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 & Hayden Pike, Shane Hollander & Montreal Voyageurs | Montreal Metros Team Ensemble

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Hayden Pike, Jean-Jacques Boiziau | J. J. Dagenais, Theriault (Game Changers), Original Characters, Gilbert Comeau, Patrice Drapeau

Additional Tags:

Physical Abuse, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, POV Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Whump, Hockey Player Shane Hollander, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Team Dynamics, Shane Hollander & Hayden Pike Friendship, Angst with a Hopeful Ending, Hopeful Ending is maybe more in the other parts of this series, Homophobia, Racism, Racist Language

Language:

English

Series:

Part 3 of After the Whistle

Stats:

Published: 2026-04-09 Updated: 2026-04-20 Words: 13,535 Chapters: 2/4

Rookie Years

Summary

When Shane Hollander was drafted, he thought he would retire in Montreal with a C on his chest. A decade later, he understands that dream was never possible. This is the story of everything that happens in between.

Chapter 1: 2010-11 Season: The Rookie Year

Chapter Notes

This is a companion piece to UNDER REVIEW.

I wrote this to be able to be read as a stand alone but it does exist in the same universe and the themes, ideas, and characterizations are all directly from that world so you may have a better experience reading that story first.

October 2010 — Rookie Year (First Game of the Season)

Shane sits at the far end of the locker room, shoulders squared, elbows resting lightly on his knees as he winds tape around his stick. He keeps his movements measured. He’s careful to keep everything correct, nothing too slow or too rushed.

He’s been here just over a month now, through training camp and pre-season and the final cuts, and he’s starting to get a feeling for how Montreal works. 

The first thing Shane has learned is how to see where people are looking.

Right now, they’re not staring directly at him. But they also are not not looking. It would be easier to understand, to categorize and respond to if they were. He could manage direct attention. Instead he can feel the eyes of his new team slide over him, catching for half a second too long before moving on, like he’s an object in the room that hasn’t been placed properly yet. Not ignored but not acknowledged either. 

This is the MLH, it’s Montreal. And belonging here is not something you assume into existence.

Across the room, he can hear the older players talking.

“So we’re keeping the kid,” one voice says, not even pretending to be private.

“Media’s been jerking him off for two years, guess he’s our problem now.” Another, maybe Wilson, chimes in.

Drapeau, their goaltender replies, amused. “Let’s see if he can actually play.”

The words aren’t whispered, they don’t need to be. He may have made it to the first game of the season but that didn’t mean he was a member of the team yet. 

“Don’t stare,” Hayden Pike says, dropping into the empty stall beside him like he’s been there the whole time. He stretches out, all easy lines and loose limbs as if the space is his to take up. It’s jarring to everything Shane is feeling and he can’t help but envy the ease.

Shane doesn’t look up. “I’m not staring.”

“Mm.” Hayden nudges his knee with his own. “You’re doing the thing where you try to figure out how everyone works.”

“I’m just paying attention.”

“That’s what I said.”

Shane finishes the tape, presses it down with his thumb. Smooth. No wrinkles.

“Seriously. Relax,” Hayden Pike continues, easy and familiar like they’ve known each other longer than a few weeks. “You made it through the gauntlet.”

Shane lets out a quiet breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Barely.”

“Yeah, but you did.” Hayden grins, “Only rookie left. That’s pretty fucking cool.”

It doesn’t feel cool to Shane. It feels like a spotlight he can’t step out of.

Shane shrugs, focusing on re-taping his stick. The motion is automatic, muscle memory smoothing over the edges of his nerves. “Just means there’s no one else to mess up more than me.”

Hayden huffs a laugh. “You’re not gonna mess up.”

Shane doesn’t respond to that. Not because he doesn’t appreciate it, but because it doesn’t matter. Not here.

“Listen,” Hayden adds, quieter now, leaning in slightly so the words don’t carry. “First game’s weird. Everyone’s watching, but no one’s going to say that out loud. So just… go with it.”

Shane glances at him. “Go with what?”

