangs open with an uneven rhythm. Skates clatter against the rubber mat. Dykstra is already arguing about whose playlist gets the speaker next while Dillon is mid-rant about zone entries and Barrett is heckling him for overcomplicating it. Zane loves it. 

These early days are magical, stolen moments after the ice when everything feels possible and the season hasn’t taken its first bruise yet. He’s been in this room long enough to recognize the shape of a good year before it starts. And this year has all the signs that it’s going to be phenomenal.  The mood is electric, and in no small part because their captain looks like it’s Christmas morning.

Ilya Rozanov doesn’t do quiet excitement and today Roz is talking a mile a minute, grinning from ear to ear. Zane watches him clap Hollander on the back with a private smile as they come in from the tunnel, both of them still half-charged from the ice, before spinning away, bounding between the various cliques of the team.

“Okay!” Zane calls across the room, loud enough to cut across the chatter. “I get it now, Hollander.”

Shane Hollander — the legend, the rival-turned-linemate, the worst nightmare they’ve had to game plan around for years — looks up, slightly startled, like he wasn’t expecting to be addressed directly.

“Get what?” Hollander asks.

Zane gestures broadly toward Ilya, who is currently shoving Barrett out of his own stall with one hand while arguing about a missed defensive read, all bright teeth and laughter.

“Why he’s been unbearable all summer,” Zane says. “Grinning like the damn Cheshire cat. You two on a line is like nothing I’ve ever seen.”

It isn’t flattery. Watching them during practice it had felt borderline unsportsmanlike to have them on the same team. They don’t just anticipate each other — they read each other’s minds. Hollander shifts his weight and Rozanov is already cutting into the seam. Rozanov drifts wide and Hollander fills the gap without looking. Rozanov passes the puck to seemingly no one and like he teleported, Hollander is there. It’s surgical. Ruthless. And so completely effortless it takes your breath away to watch.

Roz scoffs dramatically from across the room. “Lies. I am always delight. Stop lying to my husband.”

“You’re a fucking menace,” Zane corrects easily. “And the two of you are going to leave the rest of us in the dirt the way you play.”

Barrett throws a glove at Ilya. “Can we at least pretend to compete? Or should we just stay out of your way and watch?”

Hollander huffs a quiet laugh. “That’s not the goal.”

There’s no arrogance in it. No smirk. Just simple sincerity.

Zane studies him for a moment. Up close, Hollander looks less like the myth Montreal built around him and more like a guy who wants to do his job well and go home afterward. There’s something steady about him. Not flashy, but controlled.

Zane likes him immediately.

“Don’t sweat it,” Zane says, leaning closer. “We’re glad you’re here, man.”

Hollander meets his eyes. For a second, the polish slips — gratitude flickers there, unguarded and honest. “Thanks, Bood,” he says. “Means a lot.”

Zane nods once and retreats to his stall, satisfied.

Slowly, the room shifts into its quieter post-practice rhythm. Pads hit the floor with heavy thuds. Velcro tears. Someone cranks the music louder. The smell of sweat and tape and sharp menthol rub fills the air. Around him, his team unwinds in overlapping conversations.

Dillon is dissecting a breakout with Chouinard, gesturing with his stick like he’s drawing diagrams in the air.

“I’m telling you, if you float high like that in a real game—”

“I didn’t float,” Chouinard protests.

“You floated.”

“I drifted.”

“That’s worse.”

At the far end, Barrett leans into the rookie corner, a good natured grin on his face.

“Haas,” he calls, towel slung over his shoulder. “You need help before practice tomorrow?”

Luca Haas looks up, eyes wide in automatic defense. “For what?”

“For missing that seam at the end. It was embarrassing to watch.”

“I didn’t miss it!”

“You absolutely did.”

“I recovered.”

“After he bailed you out,” Barrett says, jerking his thumb toward Hollander.

Haas glances over, sheepish but grinning. “Thanks again.”

Hollander shakes his head lightly. “You were fine.” But he’s watching the interaction closely, a misplaced stiffness in his face as his eyes flicker between Haas and Barrett. It’s like he’s waiting for something. 

“It’s not a big deal,” Haas mutters. “Coach didn’t even say anything.”

And that’s when Zane sees it. Hollander goes still just for a second. A breath too long before snapping back in.

“Yeah,” he says, his voice slightly tight. “Good.”

It’s nothing on its own, but Zane has been catching small things all day if he’s being honest. Little moments that are adding up to something he can’t quite place. 

It had been the ‘Yes, sir,’ first. The word had landed wrong: too formal and automatic.

Wiebe had corrected him lightly — “Coach.” — and Hollander had nodded, “Right. Coach. Sorry.” And then he’d done it again ten minutes later.

If you notice the “sir,” Zane then realizes, you start noticing other things. The way Hollander answers every correction like it’s a test he could fail. The quick apologies stitched into plays that don’t require them. The way he stepped in beside the rookies during drills like he was intercepting something more serious than a missed pass.

Zane leans back against his stall, watching without staring.

Most new guys take up space instinctively. They sprawl. They stretch wide. They chirp back to establish footing. Hollander does none of that. He occupies exactly the space allotted and not an inch more.

And Roz. Rozanov is hovering. He’s happy, and being his usual loud asshole boisterous captain self. But he’s also definitely hovering. 

It isn’t obvious but Zane has known the man long enough by now to read the slight tension in the set of his shoulders. 

Ilya is laughing with Dillon, snipping at Barrett, arguing about music. But his attention has kept sliding back to Hollander like gravity all day.

“You okay?” Roz had asked under his breath at one point, low enough that most wouldn’t hear.

“I’m good,” Hollander replied immediately.

Zane hears the speed of the response, too fast to be fully true, and the tone in his voice. He’s been hearing that tone a lot today when he thinks back.

Hollander heads toward Dale, the equipment manager, to adjust something on his skates, and Zane takes the opportunity. He stands, crosses the room like he’s stretching his legs, and drops onto the bench beside Ilya’s stall without ceremony.

“Hey,” he says quietly.

Roz looks up immediately. Not defensive. Just alert.

“What?”

Zane watches Hollander out of the corner of his eye, making sure he’s out of earshot.

“He settling in okay?” It’s casual on the surface. It could mean anything — the systems, the city, the pace of practice.

Ilya’s mouth curves faintly. “Yes.”

Zane waits. He doesn’t rush his friend. He learned by now that with Rozy, silence works better than interrogation. Ilya will fill it if you give him space.

The towel around Ilya’s neck shifts as he exhales slowly.

“He is just… cautious.”

Zane hums. “That’s one word.”

Ilya’s eyes track Hollander across the room — the polite nods, the measured smile, the way he stands half a step back from the cluster around Dillon.

“Shane is always disciplined,” Ilya says carefully.

Zane nods. “I see that.”

“More than most.”

“Discipline’s good.”

“Da.”

But Ilya doesn’t look convinced by his own agreement. Zane leans back against the metal of the stall, lowering his voice another notch.

“I’m not asking because I think he’s a problem,” he says quietly. “You know that.”

“I know.”

“But I’m noticing things, the others are too.”

That makes Ilya glance at him sharply.

“In what way?”

“The guys are watching,” Zane says. “Not in a bad way. Just… trying to get a read on him.”

Ilya’s jaw tightens slightly. “They think he does not fit?”

“No,” Zane says immediately. “Not at all. It’s like he’s always been in the play. But, something’s off.” The words sit between them and it’s telling that Roz doesn’t deny it.

Zane continues, tone steady. “Dillon made a comment at the last water break. Barrett too.”

Ilya’s brows draw together. “They said something to you?”

“Not accusatory,” Zane says, immediately getting ahead of whatever threat Rozanov might be seeing. “Concerned.”

Ilya’s gaze softens slightly, then hardens again.

“He is fine,” Ilya says. It’s quick. Protective.

Zane doesn’t push back against that. He shifts instead.

“I want to check in,” he says. “Nothing heavy. Just make sure he knows we’re good.”

Ilya looks at him for a long second.

“Thank you,” he says quietly.

Zane shrugs one shoulder. “It’s my job.”

It is, in a way but it goes beyond just the A on his chest. He’s the longest-tenured guy in the room. The one who hosts the team dinners and makes sure the rookies don’t eat alone on the road. The one who clocks mood shifts before they become fractures. He’s been doing this long enough to know that sometimes the smallest adjustments prevent bigger problems.

“I don’t want him thinking he has to prove something here,” Zane adds. “Not like that.”

Ilya’s expression flickers — something complicated and sharp passing through it.

“He does not,” Ilya says firmly.

“I know that,” Zane replies. “You know that.” Another beat.

“But he might not,” Zane finishes gently.

That’s the one that lands.

Ilya looks down at his hands for a moment, then back across the room at Hollander, who is laughing now at something Hayes has said, the sound bright and real.

“He has… habits,” Ilya says slowly. “From before. And last season was not good, for either of us.”

Zane nods once. “Yeah. Don’t think anyone in the league missed the season you two had.” 

A faint smile touches Ilya’s mouth, then fades.

“He is different here than I expected,” Ilya admits. “More careful. More than his normal careful.”

Zane doesn’t ask what that means.

He may not know Hollander as well as Ilya but he can see the way the newest Centaur is bracing himself. He’s got eyes and Hollander straightens when a coach raises his voice — even if it’s not directed at him. 

“It’s a new team,” Zane says quietly. “Takes time.”

“I know.” But it doesn’t sound settled.

Across the room, Hollander’s shoulders finally loosen as he shoves Hayes lightly in retaliation for something. It’s easy. Natural.

Then the music spikes louder. Someone drops a stick with a sharp crack against the bench.

Hollander flinches.

It’s small. Almost invisible. But Zane sees it.

He doesn’t need to look at Roz to know he saw it too. They don’t say anything for a long second.

The room is warm. Loud and safe in the way it has always been. Whatever Hollander is bracing for, it isn’t coming from here.

Zane watches their Captain watch his husband.

He won’t pry. He won’t force a conversation that isn’t ready to be had. 