“The room,” Hayden says, like it’s obvious. “The team dynamic. Don’t fight it. Don’t try to stand out. Don't be noticeable. Just—fit.”

Shane frowns slightly. “That feels impossible.”

“It’s really not. You just have to pick your moments.” Hayden says lightly, his voice relaxed. There’s something in the way he says it though that makes Shane pause. Like it’s intentional a skill that Hayden has perfected and is offering up. 

“On the ice,” Hayden adds, straightening slightly, “you find your time and do your thing. That’s why you’re here.” His eyes flick around the room with a careful casualness that Shane hasn’t figured out how to do yet, “but off ice, on the bench – you want to practice blending in more.” 

Shane studies him for a second. There’s no edge in the advice. Instead it feels like the first instruction anyone’s given him that actually feels usable.

“Okay,” Shane nods.

Hayden smiles once, like that settles it, then he leans back again, stretching his arms overhead, already sliding seamlessly back into the rhythm of the room. A second later, he’s calling something out to one of the vets across the aisle, tone shifting effortlessly into something louder, looser, part of the group in a way that Shane can’t understand.

Not for the first time since he arrived in Montreal Shane finds himself jealous of his older teammate. He moves through the room like it was built for him while Shane feels like he struggles with each minute he doesn’t have control of a puck. 

Across the room, a chair scrapes sharply against the floor and Jason Bennett, Captain of the Montreal Voyageurs, stands up.

The shift in the room is immediate. Conversations dip just a fraction, attention recalibrating around him without anyone needing to say it. Shane feels his own posture adjust without conscious thought, spine straightening just slightly.

Shane knows who he is, of course. Everyone does. He’s a legend in the organization.

At 35, he’s the oldest player in the room and the last one still here from Montreal’s Cup run in ’99. He built a career as an enforcer turned cornerstone, and has a reputation for keeping order on the bench as much as winning games.

Up close, he looks immovable—he towers over most other players, his shoulders stretch the seams of his base layer from muscles built by years of playing a game that rewards impact over finesse. Under the fluorescent lights of the locker room the flush of remaining youthfulness that Shane has seen in promo photos is washed away. Instead the gray flecks throughout his otherwise dark hair stand out in stark contrast and the angles of his cheeks are made prominent.  

Bennett’s gaze sweeps the room once, slow and deliberate, like he’s taking inventory, before landing on Shane.

“Rookie.”

Shane’s head comes up instantly. “Yes, sir.”

The word is out before he can catch it.

There’s a flicker of something in Bennett’s expression. Not quite amusement but not quite approval either.

“Big night,” Bennett says, stepping closer, stopping just within Shane’s space. “Lot of hype.”

Shane nods once. “Yes, sir.”

“We don’t need hype,” Bennett continues, his eyes never leaving Shane’s face. “This team expects results.”

“I understand.”

“Do you?” Bennett tilts his head slightly. “Because what I see is a kid who’s been handed everything. Draft pick. Press. Expectations. Haven’t seen you earn a fucking thing yet.”

He says it matter of fact without anger or emotion but his voice is hard. There’s a thread in it that Shane can’t quite place and doesn’t want to discover. 

“I’ll earn it.” Shane’s grip tightens slightly on his stick, but his voice stays even.

Bennett stares at him for a long minute. Then, without warning he smiles.

“There you go,” he says, clapping Shane once on the shoulder, hard. “Let’s see it.”

He turns away just as easily as he approached, attention already shifting elsewhere. Shane doesn’t realize he’d stopped breathing until Hayden nudges him lightly with his elbow.

“Welcome to Montreal,” Hayden murmurs.

Shane lets out a quiet breath, eyes tracking Bennett as he moves back through the room, falling into easy conversations with some of the older guys.

“How often does he do that?” Shane asks.

Hayden shrugs. “Depends.”

“On what?”

Hayden glances at him, something unreadable flickering there for half a second. “On who he thinks will learn from it.”