But he can stay close. He’ll keep checking in, the way he always has with Rozanov — in small ways that don’t feel like scrutiny.

If Hollander needs time, he’ll get time. And if Roz needs backup, he won’t have to ask. Zane has been on this team long enough to know that sometimes the best way to hold something together is simply to stay present.

He can do that.

Chapter 2: Luca Haas

I. Ottawa – Rink

Luca loves being a Centaur. He loves coming to the rink and pouring his all into the drills, letting the cold air and the rhythm of skates on fresh ice take over his brain.  He loves the gentle rhythms of practice and the boisterous energy of the Ottawa locker room. 

And he loves being teammates with Shane Hollander.

Luca still hasn’t adjusted to that part.

He’d grown up with a Hollander poster over his bed and watching late-night broadcasts of the Voyageurs, volume low so he wouldn’t wake his parents. He’d obsessed over the way he cut through defenders like they were suggestions and wouldn’t shut up to his coach about how Hollander's hockey IQ was off the charts.

Now Shane stands ten feet away from him, a dorky look on his face as he scans the ice like he’s counting something invisible.

“Reset,” Delaney calls from the boards and they run the breakout drill again.

Luca is admittedly distracted. Just over the blue line he loses control over his stick and the puck starts to get away from him. 

He feels it immediately, it’s small and dumb but definitely his fault. Hayes will probably tease him later for fanboying too hard. Before the coach can call it though, Shane shifts.

He skates hard into the lane, intercepts the puck cleanly, and transitions the drill so smoothly it looks intentional.

“Good,” Shane calls, loud enough to carry. “That’s the read.”

Luca blinks. That had definitely not been the read, or any read at all for that matter. 

Delaney is nodding from the boards though and everyone else seems to have accepted it and moved on.

“Better,” Delaney says, “If that feels good, let's start to speed it up.”

Luca glances at Shane but the Canadian doesn’t look at him, instead repositions himself to be slightly between Luca and the coaches’ line of sight.

It happens again two days later (Luca misses an assignment on the forecheck; Shane angles his body, absorbs the correction, and calls out the adjustment himself). 

And then the day after that (Luca drifts out of his lane; “My gap,” Shane calls out. “That’s on me.”)

And when the coaches call something out, Shane answers quickly.

“Yes, Coach.”
“Right.”
“Got it.”

Sometimes—

“Yes, sir.”

The first time Luca hears it, he thinks it’s a joke. He quickly lears that it’s not and it pops up everywhere. 

On ice, Delaney and Wiebe redirect:

“Coach.”

“Right. Coach.”

But Shane’s shoulders stay tight for the rest of those drills and he never stops watching. It doesn't take long for Luca to start noticing other patterns as well.

One of the big ones: mistakes disappear around Shane.

If a rookie stumbles, he fixes it before anyone else can comment. If someone drifts out of position, he fills the gap and calls the adjustment himself. He never criticizes them and he never raises his voice. But he is always there. 

By week three, the youngest members of the team gravitate toward Shane instinctively. It’s hard not to, Shane is attentive and kind to them in a way that most of the veterans can’t be bothered. 

He’s always available, never yells, and never chirps them. Shane is also however, precise and he notices everything. He doesn't push exactly but when he sees something off with the Rookies, or event he sophomores, he'll just appear with a concerned expression and an offer to help that never feels like a request.

It's not a bad thing, Luca can feel himself getting better but it's also odd. No matter how tired he looks, Shane will drop plans to run one of them through reps after practice, or talk over game footage before they go into video review. It's like nothing is as important to him as making sure those little errors get fixed. 

“You can’t float high there,” he tells Luca quietly one morning before the others arrive. “If you do that in a game, they’ll notice.”

“Who?” Lucas asks, genuinely confused.

Shane pauses.

“Everyone,” he says.

They run the sequence again and when Lucas gets it right, Shane gives him a small smile and a sharp nod.

“Good.” He says, and Luca can't help but notice that there’s relief in his voice.

It’s the same but somehow wildly different during group practice. Shane shifts when the whole roster is on the ice and Wiebe’s voice carries across the rink. He’s still always there, still offers unwavering support, but it’s sharper, more anxious.

Luca misses a seam during a scrimmage and before anyone can react, Shane snaps into the space, takes the puck, and finishes the play.

“Earlier read,” he says under his breath on the reset. “Don’t let that hang.” His voice tight and low.

Luca nods quickly, scanning the ice to try and see what Shane sees. It wasn’t a catastrophic mistake or even particularly unusual, but Shane skates the next shift like he’s waiting for something.

Luca sees it in the way his gaze flicks to the bench between plays. That's something else he's noticed, Shane always knows where the coaches are standing.

It’s the way his dad will constantly glance out the window in winter, always a little bit on the watch for snow. 

The newest members of the team talk about it in fragments.

“My buddies from juniors are jealous.” One of them says in the locker room one day while they’re waiting for the rest of the team. “But god Hollander makes me nervous,” laughing slightly. 

“Yeah,” Hayes replies. “Same.”

Luca frowns, the instinct to jump to Hollander's defense rising up. 

“Not like—bad nervous,” the rookie clarifies before Luca can jump in. “Just… like if I screw up, it matters more.”

He wants to protest but Luca knows what Hayes means. Shane doesn’t yell, he just looks at you instead with that intensity like the world might crack if you make the same error again.

And then he fixes it.

One evening after a matinee home game in early November, Luca lingers late at the rink to clean his stall. The room is quiet; the rest of the team has already filtered out. But Luca needs to think and there’s a meditative rhythm to wiping down his space after a week of home games.

He’s halfway through reorganizing his gear when he realizes voices are drifting down the hall from where the door to the coaches suite is propped open. 

“…he’s covering for them,” Delaney is saying.

“I'm seeing it,” Wiebe replies.

“I know you see it but I'm saying we need to talk about it. Hollander steps in before we can correct anything and then the rookies never actually fix the problem.”

A pause.

Luca tries to pretend that he isn't straining to hear Delaney, that he isn't eavesdropping hoping for some answers to his own questions.  

“It’s not leadership right now, it’s preemption, or something but it’s an issue.” 

“It’s not my favorite,” Wiebe replies, “but I think that's a mischaracterization, they are all learning. The whole squad has gotten better since Hollander stepped in.”

“Coach. I’m serious,” Delaney’s voice is quiet now, “He thinks we’re going to punish them.”

Luca freezes. He should not be listening to this. And yet as they’re talking he feels puzzle pieces fall into place. 

Silence stretches out before Wiebe answers carefully, “We don’t know that,” 

“We know enough.”

“Montreal runs an old-school room,” Wiebe says. “Pressure and hierarchy. We’ve seen players come out of environments like that before. It takes time to adjust to a different culture.”

“I get that that but this is…” Delaney pauses, “Hollander is a good kid, I want us to do right by him.”

The energy has shifted. 

“I hear it and we are, theres no forcing Hollander to feel safe." Wiebe's voice is firm and calm, clearly having already thought through this before. "And I wouldn’t want to, I expect he’s had enough agency taken away over his career.”

“So we wait it out?” Delaney asks, resigned. 

“We stay steady. No surprise benchings. Even tones. Positive corrections only.”

“And we wait.”

“Yes. We wait.”

Luca has heard enough. It feels like he's broken his teammates trust somehow and it's time to go and pretend he was never here. He slips his jacket on and slips out quietly to not give himself away.

But the words echo in his head as he leaves.

II. Ottawa – Bood’s House

That night the team gathers at Bood’s. It’s early enough in the season that everyone shows up: no one is injured yet, or retreated into their own routines to get a break from the group. Instead, the whole roster crowds onto the back porch, voices overlapping happily while Bood wrestles with the grill. It’s an easy energy with guys trading lazy insults and laughing at stories Luca only half understands. 

Without meaning too, Luca finds himself tuning out of the surrounding burble and instead watching Shane, his mind still turning over the overheard conversation.

It seems incongruous, their words in this environment. Shane is standing near the edge of the group, gently leaning into Ilya’s space, a soft smile on his face. He looks relaxed. Barrett says something Luca misses and Shane laughs loudly from deep in his chest.

For a second he looks happy and Luca can't help but think that maybe Shane really is just intense. Maybe the rest of them are reading too much into it.

Then from the kitchen comes a sharp crash, someone dropping a stack of metal trays. It's loud and sudden, and Shane flinches. It’s small, gone almost immediately. But Luca sees clearly the way his shoulders snap up and tension rushes back into his body before he smooths it away again. His simle is back in place but all the looseness is gone.

In that moment, Luca can see exactly what Wiebe and Delaney were talking about. Shane isn’t pushing the rookies because he wants perfection. He’s pushing from someplace something darker and more fearful. 

Luca watches him take a slow breath and thinks about the poster that used to hang over his bed back home and about the player next to him everyday on the line. The two versions don’t quite line up anymore.

Later, when the firepit is burning low and people have started drifting toward the door, Luca sees Bood step closer to Ilya. They’re not whispering exactly, but they’ve moved a few feet away from the others, their voices low.

“How are you?” Luca heres Bood ask.

Ilya looks tired in the firelight. Not physically, but like something is weighing him down.

“I am fine,” he says.

Bood lets out a quiet huff of air.

“Yeah,” he says. “That’s what he says too.” both their eyes looking toward where Shane is standing near the house.

They stand there for a moment, the fire crackling between them.

“He is not settling,” Ilya says finally.

Bood doesn’t argue. He just watches their Captain.

“He scans ice like he’s waiting,” Ilya says after a moment. “And it does not always stop when we get home.” His jaw is tight.

“We’re not running that kind of room,” Bood says finally.

Luca pretends not to hear them but the words settle in his mind anyway.

That kind of room.

He doesn’t know exactly what that means. He just knows that Shane seems convinced something bad is coming and everyone else seems determined to prove that it isn’t.

Across the yard, Shane is still talking to Barrett, nodding along with something he’s saying

Luca isn’t sure yet who will be proven right: Shane or everyone else.

Chapter 3: Troy Barrett

I. Montreal - The Bell Center

By the time Troy gets to the tunnel at the Bell Center, Hollander and Rozanov are already gone. He’s not surprised, he’d watched Hollander peel off the ice the second the horn for the first period sounded, not waiting for the usual drift toward the bench. Straight down the tunnel with Rozanov right behind him.

No one had tried to stop them. When Haas had made a move toward Hollander, Bood had lifted a hand instead, subtle but clear.

“Give them a minute,” he’d muttered, pulling back Hass and slowing the rest of them just enough that the gap widened.

They’re walking slow, Dillon on Troy’s left and Hayes on his right, blades crunching ice into rubber, the noise of the rink still pressing against their backs.

“They’re out for fucking blood,” Dillon says under his breath.

“No shit,” Hayes replies.

Haas is a step behind them, quiet for once.

Troy doesn’t answer. He’s replaying the period in pieces.

It was bloody and ugly as hell. Hollander’s goal had been a thing of beauty, a clean zone entry with Rozanov, two defenders pulled wide, and Hollander slipping the puck under the goalie’s blocker like it was nothing. But that had been the high mark, and quickly marred by the jeers that had come from Montreal immediately following.  

Lucky fucking faggot. 

He doesn’t look at Haas, but he remembers the kid’s face when he heard the slurs clearly for the first time. It looked like something had shattered behind his eyes. 

Sometimes, in a part of his mind that Troy isn’t proud of, he’s jealous of Haas. Of all the rookies on this team really. Sure the team sucked until last year but they’ve been insolated from the worst the league has to offer. Troy couldn’t imagine being that unaware of just how different Ottawa was.  

They’re at the locker room now and the air inside feels still compared to the chaos outside.

Hollander is already seated at his stall, Rozanov half kneeling in front of him, their voices too low to make out but the tension obvious to the whole room. It doesn’t take a genius to imagine what they’re discussing and no one wants to insert themselves into it. 

Bood doesn’t say anything, just directs the kids to their seats and then goes to his own stall and starts stripping tape from his stick with controlled, economical motions. The mood in the room is angry but no one’s ready to vocalize it until their Captain is ready. Until Hollander says. 

From the first shift it had been brutal and it didn’t take long for the Ottawa bench to realize their newest star was the target. Rozanov stopped leaning back against the boards between shifts. Instead he sat forward, elbows on his knees, eyes tracking Hollander every second he was on the ice. The loose, easy confidence he usually carried was gone and replaced by something mean.

Bood had clocked it too. Troy could tell by the way he started filling the gaps, leaning down the bench to talk to the team between shifts, voice steady and even as the period got uglier and Roz got angrier.

“Next shift. Stay tight.”

“Structure.”

“Don’t chase, trust our system.”

He wasn’t loud about it. Bood never was, and Troy loved him for that. He was there, calm and steady, every time the Montreal bench started up again, every time the hits got a little later. His voice landed like a hand on the back of the team’s neck, keeping them pointed forward.

Even with Bood’s steadiness though, the bench wound tight. Dillon didn’t say a word for the last ten minutes. Just stared out at the ice like he was memorizing faces. Chouinard kept rolling his shoulders, jaw tight. And Haas looked like someone had quietly kicked the legs out from under his understanding of the league. 

The kid had heard the slurs clearly on his third shift. Troy had seen the exact moment it happened — Haas’s head snapping toward the Montreal player, confusion first, then something like disbelief. For a second he had looked around as if waiting for an authority to step in.

Of course no one did.

Instead the intensity increased. Montreal leaned over the boards, chirping nonstop. Every whistle, every puck battle. Every time Hollander got within ten feet of the play.

Troy couldn’t catch every word but he didn’t need to. He caught enough.

Behind them Delaney had started in on the officials.

“Are you seeing this?” he snapped after a crosscheck rode high across Hollander’s back.

The linesman skated past without breaking stride. Didn’t even look at him.

A minute later Hollander got clipped again along the boards, shoulder first into the glass.

No whistle.

Delaney threw his hands up.

“Come on!”

The ref finally glanced toward the bench and then away again.

Troy felt something settle low in his stomach. The officials had already decided what kind of game this was going to be and they were going to let it run.

Wiebe didn’t yell. That wasn’t his style.

But Troy could tell when his patience finally ran out.

Halfway through the period Hollander got driven into the boards again — helmet rattling hard enough that the glass shook — and Wiebe stepped right to the edge of the bench.

“Hey!” he barked toward the ref.

No response. The official didn’t even turn his head. Wiebe held the stare for a long second, jaw tight, then stepped back.

“Play your game,” he said quietly down the bench.

Troy understood what that meant. We’re not getting help.

The glass rattled when Hollander took another hit along the boards. He had gone down. And then back up immediately.

Always immediately. As if it was nothing but routine, no need to look for any help.  Troy had known what kind of game it was but he didn’t realize till that moment that Hollander saw the strategy in it too. Montreal was leaning on him to see what would break first. Him or the rest of Ottawa.

Dillon kicks his stall once — not hard enough to break anything, just enough to release something contained.

“What the hell was that,” he mutters.

No one answers.

Hollander doesn’t look up. The two of them, Hollander and Rozanov, have finally separated. Hollander with his headphones in and eyes down; Roz standing in front of him, close enough that their legs nearly touch, blocking his husband and teammate from the rest of the world.

Even from where Troy is sitting he can see that Hollander looks rough. Blood has dried in a thin line along his cheekbone. His lip is swollen. There’s a slash mark on the back of his glove where a stick rode too high. And he is very, very, still. 

Troy recognizes it.

When you can’t control what just happened, what will happen soon, you control your breathing. Your posture. Your inputs.

He’s done it himself.

Put your headphones in and shut out the room. Reset. Get your head ready for what’s going to hit you next. 

“They are running him,” Dillon says finally, because someone has to say it.

“And the bench,” Hayes adds. “The bench is foul. They’re not even trying to hide it.”

Haas swallows.

“They called him—” he starts, and then stops.

It hangs in the air, heavy.

“Yeah,” Dillon says flatly. “They did.”

Shane doesn’t move. He’s staring at the floor between his skates like it holds something fragile.

And Ilya—

Ilya looks feral and like he’s physically holding himself together with sheer force of will. He stands next to his husband for one more beat, presses their legs together for a second and then steps toward Bood.

On instinct, Troy stands to join them. Hayes lingers close enough to hear. Veterans and captain gathering. 

“You good?” he asks quietly. Rozy’s eyes flick to him and they’re not steady.

“He says we win,” Rozanov says. “So that is the answer.”

Troy studies his face, cataloging the tension in his jaw and the wild look in his eyes.

“And what do you say?” he asks.

The Russians jaw flexes.

“I say I would like to break someone's head,” he says honestly.

Troy snorts under his breath but there’s no humor in it.

“Yeah,” it’s easy with no real heat behind it. “At least, he’s skating circles around them even with their bullshit.”

They step a little apart from the rest of the room — not enough to exclude, just enough to lower their voices.  After a minute Troy says what’s been on his mind for the full twenty minutes.

“They’re testing,” he says quietly.

Rozanov looks at him sharply.

“What.”

Troy doesn’t hedge, just wants to get it out in one thought. 

“This isn’t just dirty hockey,” he says. “It’s a structural thing.” 

Boodram tilts his head slightly. “Explain.”

Troy keeps his voice level. He forgets sometimes that not everyone is familiar with this version of the league. Ottawa doesn’t think about hockey this way, but Toronto had. 

“Montreal is pretty traditional. Pretty aggressive.” He says. “If you have a team that’s better than you, you isolate the pressure point. You see how the rest of the team reacts. See if you can find a way to break up their flow.”

Ilya goes very still. The kind of stillness that usually comes right before he drops the gloves.

“They think he is the pressure point?” Hayes asks.

“Yeah,” Troy replies.

Bood steps closer. “And?”

“And if we explode, we give up the advantage in skill,” Troy says.

He thinks of a different locker room. Of a rookie who stopped speaking up after two months of “toughening him up.” Of a coach who called humiliation manning up and used intimidation to break better teams. Of his own complicity in maintaining a status quo. 

Ilya’s eyes narrow. “You are confident.” It is a statement and a question all in one.

“Toronto.” Troy says simply. The word hangs.

Boodram nods slowly. They all know enough of that history.

“Even if we don’t react,” Troy continues. “They’re tying up a key part of our strategy, probably hoping that’s enough to give them a fighting chance. It’s just a bonus if they can get him alone and injured.”

Roz’s gaze flicks to Hollander.

Shane hasn’t moved. Headphones still in. Eyes down. Breathing measured.

“He is not alone,” Rozanov says, low and fierce.

“No,” Troy agrees. “He’s not.”

The door opens again, startling them out of their moment. 

Wiebe comes in first. His usually mild manner replaced with an edge of cold fury. Delaney follows, expression tight.

They don’t address the room immediately instead coming over to the huddle of veterans.

“What does he want,” Wiebe asks quietly, looking straight at Rozanov. No euphemisms or taking around what they all just witnessed.

Rozanov answers slowly, like it physically pains him to say this out loud to the decision makers. “He wants to win. Not retaliate.”

Wiebe nods once.

Delaney’s eyes move around the circle, “You all agree?”

Bood nods slowly, his eyes flicking to Hollander. Troy just shrugs, “No good answers here, may as well let Hollander call it.”  

“Even after what you heard?” Delaney presses.

Troy meets his gaze evenly. “Especially after what we heard.”

Delaney studies him, then nods.

“Okay,” he says. Only then does Wiebe turn to the full room.

“We’ve already spoken to the ref team,” Wiebe says. “We’ve documented everything and put in formal complaints to the league. But we shouldn’t expect much to change in the next period.”

Not even the rookies look surprised at that declaration. 

“Right now,” Wiebe says, voice sharp. “I care about player safety and the scoreboard.”

He looks directly at Shane.

“Headphones out.”

Shane blinks once and removes them.