Seven minutes into the first period Shane gets the tap and he takes a breath in before his body starts moving on instinct. He swings over the boards and the cold air hits his lungs sharp and clean. It cuts through the lingering heat of the locker room and settles something restless in his chest. The noise of the arena swells around him but falls away on his next push of the blades, fading into background rhythms. 

This is the thing Shane has built his entire life around. On the ice, success is measurable and if he is good enough here, nothing else can touch him.

The first shift hits harder than he expects. 

It’s finally fast, he thinks.

For the first time in his life, the game is keeping up with the speed he plays at. As Detroit's defense picks up the read and responds, space collapses around him before it fully forms, lanes vanishing mid-thought. It’s surprising but also exhilarating. 

The puck comes to him along the boards and he turns into it automatically, shoulder dropping as pressure closes in from behind. Detroit’s center checks him hard, driving him into the glass with a force that rattles through his ribs. It’s clean enough but definitely meant to be felt. 

Shane absorbs the hit, lets the contact move through him instead of resisting it, and slips the puck off his stick just before the play can die. He’s quick, finds a space for a redirection that shouldn’t really exist and lands the puck just ahead of Hayden. 

To Hayden’s credit, he doesn’t falter in the face of the surprise pass. Instead he speeds up, and collects it clean, already moving the play forward like that had always been the plan.

“Go!” he calls, voice bright, a slight fissure of excitement coming into his tone.

Shane goes.

They enter the zone together, but the defense tightens fast. The play compresses as their structure reasserts itself, forcing Shane into the boards and his movement into something contained and predictable.

Shane peels off, lungs steady, mind already replaying it. There had been more there, another way he could have played it. On the ice, success is measurable and if he is good enough here, nothing else can touch him. He just has to figure out how. 

“Keep it simple, simple keeps you on the ice.” Hayden says as they pass, tapping his stick lightly against Shane’s. He’s smiling but his eyes are still tracking the ice. “Besides, first one’s free,” he adds under his breath. “After that they start hitting back harder.”

Simple. Shane nods. He can do simple.

The next shift, he tries again. The puck comes to him in the neutral zone and this time he holds it a fraction longer, drawing pressure on purpose. One defender steps up. Then another.

Good.

He drags them both just far enough out of position for the geometry of the ice to shift. When he sees it, he slides the puck laterally into the seam he’s opened.

It’s a perfect space.

Until a whistle cuts through it, calling offsides, and the play dies instantly, like it never existed at all.

Shane glides to a stop, frustration flickering sharp and hot before he locks it down.

Back on the bench, Theriault doesn’t look at him, just continues to survey the ice.

“Play the system Hollander,” the coach says, voice low and irritated but carrying through the noise around them. “We’re not here to be cute.”

Shane nods immediately, his face flushing slightly. “Yes, sir.”

Down the bench, Bennett doesn’t say anything but there’s a stillness to him that feels like attention being paid on someone else’s behalf.

“Get deep,” Theriault continues. “You want to make plays, you do it below the goal line. Not at the blue.”

“Yes, sir.”

Beside him, Hayden leans forward, elbows braced against his knees. When he catches Shane’s eye he gives a crooked smile. “They don’t hate it,” he murmurs. “They just want to see if you can play their way first. Save it for when it counts.”

Shane nods. That wasn’t a don’t do it, just find the timing. 

Next to him though, a stick taps once against the boards, sharp and deliberate. It takes everything in Shane’s power to not snap to attention as Bennett makes himself known. 

“We don’t need that.” Bennett says, low, almost conversational. It’s a simple statement of fact but makes Shane grip his stick a little more tightly. 

“Heard, sir.”

Bennett doesn’t respond, but then again, he doesn’t have to.

Four minutes later Shane is sent back out and he breathes again. Ice time is currency and he’s getting it. 

The next puck he touches, he sends it deep without hesitation, chasing hard into the corner, taking contact before he can turn. His line snaps into place around him—rehearsed and predictable. 

The play spins out exactly the way it was practiced but isn’t any match for the speed Detroit reacts. When the turnover happens, Shane takes a breath and steadies himself. 