Wiebe doesn’t get into his space but he does make sure to crouch slightly so he can meet Hollander’s eye line.

“Are you ok?” he asks. It’s not a rhetorical question.

 “Yeah,” Shane nods, “Yes. Sir.” The formality hits Troy’s ear wrong the same as always but Wiebe doesn’t comment.

“The Captains say you don’t want the team taking revenge checks. Is that still true?” Wiebe asks.

Shane holds his gaze, ignores the stifled responses of the team realizing they are about to be asked to keep it reigned in.

“Yes,” he says. “We can win this. We’re better.” His voice is steady but Barrett doesn’t trust it. 

Wiebe studies him for a beat. It’s long enough that Troy wonders if this will be the moment Wiebe pushes back. 

Then Wiebe nods, “We are,” he says simply and turns back to the room. 

“Okay. We can do this. We finish checks. We stay structured and protect the slot. We rely on each other,” Delaney says, looking pointedly at Hollander. “We protect our team and we don’t hand them momentum. We’ll deal with the rest tomorrow.”

It’s clear, contained. And Troy is glad to hear it’s not a dismissal. If they can hold to it then it might work. 

Roz steps forward, fully in his role as captain. “We are not taking retaliation penalties,” he says, his voice clear. “But we make sure it is clear Hollander is not alone.” A ripple of agreement moves through the room. 

“They’re calling him vile shit.” Hayes is quiet but there is a frown in his voice.

Rozanov’s hands curl into fists for half a second before he forces them open again.

“I fucking know that.” he says.

He doesn’t look at Hollander but Troy does. No reaction, just that same contained stillness.

“Shane does not want us losing the game over this,” Rozanov says. “And we will honor that.”

Hollander doesn’t meet anyone's eye but he nods sharply in agreement.

Dillon drags a hand through his hair. “So we just let them—”

“No,” Boodram says, cutting in. “We don’t let them do anything. We play hard, we defend our team, and we win.”

The room absorbs it. They don’t like it, but they can accept the call. Something hard settles onto their shoulders as they go back to checking equipment, preparing for the next round.

The five-minute warning echoes faintly down the corridor.

Gear goes back on. Tape tightens. Helmets click into place.

The anger doesn’t leave the room but it does settle now. Directed.

As they line up in the tunnel, shoulder to shoulder, the noise of the arena bleeding back in, Troy steps closer to Hollander.

“Hey,” he says.

Hollander looks up at him, his eyes tight but focused.

“You sure?” Troy asks quietly. “This is how you want to handle it? It’s probably going to only get worse.”

Hollander’s eyes flicker.

“I’m sure,” he says.

Troy nods once.

“Okay.”

Shane turns back toward the ice.

As the doors open and the noise crashes over them again, Troy feels the weight of memory settle behind his ribs. He’d helped keep systems like this running once. Told guys to absorb hits, echoed the vitriol from his team, enforced strategies designed more to hurt than to win. 

He stayed quiet once in a room that feels quite familiar to tonight and he won’t do it again.

He falls into stride behind Shane. This time, he won’t escalate and he won’t undermine. But he will watch.

As they step out he sees Hollander rolls his shoulders once, like he’s bracing for impact.

Chapter 4: Dr. Terry

Chapter Notes

I. Montreal – Medical Room

Terry has worked in enough visiting locker rooms that eventually they begin to blur together. The architecture changes slightly from arena to arena, but the medical suites are always fundamentally the same — bright tile, stainless steel trays, the faint chemical smell of disinfectant layered over sweat and damp gear. Usually the Montreal medical suite is no different then any others but as the trainers bring Hollander into him he can’t help but feel the weight of the Bell Center. 

On autopilot Terry’s attention goes first to the obvious injuries. There’s blood at the edge of Shane’s brow, and he’s unsteady on his feet as they guide him toward the table, his skates scuffing against the rubber floor.

Almost immediately however, Terry notices something else: Hollander’s posture doesn’t match the concussion symptoms.

Every muscle in the kid’s body is tight. Not the ordinary rigidity of someone fighting through pain or adrenaline, but a deeper, more complete tension — the kind that suggests a nervous system trying to process too much input at once rather than trying to take a break. Even as the medics help him onto the table, Shane’s gaze keeps flicking around the room, tracking the door, the hallway, the shifting noise beyond the walls.

If Terry didn’t know better, he’d say Hollander was bracing for an impact that should have already happened.

It isn’t difficult to guess why. Everyone on the Ottawa staff had heard the Montreal bench. Terry has worked enough rivalry games to recognize the usual edge that comes with them, but tonight had been something uglier, something that crossed into territory he rarely hears voiced so openly.

It makes sense, in a clinical way, that Hollander isn’t giving in to the concussion. Instead he’s clinging to hyper-vigilance, fighting to stay aware of the room around him.

“Don’t move your head,” Terry says, voice even, his hands already at Shane’s temples before the words fully register.

Shane blinks hard against the overhead light. There’s a fractional lag between instruction and comprehension — not dramatic, but measurable.

“Sorry,” he murmurs. “I’m fine.”

The words smear at the edges. Consonants softening. Terry has heard “I’m fine” from men with broken wrists, torn ACLs, separated shoulders. It is the most common phrase in professional hockey and means absolutely nothing on its own.

“You’re not, but that’s okay.” Terry replies calmly. “Stay still.”

He moves through protocol with the same rhythm he always does — light stimulus, pupil response, visual and physical check of his patients neck and head— narrating each step in neutral, informational tones so there is no space for argument to wedge itself in.

“Follow my finger.”

Shane’s gaze jerks too far right, then corrects.

“Any nausea?”

A beat. “No.”

“Headache?”

“Yes.”

“Rate it.”

“Six.”

Terry presses lightly along the acromion and feels the immediate involuntary tightening beneath his fingertips. The shoulder is inflamed, the musculature rigid not just from impact but from something more chronic — a baseline that has been there for months.

“Pain level in the shoulder?”

“Four.”

The number is delivered evenly, almost politely.

There’s no way it is accurate but Terry doesn’t correct him. The note he made weeks ago in Hollander’s medical file is to the point: Pain reporting: unreliable. Consistently underestimates.

Terry steps back just enough to take in the whole picture.

The kid is out of it enough that there are cracks in his usual impeccable composure. His eyes are too wide, alert but also slightly panicked. His jaw is locked and the muscle at the hinge faintly tremble. When Terry drops his clipboard a little too loudly on the counter, the reaction is immediate — shoulders hitching a fraction before settling again.

He apologizes for that too.

“Sorry.”

‘Sorry for what?’ Terry thinks. For being startled? For being injured? For taking up space on the table? It is not the first time he has heard that tone.

When Shane arrived in Ottawa, the talk around the training staff had been predictable — elite conditioning, obsessive work ethic, the kind of drive coaches build culture around. Terry had expected the usual wear patterns of a high-level forward: chronic hip tightness, mild shoulder instability, the occasional wrist inflammation from stick work.

That was all true. There was also a more suspect accumulation of injuries.

A history of ligament tears that didn’t always correspond cleanly to game footage. Deep tissue inflammation in the upper back and neck that suggested prolonged muscle guarding. Elevated resting heart rate during baseline testing despite elite cardiovascular fitness. Cortisol levels that hovered just above ideal thresholds during preseason screening.

None of it conclusive but all of it consistent with someone who lives in a state of physiological readiness.

“Loss of consciousness?” Terry asks now.

“No.”

Terry had been watching the monitor when Hollander had gone down. He’d seen the lag between impact and response. 

In his notes he writes, probable brief LOC regardless.

“Well, it’s not the end of the world but you’re on concussion protocol until we can get scans,” Terry says. “You’re done for the night.”

For the first time since entering the room Shane stops scanning and his attention locks completely onto Terry; his focus sharpens, pupils tightening.

“We’re up. The team’s relying on me.” The statement is quiet but Terry can see the way his breathing catches. 

“That’s not relevant right now. You’re not at baseline,” he says evenly.

“I’m functional.”

“Debatable. And that’s not the same metric.”

Shane’s composure fractures just slightly. It is subtle but Terry is used to reading bodies and can see the shifts clearly. The Forward’s breath catches halfway through an inhale and his fingers curl slightly against the edge of the table.

“I can play,” Shane says. His voice is still controlled but there is tension running through his entire body now, a fine tremor beginning in his hands. “You don’t need to bench me.” The words are heavy, more weight then they ought to be delivered with. 

“I absolutely do,” Terry tells him, putting slightly more authority behind it now. “It would be malpractice to clear you.” He doesn’t add that he has his own suspicions about what Hollander has been allowed, or been pushed, to play through before. 

“Your shoulder is stable but strained,” he continues evenly. “I want to tape it and get some ice on there. We’ll add it to the imaging request as well just to make sure I didn’t miss anything. You know the score, take it easy and give your body a chance to heal up.”

“Yes, sir.” 

It doesn’t surprise Terry anymore. The rest of the team greets him with an easy Doc. or Dr. T but with Hollander it’s always ‘Sir.’ There’s a note in Hollander’s file about that one too.

Terry lets it go and busies himself with the work in front of him. He does not get emotional about players and he does not speculate without evidence.

But he can see patterns in a medical record and he heard what was happening in the rink tonight. 

What he’s seeing now, what he’s been seeing since Hollander got here if he’s being honest, doesn’t add up to toxic masculinity or toughness culture, it adds up to survival.

And survival strategies, in the wrong environment, become injuries of their own.

II. Ottawa – Wiebe’s Office

Wiebe’s office always smells faintly of coffee and dry erase markers to Terry. It’s comforting in its sameness as he knocks on the doorframe the next afternoon. 

“You’ve got a minute?” 

Wiebe doesn’t hesitate. “Always.” 

The quick response is one of the reasons Terry has enjoyed working with Brandon Wiebe so much in his short tenure. With other coaches there’s usually a brief dance before conversations like this happen — men guarding their lineup decisions while his staff guard their diagnoses. A quiet negotiation over who gets to say what about a player’s body.