It’s midway through the period, when he sees the opening.

There’s a scramble and Detroit’s slow to respond. Shane looks across the rink and he can see the way the ice stretches open. Without thinking he takes the chance. 

Edges biting sharp arcs into the ice, Shane accelerates through the neutral zone, forcing the defense to react to him instead of the other way around. He pulls them both up, neither having time to look to where the other is on ice, and holds just long enough to make them commit.

He glances across the rink and Hayden is already there, perfectly positioned to receive the puck in the space Shane created. With a grin, Hayden collects it clean and, without breaking stride, snaps it right back just as Detroit has turned away from Shane to intercept him.

For his part, Shane is moving before the pass even leaves Hayden’s stick. He meets the puck in stride and then gently lifts it just over the goalie’s pad.

For a heartbeat, everything stills.

And then the siren goes off and the arena detonates. Sound crashes back in but Shane barely registers it. He’s all consumed by the way the play unfolded exactly the way he saw it. The way it worked.

He thinks he may have stood there forever just taking it in if Hayden Pike hadn’t slammed into him. 

“Holy shit,” he laughs, bright and unfiltered, grabbing the back of Shane’s helmet. “Yeah, okay—that’s fun. We’re keeping that.” There’s no restraint in it, no tempering of excitement for the sake of the room or the way Shane went completely off script. Just genuine, uncomplicated approval. 

“And you said you were gonna mess up,” he adds, bumping his shoulder hard enough to feel.

Shane huffs a breath that almost turns into a laugh as the rest of their line closes in around them—quick taps, quick contact—and then they’re peeling off toward the bench.

Shane’s eyes flick automatically toward where the coaches stand.

Theriault’s face is stony but he gives Shane a nod. Next to him, Bennett just watches, his face not shifting a muscle.

On the next rotation, Bennett gets tapped in and Shane is surprised by the shift in pace now that he’s watching for it. 

Where Shane stretches the ice, Bennett compresses it. He steps into a winger along the boards and finishes the check with deliberate force, driving him into the glass hard enough to rattle the play loose. His stick stays tight, controlled, boxing the puck in, forcing it out with a heavy clearance.

There’s no follow up, no risky play, but there’s also no hesitation. When Shane glances back to where Theriault is standing he isn’t surprised to see that the usually stoic man has a half smile on his face. It makes sense, this is Montreal at their very best: control through pressure.

Bennett doesn’t stay out long.

He can’t. Shane thinks in the privacy of his mind. 

But when he comes back, Theriault leans in, speaking low and direct. Bennett listens, nods once, already absorbing it. Then his gaze flicks to Shane and he feels the weight of both men taking the measure of him. 

The rest of the game unfolds in uneven layers.

Shane gets ice time. Enough that it should feel like trust.

Instead, it feels like a test.

Every shift is a recalibration. When he plays their system—dump, chase, cycle—he feels himself flatten into it, his edges dulling, his instincts muted into something safer, smaller and also, more integrated into the team.

When he plays his game—creating opportunities, drawing pressure, slipping into space that isn’t there until he makes it—it works more than it doesn’t. The play opens and lanes appear. But the timing fractures. His linemates lags a beat behind what he sees and if Hayden isn’t on the ice with him, there’s no one reading it, no one arriving where the puck is about to be.

He feels the response from the bench immediately. Every deviation is met with a correction:

“Move it.”

“Quicker.”

“Don’t overhandle.”

It doesn’t matter if the play works. The correction is already there, waiting for him at the end of the shift, or halfway through it, or shouted from the bench before the puck has even fully left his stick.

“Yes, sir.”

“Yes, coach.”

Always immediate. Always controlled. 

He responds immediately every time because it doesn’t take long for him to realize that every beat is tracked. There is no shift where he disappears into the game. He is being weighed and he isn’t sure yet how he’s been found.

Beside him, Hayden moves through it differently.

He shifts without friction, adjusting his game in small, almost invisible ways. Simplifying when needed, pushing when the opening is there, never holding the puck long enough to draw attention but never disappearing entirely either. He talks just enough on the bench, keeps things light, keeps people engaged.

He belongs here.

Shane watches him more than he means to.

By the third period, the shape of the game has settled into itself. Montreal is playing well—faster, sharper than expected—but it doesn’t matter. Detroit adjusts and answers every play faster and more physical. They had come out of the second intermission with single minded determination and Shane can feel it each shift. The hits land harder and later, and there’s intent behind each on to make sure the message is sent. 

At minute nine of the period, Shane takes a check along the boards that rides high. For a split second, everything whites out at the edges.

He pushes back up immediately but the play has already moved on without him. By the time he gets to the bench, his arm still humming faintly, Theriault’s voice cuts in.

“Hollander. You good?”

It’s not concern. Shane straightens slightly, forcing his grip steady on his stick. “Yes, sir.”

“Then move your feet.”

“Yes, sir.”

The exchange is quick but Shane can hear the slight sneer in Theriault’s voice.

Beside him, Hayden bumps his shoulder—quick, grounding, familiar.

In the end they lose 4–2. It isn’t a collapse but it isn’t close enough to soften the loss either.

In the final minutes, the bench turns tight and brittle. Conversation dies out and even Hayden’s constant smile gets strained. Shane can feel the anxiety build with every missed play and turnover. 

He sits at the end of the line for the last shift, helmet still on, hands resting against his stick, and tries to run the game back cleanly.

He played well. Not perfect. But he had sixteen minutes of ice time and used it well, creating space, generating chances, and made his first MLH goal. It sits in his chest for a moment, strange and fleeting, before something heavier presses over it.

None of it lines up with the way the bench feels. Nor for that matter with how Bennett has been watching him—quiet, steady, like he’s been keeping track of something Shane can’t quite see yet.

Shane exhales slowly, gaze fixed on the ice as the final seconds tick down.

He thinks, distantly, of Hayden’s voice at the start of the game.

Don’t make yourself noticeable.

Inside, the entire locker room is holding it's breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop. They don’t say it, but Shane can feel the tension in the air. Around the room guys settle into their stalls dropping gear to the floor and stripping tape from sticks, but everything is muted. There’s none of the post loss energy Shane is used to: no one is scrambling to get out fast and leave the night behind nor are there groups gathering to commiserate. No one is talking in fact.

Shane moves to his own stall and begins to strip his gear with deliberate care, each motion precise, and repeatable. Gloves. Helmet. Elbow pads. He lines them up without looking, fingers working on habit alone as he waits.

Hayden drops into the stall beside him. Idly, Shane notes that his usual ease is gone. He’s still composed, but there’s a tightness in the way he pulls off his gear that’s at odds with the man Shane has gotten to know through the pre-season.

When he sees Shane looking he flashes a tight smile, “Hey, good goal.” It lands softer than it should.

Shane nods once. “Thanks.”

Hayden glances at him, giving him a quick once over that Shane can’t parse. The silence stretches awkwardly before Hayden shakes himself out of it. 

“You’re good,” he finally adds, “like really good.” Then he looks away again, attention shifting back out into the room. His eyes settling back on where Theriault is standing with one of the assistant coaches. 

Shane follows his eyes taking in the vignette. Theriault hasn’t said anything yet. Instead he stands with one of the assistant coaches talking quietly. Their posture is easy, with voices too low to carry over the room. Next to them, Bennett stands just off to the side, half-turned, listening in but not a part of the conversation. 

Finally, Theriault turns to the assembled team. “Tonight was a disappointment,” his voice is even, cutting cleanly through the room. “I expect better.” 

His gaze travels around the room but lands on Shane, his eyes narrowing slightly. 

“We’ll resolve this at practice tomorrow. Before then, consider how to improve.” No one responds directly but there are nods and murmurs of agreement from the group. Theriault surveys them one more time and then turns to the door. On his way out, he pauses by Bennett to say something too quiet to hear. Bennett gives a nod back and then the coaching staff is gone. 