Wiebe has never played that game. If Terry is standing in his doorway, something matters and he makes the time. 

It’s a heartening thought for Terry as he steps inside, closing the door halfway and sets his tablet on the desk between them.

“Follow up on Hollander. Concussion’s confirmed. It’s mild but it’s there. His shoulder also has a nasty strain but nothing overly concerning. I’d like him to rest but I imagine he’s going to push for an early return.”

“He already called,” Wiebe replies, a tired smile threatening to break through. 

“I assumed. 

The humor fades quickly and neither of them says anything for a moment.

Behind Wiebe, his monitor is paused on a frame from last night’s game. The puck sits trapped along the boards while three players fight for leverage. Hollander is caught between them, the sole Ottawa jersey in a crowd of Montreal colors, shoulders hunched slightly as a defenseman leans into his back.

Terry studies the frame for another second before leaning back in his chair.

“That building got ugly last night,” he says quietly.

Wiebe exhales through his nose. An angry, useless noise against what they’d all heard last night. Montreal had been cruel in a way that was meant to carry; the slurs drawing the attention of the entire Ottawa team. 

“They started early,” Wiebe says, his gaze drifting back toward the paused footage. “First period.”

Terry nods. “I heard.”

He lets another moment pass between them and then reaches down and wakes up the tablet, bringing up the medical file he has been building since Hollander joined the team. 

“You saw how Hollander was reacting on the bench,” Terry says, his eyes focused on the screen in front of him. It’s not a smooth transition but it will have to do. There is context to his data now and there isn’t a graceful way into it. 

Wiebe’s gaze shifts back to him, his eyes pulling away from watching the monitor. .

“Yeah.”

“What did it look like to you?”

Wiebe leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on the desk as he thinks.

“Like he was expecting it,” he says finally. “And also waiting for it.”

Terry nods.

“That’s consistent with what I saw downstairs.”

He turns the tablet so Wiebe can see the graphs.

“Before last night,” Terry says, “this just looked like a player pushing himself too hard.” Graphs bloom across the screen — recovery curves, training loads, biometric markers tracked across the early days of the season. 

Wiebe studies the screen in silence. “He overtrains,” he says after a moment. His tone is neutral but Terry’s worked with the man for a few years now. He can see the gears turning. 

“Yes.”

“Lots of guys do.”

“Not like this.”

Terry folds his hands loosely. “He doesn’t taper when instructed. He’ll agree to directives to rest from my team but, behaviorally, it’s got almost no effect.”

Wiebe exhales slowly through his nose.

“And?”

“And, he demonstrates physiological markers consistent with chronic stress exposure and hyperarousal.” He says it without drama. Just data. “Hypervigilant startle response during exam. Persistent muscle guarding. Pain tolerance significantly above cohort baseline with inconsistent pain reporting. Elevated cortisol trend.”

Wiebe’s gaze lifts from the tablet to his colleague's face but Terry isn’t done yet. He taps the screen, highlighting several spikes along the timeline. “These correspond with losses,” he explains. “Or games where his ice time drops.”

Wiebe’s brow furrows slightly.

“He compensates.”

“Exactly.”

Terry scrolls further. Additional sessions appear — late-night ice bookings, conditioning loads that double the expected program. 

Wiebe is looking worn down by this point, his eyes getting haggard..

“What’s the effect?”

“Small things,” Terry replies. “Small but chronic strains. Inflammation in the neck and upper back. Muscle guarding during routine exams.” He pauses before adding quietly, “It’s the sort of thing you see when someone lives in a constant state of tension.”

Wiebe’s gaze lifts from the tablet. “You think Montreal?” he asks.

““I think last night gave the pattern context.”

 The memory of the Bell Centre drifts back into the room.

“He never retaliated,” Wiebe says quietly.

“No.”

“Not once. Even when they were trying to provoke him.”  Wiebe’s mouth tightens slightly. “That kind of restraint usually means one of two things,” he says.

Terry waits for him to say it.

“Either a player has incredible discipline,” Wiebe continues, “or they’ve learned the hard way what happens when they don’t.” The silence that follows is heavy.

“I can’t diagnose anything with just this,” Terry replies slowly. “But my medical opinion is that Hollander has prolonged exposure to an intensive conditioning environment with long-term physical and psychological impact that has not been treated, that is what his body suggests.” 

And there it is, the pattern laid out between the two of them, impossible to ignore. 

Wiebe sits back in his chair and lets out another slow breath.

“So what do we do about it?”

Terry leans back slightly in his chair.

“The obvious recommendation is a sports psychology consult.”

Wiebe nods once slowly, “He won’t like that.”

“I am not asking him to.”

A faint ghost of a smile touches Wiebe’s mouth.

“You’ve got my backing,” Wiebe says. “On all of it.”

“I know.” And he does. That is why this conversation is happening now and not three months from now the way it might on another team with another coach. “How do you want to handle the conversation?”

Wiebe sits back, his gaze flicking over to the footage of last night's game pulled up on the screen.

“Is he cleared to skate? Light drills - no contact?” Wiebe holds up a hand to finish his thought when he sees Terry’s face, “I’m not talking full out but he just walked out of a rink where twenty thousand people and most of his old bench were calling him slurs. If the first thing we do today is pull him off the ice and send him to a psychologist, he’s going to think we’re punishing him for it.”

Terry thinks about it.

Ideally Hollander would be off the ice for the rest of the week but Wiebe has a point. The risk of physical injury, if managed right, is relatively low and the benefit to Hollander’s psychological state could be high. 

“It’s not my favorite but,” he chews on it for a moment, “we can make it work. I’d like to make sure we at least give him the option to sit it out though, even if he won’t take it.”

“Got it,” Wiebe is nodding along seriously, making a few notes. “If he’s back tomorrow we can keep it easy, let him settle back into the routine. Then pull him aside after practice and talk about the consult?”  

Terry snorts, “That should be a fun conversation. But yes, it’s a solid plan.” He hesitates for a minute but then decides to forge ahead. It’s not strictly medical but important to vocalize nonetheless. “One more thing.”

Wiebe looks up.

“When I told him he was done for the night,” Terry says, “he wasn’t angry.”

“No?”

“He was scared.”

Wiebe’s jaw tightens. “Yeah…I noticed.” Terry lets the statement breath for a moment. There is an uncomfortable silence before Wiebe adds, “I offered to bench him at the end of the first to keep him out of it. It didn’t go well.”

Terry can only imagine what Hollander must have looked like when faced with that offer. It isn’t a pretty picture. “If we’re right” he offers to Wiebe, “an outsized reaction makes sense in the context of that kind of environment. 

Wiebe just nods slowly.

“Yeah,” he says. “It’s a real damned if you do, damned if you don’t, scenario we’ve got here.” He takes a deep breath and then hands the tablet back to Terry. “Nothing to do I guess but make sure we have the right environment here.”

They finish quickly after that, a plan forming.

But as Terry steps back into the hallway, the memory of Hollander sitting on the medical table — shoulders tight, eyes tracking every sound in the room — lingers in his mind.

In his experience, environments can change quickly but bodies rarely do.

Chapter End Notes

Next up, Coach Wiebe himself.

Chapter 5: Brandon Wiebe

Chapter Notes

I. Ottawa – Rink

It’s quiet in the rink now, all the noise drained away. The team is gone and all thats left is the hum of the overhead lights. 

Wiebe stands in the silence, feet planted at the edge of the rink, and looks at the place where the drill collapsed. You can see it if you know what you’re looking for: a tight spiral of cuts near the blue line, concentric circles of anxiety.

Delaney stands a few feet away, hands tucked into his jacket pockets.

“He was okay,” he says. “Tight. But okay.”

Wiebe nods once.

“Yes.”

It feels meaningless in the quiet of the rink. They had both seen the warning signs building. Hollander tenser than usual, his normally smooth movements turned brittle. They had seen the anxiety creeping into his posture every time the drill reset. Delaney and him had even made eye contact about it over the players head, but kept the drill running anyway. 

It hadn’t seemed like a breaking point at the time. Just another day where Hollander was pushing himself too far and wouldn't take an out. It happened often enough that it had started to feel normal.

Wiebe closes his eyes briefly. He'd been making that mistake for weeks and it was going to haunt him now.  

They had gotten used to a version of Shane Hollander who endured everything and absorbed pressure without complaint. Instead of providing support they had started to expect that whatever was sitting under the surface, he’d work out internally without ever letting it spill out into the room. That he could manage whatever ghosts Montreal had left him with.

Wiebe had told himself it was about respect.

Since training camp Wiebe had been tellin ghimself that you can’t force a player to trust you. You can’t drag someone into safety before they believe it exists. The best you can do is hold the door open and let them come to it when they’re ready.

It had been a good philosophy on paper. Give Hollander space, let him see the room for himself. Let the team show him what Ottawa was before asking him to talk about whatever had happened in Montreal. It had seemed like the right call, patient and professional, in all the ways Wiebe had valued for his entire career. 

But standing here now, looking down at the tight spirals carved into the ice, he can see the other side of it.

Patience, it turns out, is hard to distinguish from indifference.

From across the ice they’d watched as Shane's and gone still. Even from where they had been standing they could see the way his breathing had gone shallow and his hands had started shaking as he mouthed something silent. They’d watched as Rozanov had tried to touch him, and raced forward at the site of Hollander scrambling backwards, his stick clattering against the ice as he flinched away. Around the rink, the rest of the team had frozen in place. Their worry and uncertainty turning to their coaches who had no answers ready.

In decades of experience Wiebe thought that this moment might be one of the worst things he’d ever witnessed. 

Delaney’s voice cuts through the memory.

“That wasn’t about practice.”

“No,” Wiebe says quietly.

Hollander had carried an impossible load out of the Bell Center two nights ago and back onto Ottawa ice this morning. And no one, least of all Wiebe, had done anything that helped with his burden.

He has spent years building a career where players are supposed to feel safe making mistakes. And this morning he watched one of them come apart under the weight of something he knew was there but was conceited enough to think he understood.