For a minute nothing happens. Shane had half hoped the tension would ease once the coaches left but if anything the anxiety gets worse. For a moment no one moves. Then like it was scripted, Bennett turns toward Shane’s stall.

“Hollander.”

Shane’s head comes up immediately. “Yes, sir.”

Bennett is already moving. He’s not fast, and doesn’t even look particularly angry.

The room shifts around him as he crosses it—guys stepping aside without thinking, making space for their Captain. 

Bennett stops directly in front of Shane’s stall, just a breath too close.

“How’d that feel?” he asks. There’s no edge in his voice and it sets Shane’s teeth on edge. 

He swallows, steeling himself for whatever show this is. “Not good enough.”

“No,” Bennett agrees, his voice mild. “It wasn’t. Stand up.” 

He doesn’t look away as Shane cautiously pushes to his feet, visceral aware of the room taking the two of them in. 

“You think we’re rebuilding around that?” Bennett continues. “Floating around, holding the puck like you’ve got all the time in the world? Waiting for something pretty to open up?”

“No, sir.”

“Is that how they do it where you’re from?” The question is casual but Shane instantly understands the implication.. 

His jaw tightens just slightly before he forces it loose. “No, sir.”

“No?” Bennett says. A faint smile pulls humorlessly at his mouth. “Could’ve fooled me.” 

He leans back on his heels, considering Shane. It’s all performative bullshit and Shane can’t do anything but wait for the axe to land. 

“So Rookie,” he asks after a beat, “what are we doing?” His voice is almost conversational and it’s a mindfuck with the danger Shane can sense radiating off of the Captain..

Shane’s mind races trying to find the correct answer. “I need to be faster. More direct. I can—”

“Stop.” The word cuts clean through him.

“You talk too much,” Bennett says. His voice lifting so the entire room can hear. “Let’s make sure you learn at least one thing today. No one cares what you think you can do.”

A few heads tilt, almost imperceptibly. Someone huffs a breath that might be an agreement and Shane knows every member of the team is paying close attention even as they pretend to be getting changed. 

Bennett’s hand comes up, settling on the back of Shane’s neck.It’s not violent but Shane is all too aware of the weight of the other man’s palm. 

“You play here,” he says, voice low, steady, “you earn your ice.”  Bennett considers him for a moment and then gives a hard shove down. “Show it.”

It’s not hard but it doesn’t need to be. Shane doesn’t hesitate, just drops to the ground, body straight. The rubber is still damp under his palms from melted ice and sweat. 

“Lower,” Bennett says immediately.

Shane adjusts, chest dropping closer to the ground. It’s a textbook perfect push-up. 

“No,” Bennett corrects, pressing lightly between his shoulder blades. “All the way. Don’t cheat it.” Shane lowers even further until his chest overs just above the ground.

There’s a murmur of movement around him now as the room resumes, some signal that Shane doesn’t understand given to tell the room to get back into routine. Around him he can hear the soft pull of bags opening and equipment being put away.

“Good,” Bennett says. Then louder, “Go.”

Shane pushes up. “One–”

“Don’t count,” Bennett cuts in. The correction is immediate and for a second Shane falters before catching himself. “Just do it.” 

The rules shift and Shane doesn’t understand but follows the instruction anyways. 

He adjusts. Pushes down and up. His arms are already tight from the game and the strain builds fast, sharper than it should be. Above him, Bennett turns slightly, addressing the room without raising his voice.

“Kid thinks he’s got time at the blue line,” he says, still casual and light. “Like this is a skill competition.” There’s a couple of quiet snorts from the vets but no one says a thing. 

“Out there waiting for lanes to open instead of making the simple play,” Bennett continues. “That’s how you lose possession.”

He glances down briefly. “Again.”

Shane lowers.

“He’ll learn,” Bennett adds, almost as an afterthought. “Or he'll go back to wherever the backwater shit hole he's from and he won’t be here long enough for it to matter.” The words settle into the room like fact.

After five minutes, Shane’s arms are on fire.

“Full extension,” Bennett says. He’s settled into the bench above where Shane is positioned on the floor, his body language casual as he monitors the movement. 

Shane locks his elbows at the top.

“Don’t rush it,” Bennett adds. “You’ve got plenty of time.” 

There’s no number he’s going to reach, Shane realizes, it’s just about enduring whatever time frame his Captain has chosen. 

At the far end of the room, a pair of vets linger at their stalls, talking easily, peeling off layers of gear slowly, making a point to drag it out. They’re not watching Shane directly but they also don’t need to. 

“He’s got skills,” the one leaning back, Wilson, says, voice low but not quiet enough to miss. “I’ll give him that.”

Gagnon snorts softly, tugging his skate free. “Yeah. That’s not really the problem, is it?”

He waves off the equipment manager, making a point to take the time to peel the tape slowly off of his blade. 

“Came in here already crowned.” Wilson continues, his tone light. 

“Mm, different set of rules for people like him, I guess.”

Wilson glances over then—not at Shane’s face, but at the movement. The push. The shake. The effort.

“Not here,” he snorts.

Shane keeps his head down. Push. Down. Up.

His arms shake now, noticeably.

“Straight line,” Bennett says, nudging his leg with the toe of his skate. “You’re breaking at the hips.”

Shane corrects. The movement is impossibly hard now, less controlled, and sweat is starting to blur his vision. 

“Better.”

Time stretches.

The room empties slowly into the showers, then fills again as guys start to come back out, towels slung low, hair wet, voices a little looser now.

Shane is still on the floor. Still moving. Each rep slower than the last. His shoulders burn hot, his triceps screaming with every push. 

“Keep going,” Bennett says, almost absent-minded now, like he’s reminding him of something obvious.

“Alright,” someone says as they pass behind him. “That’s gotta be enough, isn’t it?” Shane is too focused on not dropping he can’t even make out who it is. 

Bennett doesn’t look up. “When the room’s done,” he says. “Hollander wants to wait, he can wait for the rest of the team.” He says it like a fact with no space for debate. 

A few of the younger guys move faster after that. One of them—defenseman, maybe twenty—cuts his shower short, water still dripping as he hurries back to his stall. 

“Sorry,” he mutters under his breath, not to Shane exactly, but close enough to land.

Across the aisle, the vets are still there.

Wilson finally steps into the shower, but slow—turning the handle just enough, letting the water run before stepping under it. The other, Gagnon, waits another beat, glancing toward Bennett like he’s checking something.

Bennett doesn’t look back but the other man nods anyway, then turns, unhurried, toward the showers.

By the time the last of the showers slow, Shane’s arms are barely holding him up. Each rep is a fight now, his form slipping despite his effort to hold it together.

On the next push, his arms give. Not completely but enough that his chest drops harder than it should. He gasps before he can stop himself.

The room of course notices. No one says anything but he can feel the sudden pause in the room as nineteen men wait to see what he does. 

Shane feels the line. 

He could stop, He thinks.  The thought comes fast, cutting through the pain. He could stay down. Call uncle and make it stop.

Across the room, someone shifts, but Bennett doesn’t move. He doesn’t say a word, just watches, waiting to see what the Rookie on the floor in front of him will do. 

Shane’s jaw tightens.

He pushes back up all the way to full extension. He holds it there for a second longer than necessary, forcing the shake out of his arms, forcing his body back into line.

“Again,” Bennett says quietly. Shane forces himself lower.

Around him, the team breaths. They’re mostly dressed now and conversations are starting to pick up and phones are coming out. Absently, Shane notes they aren’t leaving even as they’re changed and packed. 

Shane keeps moving, focusing every thought on keeping his arms to do what he needs.

Finally, Bennet stands up.  “Alright.”

The word lands like a release.

Shane holds himself at the top for a second longer than necessary before letting his knees hit the floor.

“Up.”