He ran a hand slowly over the back of his neck. If he had been paying closer attention, had pushed the conversation sooner, read the signs a little better, maybe the breaking point wouldn’t have happened in front of the entire team.

Wiebe looks out across the empty rink and exhales slowly.

“I think,” he says quietly, “we waited too long.”

Delaney doesn’t argue. It’s not so much an admission as a vocalization of something they both know is true. 

II. Montreal - Ottawa Bench

Midway through the first period in Montreal, the noise from the opposite bench had gotten mean. It was slightly quieter, but much uglier. Wiebe was only picking up every third or fourth comment being thrown across the rink but what he was hearing was enough to make him boil. 

Hollander, the center of the rink’s ire, came off the ice hard at the end of his latest shift. From his position watching the transition, Wiebe could see the center’s shoulders tense as he skated in toward the bench.  He sat without looking at anyone, controlled, but it was impossible to miss the faint line of blood drying just under his visor. 

Two seats down, Rozanov leaned forward with his elbows braced against his knees, eyes locked on his husband. He hadn’t said anything for several shifts now. In and of itself it was a bad sign. The Russian usually maintained constant loose chatter between line changes, keeping the team on task and morale up. Now he had gone quiet, replaced by a stillness that Wiebe recognized as their captain holding himself together by discipline alone.

Both him and Delaney had been watching both men more closely for a few shifts now. Every time Hollander touched the puck, a Montreal jersey found him a little late along the boards and Rozanov shifted his body a little more forward. It was becoming clear that their opponents were testing, seeing both how much the officials would tolerate and how much their target, and by extension the team, would absorb. It was also becoming clear that the strategy was taking a tole. 

“Hollander.”

Shane looked up immediately.

“Yes, sir?”

Too formal. Before this game, they’d been making progress there. He’d thought the kid was starting to settle into the room and relax enough to drop some of the habits he had clearly carried out of Montreal. Tonight had stripped that away in under ten minutes. 

“You want out for a few shifts?” Wiebe asked quietly.

He kept his voice neutral. Casual. The same tone he used with any player who had taken a rough hit. Up close to him, Wiebe could see there was a kind of stillness lacing Hollander’s body that he didn’t like. Giving some breathing room from this mess could only help. 

Hollander went very still regardless.

“I’m fine,” he said. The answer came quickly, his voice tight and his eyes unnaturally alert. 

Wiebe watched him for another second. He couldn’t help but see the way Hollander’s jaw had locked tight enough that the muscle at the hinge jumped faintly. 

“I’m serious. We can pull you,” Wiebe said evenly. “No consequence.”

He meant it too. Ottawa didn’t punish players for needing a shift or three to recover. If anything, the room respected it. The last thing Wiebe wanted was for Hollander to take another cheap hit just to prove something to a Montreal bench that was trying to get under his skin.

For a split second Shane didn’t answer but the flicker of fear across the player’s face spoke loudly enough. 

“I’m fine, sir.” Shane repeated. His voice had changed, thinner, with a small hitch in his breathing before he forced it steady again. 

Wiebe held his gaze. “You sure?” he asked quietly.

Shane nodded immediately.

“I want to play,” he said again. “I can handle it.”

The words were steady even when everything else about him wasn’t. Wiebe could see the way Hollander’s fingers tightened around his stick as he spoke and his eyes had gone wide. 

Pride, he thought at the time. In the moment he saw nothing more than a player refusing to give Montreal the satisfaction of chasing him off the ice and Wiebe told himself then that autonomy mattered. If Hollander wants to stay out there, that choice should be his.

Wiebe finally nodded once.

“Alright,” he said. "Be safe."

Shane’s shoulders dropped a fraction as if he’d been granted a reprieve. He leaned forward again as the line change ended, eyes snapping back toward the ice like nothing had happened and jumping the boards when tapped.

And Wiebe had let him go.

Back in the present, the rink feels cavernous. At the time it had felt like the right call. Standing in the empty rink now, looking down at the spiral carved into the ice, Wiebe is no longer certain that calculation had been as careful as he thought.

He shifts slightly, and turns to Delaney, “He’s out of the building?”

“Rozanov texted,” his second in command says. “They’re on their way home.”

Wiebe nods slowly.

“Good.”

Neither man says what they’re both thinking, the image of Hollander on the ice is still too fresh. 

Wiebe turns toward the tunnel.

“Let’s talk to the team.”

III. Ottawa – Locker Room

The entire team is waiting in the locker room as they arrive, all of them looking up as one body when the Coaches step in. Wiebe pauses for a moment just inside the doorway, taking in the room. 

In an odd way, it warms Wiebe’s heart. No one had told them to stay. They could have filtered out quietly, headed home early, pretended the day had simply ended badly. Instead, the room is full and anxious. The weight of the morning still hangs in the air: worry, confusion, a kind of protective tension that hasn’t quite found an outlet yet. 

“Alright,” he says quietly. “We’re going to talk about what happened.”

No one speaks, but the team shifts forward, the full attention of eighteen men resting on him. Wiebe surveys them carefully, his attention flickering over his players. Boodram is leaning back against the lockers, arms folded loosely across his chest, watching with the quiet attentiveness of someone who had been expecting this conversation. Barrett is next to him, elbows on his knees, posture relaxed but his eyes sharp. Across the room Haas is perched stiffly on the edge of the bench, hands clasped together between his knees like he hasn’t quite figured out what to do with them yet.

“We’re not going to pretend nothing happened. You all saw it," Wiebe continues. “Hollander hit a wall out there and that didn’t start today or in this building.”

He lets the words settle. Bood and Barrett both glance at each other before Barrett speaks up. 

“It started in Montreal.” He says it calmly but there is a challenge in his voice that would be foolish to ignore. 

Wiebe nods once, looking the other man straight in the eye.

“Yes.”

The memory of the game hangs in the room. Haas shifts slightly on the bench, his brow furrowing.

“They kept going after him,” he says quietly to no one in particular. “Every shift.” 

Dillon exhales through his nose.

Wiebe turns to Haas and nods.

“They did. ” He straightens slightly and looks around the room again. “I want to be clear that what happened this morning isn’t on Hollander,” he says. “Our suspicion is that it's the result of a lot of pressure hitting the same place for a long time.”

Barrett’s gaze sharpens slightly at that. “He’s been carrying this for a while,” he says quietly.

“Yes,” Wiebe agrees. The word heavy. “And he’s been carrying it without asking for help,” Wiebe continues, “That’s on me as much as it’s on him.”

A few players exchange glances at that.

Haas frowns slightly.

“But he always looks… fine,” the rookie says. There’s uncertainty in his voice — the confusion of someone still new enough to believe that what he sees on the surface is probably the whole story.

Boodram glances toward him.

“Some guys get good at hiding things,” he says gently.

“And some teams teach that skill.” Barrett mutters under his breath. The implication of that hangs in the air for a moment.

Wiebe lets it sit.

“We’re not that kind of room,” he says finally. His voice isn’t raised, but it carries through the space with quiet certainty. “What happened in during the Montreal game was way over the line,” he continues. “Hollander took the brunt of that, not just physically. What happened this morning is similar to trying to play on an injury.”

A few players nod again.

“He didn’t say anything about it,” Hayes mutters.

“No,” Wiebe agrees.

Barrett lets out a quiet breath.

“That tracks though.”

Wiebe studies the room for a moment longer before continuing.

“Hollander’s a good player,” he says. “But more importantly, he’s a good teammate. You’ve all seen the way he works, the way he takes responsibility regardless if they're his problem or not.”

Haas nods immediately. A faint ripple of agreement moves through the room.

“So I want to talk about what we,” he gestures at Delaney as he says this, “are going to ask of you to support a member of this team.” He realizes he doesn’t need to check whether he has the room’s attention, everyone is singularly focused on what he is saying.  

“Hollander gets space to breathe and recover, same as any injury,” Wiebe says. “We expect you to respect his privacy. No questions, no speculation, no turning him into a project.” He pauses. “But support here doesn’t mean distance.”

Several players glance up at that.

“He needs to know he’s still part of this room,” Wiebe continues. “That nothing about this morning changes how this team sees him, and the expectation here is that we are making that clear.”

Barrett nods slowly.

“So we keep things normal,” he says.

“Yes.”

The tension in the room shifts slightly, not dissipating but settling into something steadier. There’s a soft murmur as the veterans turn to each other, plans starting to form.

Boodram hasn’t looked away from Wiebe yet though. He tilts his head slightly instead and asks, “What about Roz?”

That draws a few quiet murmurs of agreement. Everyone in the room knows how tightly Rozanov watches his husband. They’ve seen the mounting anxiety, the way he’s alternated between snapping at the team and going quiet for weeks. 

Wiebe exhales quietly. “We look out for him too.”

“He’ll run himself into the ground trying to carry it for Hollzy,” Dillon says.

“That’s why I’m asking you to make sure he doesn’t have to do it alone,” Wiebe replies. He is intimately aware of the strain the Captain of his team is under. 

Hollander isn’t the only one who left the Bell Center less than whole. 

IV. Montreal – Medical Room

It’s fifteen minutes after the final whistle and Wiebe walks out of the visitors locker room to find Rozanov pretty much exactly where he expected him. The Russian is just inside the door of the medical suite, shoulders squared and arms crossed tightly over his chest, with the air of a man not pacing by sheer force of will.

Wiebe has coached Rozanov long enough to recognize what it is: the man desperately trying to keep himself together and only sort of succeeding.  He approaches slowly, giving the russian enough space that the conversation can remain private without making it look like he is cornering his captain.

“How is he?”

Ilya doesn’t answer right away. 

For a moment Wiebe thinks he might ignore the question entirely, but then Rozanov exhales slowly and drags a hand across his face.

“He has small concussion,” he says. His voice is steady, but it sounds like it’s taking effort to keep it that way, his accent is stronger than normal, “And hurt shoulder.”

Wiebe nods. It’s a better prognosis than he expected given how brutal the hit had been. 

“And you? You good?” Wiebe asks quietly. Ilya lets out a short, humorless breath.

“I am fine, no one got close to landing punch.” The words sound automatic and also miss the point entirely. However bad the hit was, the fight after was worse. Wiebe was fairly certain he’d be haunted for years by the scream of anguished rage that had torn itself out of  Rozanov’s throat watching Comeau stand over his husband and spit.

For a moment they stand in silence while another equipment cart rattles past the door.

Then Ilya speaks again, more quietly.

“He is angry with me.”

Wiebe just nods. “I imagine he would be.”

“He told me not to do anything,” he says, his mouth tightening. “He said it would make things worse.”

“And you didn’t listen.”

“Nyet.”

The answer comes without hesitation. Ilya turns to look at him fully, dark eyes steady despite the tension running through him. “If someone spits on your teammate,” he says, voice low and controlled, “you respond.” The words are deliberate, a justification prepared in advance.

It occurs to Wiebe that Rozanov is expecting a lecture. He’s waiting for the Head Coach of this team to deliver a reminder about discipline, about retaliation penalties, about how captains are supposed to control the temperature of the bench instead of lighting it on fire.

Instead Wiebe studies him for a moment longer.

“Ilya,” Wiebe says finally, “if someone goes after a teammate like that, especially if it is your husband, in the middle of a game, you're going to react. I expect it.”

The word husband sits between them and Rozanov’s posture stiffens slightly.

“You are the captain of this team,” Wiebe continues. “Sometimes that means you protect our room.”

Ilya studies him carefully.

“And Shane?”

“Shane is part of this room.”

That answer comes easily.

“He thinks this makes him a problem,” Ilya says quietly after a moment. “The attention.”

Wiebe nods slowly.

“I’m seeing that.”

Rozanov glances toward the medical room door again.

“He does not like people seeing it.”

“That tracks too.”

Another pause stretches between them.

Finally Ilya says, “If the league calls about the fight—”

“I’ll deal with it.”

Rozanov looks back at him.

“You’re not worried about the example?”

Wiebe almost laughs.

“The example I’m worried about,” he says, “is letting teams think they can get away with what Montreal pulled tonight.”

For a moment neither man speaks. Then Ilya nods once, slow and deliberate.

“Good.”

He shifts his weight again, gaze returning to the closed door. The defensiveness is still there, but it has softened slightly — the posture of someone who had braced for a fight that never came.

Watching him, Wiebe feels something settle into place. A captain who would throw himself into a losing fight for a teammate is not a liability. It is exactly the kind of loyalty that holds a team together when things get difficult.

And if Hollander is going to learn to trust this room, having Rozanov at his side is probably the best place to start.

V. Ottawa – Wiebe’s Office

It takes almost another hour for the team to finally pack up and leave, for Wiebe to talk to Delaney, reassure Bood, and make his way back toward his office. By the time he sits at his desk it feels like a lifetime has passed. 

He’s struck by the quiet now, the earlier murmur of players and staff replaced by the low mechanical hum of the building settling into the early evening. Somewhere down the corridor a Zamboni engine turns over, the sound steady through the concrete.

On the wall behind his desk a whiteboard still holds the morning’s practice plan. Arrows, initials, timing notes written in Delaney’s sharp handwriting. Wiebe studies it for a moment before standing and erasing the entire section in a single slow sweep of his hand, the marker smearing slightly before the board clears.

For most of his career he has believed that the best way to coach men is to give them room to become who they already are. Set expectations, provide structure, and let players find their footing inside it. He’d lived by a motto of control less, trust more. Ottawa’s room is steady because of that philosophy and he has always been proud of that.

But standing on the ice earlier, watching Shane Hollander freeze in the middle of a routine drill while the rest of the team circled uncertainly around him, Wiebe had been forced to confront that sometimes space is just an absence of support. 

Hollander had arrived in Ottawa carrying something heavy and invisible, and Wiebe had assumed the right thing to do was wait until the player was ready to set it down. If Terry is right, and he usually is, Hollander has spent the better part of the last decade in an environment where mistakes were punished, weakness was weaponized, and this kind hearted young man was targeted in a way they are only just starting to understand. In that context, waiting quietly on the sidelines may have looked less like respect and more like confirmation.

You’re on your own.

He leans back in his chair and rubs a hand over his eyes. He had thought he was leaving the door open but now he isn’t sure Hollander ever realized it was there.

After a beat, Wiebe takes a breath, then reaches for his phone. Shane Hollander’s contact sits near the top of the screen. 

For a second he just looks at it.

Then he types, Let’s talk tomorrow, you and me. 

He pauses, considering the words, then adds another line.

Ilya’s welcome if that makes it easier.

Wiebe reads the message once more, then sends it.

Down the hall, the Zamboni engine dies down as it finishes its slow pass across the ice. The surface will be smooth again, that mess of edges by the blue line wiped clean.

Wiebe knows better though than to believe things fix themselves that easily.

Tomorrow is where the real work starts and this time, he intends to do it differently.

Chapter End Notes

Ok this is a long one! Thank you for your patience as I worked through this. I am so deeply appreciative of the response I've gotten to this story and I don't take it lightly that folks are following along with these updates. Next, and last, chapter will likely drop in a few days.

Chapter 6: Epilogue: Ilya Rozanov

Chapter Notes

I. Locker Room – After Detroit

The final buzzer goes off in Ottawa and the ice erupts.

Centaurs jerseys crash together at the far side of the rink, sticks lifted overhead as the arena roars. Above them, the scoreboard is flashing the final numbers, 3 – 2 Ottawa, and sitting right in the middle of the dogpile is the man responsible: Shane Hollander.

They’re in the playoffs and without a question, it’s because of Shane.

Ilya doesn’t even think. He’s already skating hard across the ice, launching himself straight into the pile of bodies at the blue line.

“Move!” he shouts, shoving two teammates aside with absolutely no care whatsoever.

Someone laughs as he wedges his way into the middle.

Shane’s head snaps up just as Ilya reaches him, cheeks flushed from exertion and joy. He’s grinning as Ilya grabs him around the shoulders and nearly lifts him off the ice.

“My husband!” he bellows to absolutely everyone. “That’s my fucking husband, assholes!”

The guys howl, completely incoherent over the arena noise. Shane is blushing hard under the attention but the smile on his face is wild and unrestrained. For a second Ilya just holds him there, helmet knocking against his own, chest still pounding from the shift before. 

Then, the swell of the moment pushes them forward, bodies pressing in as shouts of “Hollan-fucken-der!” carry them from the rink into the tunnel.

When they finally all tumble into the locker room, the music starts almost immediately. Champagne appears from somewhere, corks popping before most of the team has even finished stripping off their gear. It’s loud, sticky, and wild but Ilya couldn’t imagine a better place to be.

Ilya collapses onto the bench shirtless but still in his skates, grinning like a complete idiot while the celebration unfolds around him. LaPointe is with Young spinning around the center of the room singing along to the music badly off key. Next to them, Hayes sprays champagne and Dillon catches the full blast across the chest.

“Oh come on!” he yells through a grin, champagne running into his eyes.

Haas, over by his stall, nearly drops the towel he’s using to wipe himself down because he’s laughing too hard. His hair is soaked already but he looks delighted about it.

“Rookie!” Dillon shouts, pointing at him. “You better thank the man responsible!”

Haas spins immediately, searching the room. Ilya follows the movement without even meaning to.

Shane is leaning against the far bank of lockers in his base layer, helmet gone, hair curling damply at the back of his neck. Someone — probably Barrett — has shoved a bottle of champagne into his hand. He hasn’t opened it yet, just letting it rest against his hip. He’s standing there watching the team with a crooked little smile.

Months ago Ilya had sat in this same room with Shane shaking so badly he could barely breathe. Tonight he looks like nothing in the world can touch him.

Haas barrels over.

“That shot!” he blurts out. “At the end! That was—” He gestures helplessly with both hands, words seeming to have failed him completely in his excitement. 

Shane lifts an eyebrow.

“It was an open net, Haas.”

The room erupts.

“That was not an open net!” Haas protests.

Barrett snorts loudly from two lockers down.

“It was if you’re Shane Hollander.”

“To Shane Fucking Hollander!” 

Shane shrugs and bumps the rookie’s shoulder lightly with the neck of the bottle. “You got the breakout started.”

“Yeah but—”

“You did.”

Haas stops, his protest fizzles into a sheepish grin.“Okay.”

Shane nods once like that settles it. 

From his seat, Ilya watches the exchange with a slow warmth spreading through his chest. There’s a world of difference between this Shane and the man who first arrived in Ottawa. He’s still supporting, but the entire structure of the team isn’t a responsibility he’s holding anymore. 

Boodram drops onto the bench beside Ilya with a quiet grunt, towel slung over his shoulders.

“Hell of a game.”

Ilya grins.

“Fuck yes. The best!”

They sit there for a moment, just watching the room.

From his spot by the lockers Barrett has wandered over to Shane, saying something low enough that Ilya can’t hear it. Shane laughs, short and surprised, and shoves him lightly in the shoulder.

Ilya noticed that relationship build early. Barrett had started sitting beside Shane on the bus rides a week after the panic attack, quiet at first. Now they move around each other with the easy rhythm of men who trust each other completely.

“You’re smiling,” Bood says beside him.

“I always smile. Very happy captain.” Ilya snips, his arms wide

“Not like that.”

Ilya suppresses a chuckle at that.

Across the room Shane finally pops the champagne bottle. Foam explodes immediately causing him to laugh, loud enough to be heard even over the music and shouting.

The sound still feels new and Ilya can’t help but sit there and listen.

“You know,” Bood says casually, “room’s been different lately.”

It isn’t a question, but Ilya knows what he means. He’s noticed it too.

Since the disastrous practice after montreal, he’s seen the small but significant adjustments his teammates have made, and the way they’ve built a new season out of it. 

Barrett dragging Shane into conversations. Haas asking for advice instead of waiting for corrections. Bood himself steering the room gently whenever things get too loud. It’s a web of support that settled over them so naturally it almost feels like it has always been there.

“Da. Good different,” Ilya says finally.

Bood nods once, both of them looking fondly over at the hero of the night.

“We’re all pretty happy with good different.” he says gently. 

Across the room Shane notices Ilya watching and lifts the champagne bottle slightly in a toast.

“You going to celebrate,” Shane calls out, “or just stare at me?”

Ilya pushes himself off the bench.

“Oh I celebrate.”

He strides straight across the room, steals a new bottle from Hayes mid-sip, and immediately soaks half the locker room causing another round of uproar. Dillon shouts something obscene and Barrett nearly chokes.

Undeterred, Ilya grabs Shane by the collar and kisses him loudly, square on the mouth, right there in the middle of the crowd.

It’s pandemonium: wolf whistles bounce off the lockers and cheers from the rookies. Someone yells for more champagne while Bood teasingly shouts for them to get a room. 

Ilya doesn’t care. He just holds his husband there in the middle of the noise and movement and celebration, surrounded by teammates who feel more like family every day, and lets the room roar around them.

And for the first time in a long time, the joy of it feels simple.

II. Later That Night

The house is quiet when Ilya and Shane finally get back home. After the bar with the team, all noise and bodies pressing, the quiet feels like stepping into something warm.

Ilya closes the door behind them with his foot, not bothering to turn on the overhead lights. The hall lamp is still on from earlier, casting a pool of light across the hardwood floor. The soft flow catches on the edge of Shane’s shoulders as he shrugs out of his jacket, hanging it up carefully in the closet.

They are both a little unsteady—not drunk, but loose still from the energy of the game and the subsequent celebrations. Ilya feels tired in a satisfying, bone-deep way.  Beside him, Shane drags a hand back through his hair, pushing it off his face. He looks relaxed backlit by the hall lamp.

Ilya can’t help but watch him. He’s been doing it all night without really meaning to. His yes constantly looking for Shane in the bar or the drive home. All evening he found himself standing just a little apart from the team, watching in wonder while his husband argued with Barrett about something meaningless or tried to stop Haas from ordering another round he absolutely did not need.

Shane glances over, catching him staring.

“What?” he asks, voice rough from celebrating, but there’s a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

Ilya doesn’t answer right away. He steps forward instead, slow and deliberate, closing the space between them until there’s barely a breath left.

“Nothing.”

Shane huffs softly.

“That’s not true.”

“No.”

“Then what?”

Ilya lets his gaze move over him, slow and unhurried. Not subtle about it. Shane shifts under it, his body moving to get closer to Ilya.

“I am admiring. You look better,” Ilya says.

Shane’s brow furrows faintly.

“Better how?”

Ilya reaches up, brushes his thumb briefly along Shane’s jaw, catching the edge of stubble there before letting his hand fall again.

“You look…” he considers it, searching for the right word, “lighter. Not just tonight. But tonight it was very good, very light.” 

Shane goes still for a second. He hasn’t tensed, just has the look on his face when he’s taking in new information.

“Yeah?” he says, quieter now.

“Yes.”

There’s a pause, the kind that stretches just enough to mean something.

Shane exhales through his nose, looking down briefly before meeting Ilya’s eyes again.

“I think I am. Lighter. I mean.” He says as a statement of fact, no deflection. 

Ilya feels something in his chest settle with the confirmation and he suddenly, desperately wants to be closer to his husband then he is. Without saying a word, he takes Shane by the shoulders, spins him around off the wall with a firm, practiced motion and guides them both toward the bedroom.

“Hey—” Shane laughs, stumbling a half step before catching himself. “I can walk, you know.”

“I know.”

“Then why—”

“Because I want to and you are slow poke.”

Shane happily lets himself be steered through their home. As they push into the bedroom, Shane steps away and heads toward the en suite, pulling his shirt over his head as he goes.

Ilya lets him, enjoying the dance. He leans against the doorframe to their bedroom and watches as Shane moves through his routine. Through the door Ilya can make out his profile in the mirror as he scrubs his face clean.

When Shane comes back out, he’s damp around the edges with his hair pushed back. He looks younger like this, a little softer in his face.

He pauses when he sees Ilya still standing there.

“You just going to watch me all night?” he asks.

“Maybe.”

Shane rolls his eyes, but there’s no real bite to it.

“You didn’t hover tonight,” he says, like it’s a casual observation. It isn’t. Ilya knows Shane and he can see the studied way Shane is determinedly looking anywhere but Ilya. 

He pushes off the doorframe and steps into their room.

“I hover?”

“You used to.”

“Da. I’m good captain. Look after team.” he teases, “It is called leadership.”

“That is called being annoying.” Shane rolls his eyes but there’s a smile under it.

Ilya hums.

“Mm. And now? No hovering tonight you said.”

Shane studies him.

“You trusted me. It felt good.” It lands heavier than anything else he’s said tonight.

Ilya reaches out, catches Shane by his hip, and pulls him in. His hands are certain as they wrap around the man in front of him. 

“I always trust you,” he says, low.

Shane’s breath catches—just a little. He tilts his head back automatically, like his body already knows where this is going. His brain though is still working, focused on the conversation at hand.

“Not like tonight,” he says quietly. “You weren’t always giving me space.”

“No?”

“No.” Shane’s mouth curves. “At the start of the season, it was… different.”

Ilya considers that. He thinks about Montreal and the hallway outside the medical room. About the way Shane had looked at him like the world was about to collapse if he made the wrong move. The way he trusted Shane but not the rest of the world with him. 

He also thinks about tonight.

About the goal, and Shane laughing. About the way Shane moved through the locker room like he belonged there.

“I am learning,” Ilya says finally.

Shane’s expression shifts, something warm and quiet settling into it.

“Yeah,” he says. “You are.”

Ilya doesn't say anything else, just moves slowly into Shane’s space, backing him up a step, then another until the mattress hits behind his knees. Shane lets himself be walked, and lets himself fall with a soft laugh when Ilya gently pushes him down. 

He looks up at Ilya, all big eyes and wide smile, and Ilya can’t help but lean down and kiss him deeply again. When they break, Shane looks pleased. 

“So do I get my reward now?” he asks, eyes bright. 

“Reward, hmm? Who said anything about a reward?” 

Shane squawks in mock outrage. “We’re in the playoffs! You’re not even a little impressed? Aren’t you supposed to keep your players motivated, Captain?” 

He’s teasing, all big grins and smiles, just daring Ilya to make his move.

Ilya exhales a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he leans over him, one hand braced beside Shane’s shoulder, the other settling at his waist to keep him exactly where he wants him.

“You think you are very funny,” he murmurs.

“I know I am,” Shane shoots back easily.

Ilya narrows his eyes just slightly, and puts a little bit more weight into his grip, just the way Shane likes when he’s being a brat.

“Careful,” Ilya says.

Shane huffs, but there’s no resistance in it. His hands come up instead, settling lightly at Ilya’s sides, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.

“I’m just saying,” he adds, voice dropping a touch, “seems like I had a pretty good night.”

“You did.”

“And—”

Ilya cuts him off by shifting his weight fully onto the bed, his body pressing Shane into the mattress. It’s not rough, just enough to remind his husband who is setting the pace.

Shane’s breath catches, just for a second.

“Less talking,” Ilya murmurs into Shane’s ear. 

Shane’s mouth opens like he’s going to argue—then closes again, something in his expression easing as he lets himself settle under Ilya’s hand.

“Yeah,” he says, softer. “Okay.” His eyes have gone slightly glassy and there’s a flush in his cheeks that drives Ilya nuts.

He can’t help himself so Ilya leans down again. The kiss is unhurried, slow and deep, just letting the heat build. Shane follows his lead happily, straining against where Ilya is holding him to meet the warmth of Ilya’s lips.  

When they break, Shane laughs softly, breath still uneven. It’s an unguarded sound, bright in the quiet room.

Ilya had thought that he knew every version of this man and every sound he could make. Over the last few months he has learned that isn’t totally true. There are parts of Shane that only exist when he feels fully safe and that are only just now starting to emerge.

Beneath him, Shane is flushed and loose, his eyes bright with no quiet readiness to flinch. It is perfect and makes Ilya want to stay in this moment forever. Shane however, has other ideas. He shifts under Ilya, impatient to take more than what he’s being given.

“You’re thinking again,” Shane says, breathless and a little accusatory.

Ilya huffs quietly.

“Dangerous, I know.”

“Very,” Shane agrees, reaching for him, trying to pull him down again. “Better things to do than think.”

Ilya catches his wrist and pins it lightly to the mattress, causing Shane’s mouth to curve into a smile immediately. 

“Stay,” Ilya says, a little hunger slipping into his voice. 

“Bossy,” he mutters, but there’s no real protest in it. 

“Mm.”

Ilya leans down, presses a slower, quieter kiss to the corner of Shane’s mouth. Then another, just under his jaw. Time still feels like a luxury and he is committed to indulging. 

He thinks, distantly, of the locker room earlier. Of Shane moving through the chaos tall and bright and so easily happy. In that moment Ilya had been overwhelmed by the feeling of being at Shane’s side instead of trying to stand between him and the world. 

Ilya’s grip softens, his hand sliding from Shane’s wrist to his palm, lacing their fingers together instead. The smile he gets from Shane when their eyes meet is like a benediction. 

Ilya has spent months bracing for impact. 

But here, now, with Shane relaxed under his hands and the quiet of their home settled around them, he can feel so clearly the ways it’s all going to be ok.

Chapter End Notes

It took the long way to get there but we finally got to the happy epilogue of everyones dreams!

Thank you to everyone for coming along with me on this deep dive. It's been so amazing seeing the feedback and love for this story and the little sandbox I've been playing in. There may be other side fics in the future but for the moment I feel really satisfied with how it's landed. Please do drop comments and say hi - I love hearing about what is resonating and it give me ideas :)

And finally, as always, fuck Montreal.