He pushes himself to his feet, slower than he wants, arms trembling despite his effort to still them.

Bennett watches him for a moment. Assessing. Then nods once.

“You’ll get there,” he says. It’s not praise but it’s not a dismissal either. 

He turns away, already moving back into the room like it was nothing. 

The shift is immediate. Someone turns on music and conversation fills in, easy and unforced. Shane hears one of the younger guys, JJ he thinks, making plans to go out. 

All Shane can do though is lower himself into his stall, slow and aware of every movement of his body. His arms won’t stop shaking so he presses his hands into his thighs to steady himself. 

A couple of his teammates glance Shane’s way, quick and measuring.

“Congrats kid, you survived,” Drapeau says, tossing a towel into his stall. “That’s step one.”

Another man laughs, but it’s not unkind.  “Now you just gotta keep up.” Their tone is easy and it occurs to Shane that this was not anything unusual for Montreall. 

Beside him, Hayden leans in slightly.

“You okay?” he asks quietly. Shane nods automatically. For a minute, Hayden studies him and then nods back.

“You did good,” he says. “It matters that you didn’t fold.” He gives another nudge of encouragement. 

Across the room, Bennett is laughing with Wilson completely relaxed. It takes all of Shane’s willpower to control his own response. He wants to yell, to make a scene, but instead he breathes as deep as he can. He can’t help but notice the way that Gangon gives him a nod as he heads to the door when this morning his eyes slid right over Shane’s face. 

With terrible clarity, Shane understands that this was only somewhat about the game. Mostly he thinks, it was about establishing exactly where his place is on this team. 

Outside the rink, Shane leans into the cold as if it can reset him. 

He thinks that the air might be sharp enough to cut through everything still clinging to him from the locker room. The noise of the arena fades behind him as the door shuts, replaced by the distant hum of the city.

He makes it only a few steps from the entrance before he stops. He doesn't mean to but his body just stalls. 

His arms still feel heavy and there’s a faint tremor running through them no matter how he holds himself. He presses his hands into the pockets of his coat more to control it then for any kind of warmth. It’s over, and yet his body doesn’t quite know what to do now.

Behind him the door to the rink opens again. 

“You planning to live out here now?” Hayden asks. 

Hayden.

Shane lets out a slow breath, watching it cloud slightly in front of him. “Just needed a minute.”

He doesn’t look but can hear Hayden walk up beside him, close but not crowding.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “That tracks.”

They stand there for a moment in silence. Shane can feel Hayden taking him in. He knows he must look a mess – he hadn’t bothered to shower after the show in the locker room and his skin feels waxy and tight from exertion. There isn’t a single part of his body that doesn’t hurt and he can’t in this moment imagine that ever changing. 

“You’re fine,” Hayden adds after a beat. “Just so you know.”

Shane huffs a soft, humorless laugh. “That didn’t feel fine.”

“No,” Hayden agrees easily. “It doesn’t. Not at first.”

Shane turns to look at him. “Does it later?”

Hayden hesitates, then shrugs, one shoulder lifting like it’s not a big deal. “You stop thinking about it as much.”

It’s not actually an answer but Shane can’t think about it tonight. Instead he looks back out at the parking lot. 

“Hey,” Hayden says, nudging his shoulder lightly. “Come grab a beer with me.”

Shane hesitates.

There’s a part of him that wants to say no. To go home. To sit with this alone and try to make sense of it, to file it away into something he can control.

But the feeling from the locker room, of seeing the shift in his team as his body wanted to give out, is still sitting under his skin and he can’t make sense of that.

And Hayden, Hayden is easy in a way Shane isn’t. He’s not careless, there’s too much awareness in the way he holds himself for that, but he is comfortable. He understands the shape of this place and Shane finds himself leaning toward that without meaning to.

“Yeah,” Shane says finally. “Okay.

Hayden’s grin comes quick and genuine. “Good!” He turns, already starting down the walkway like he expects Shane to follow so Shane does.

They fall into step beside each other and for a minute neither of them speaks. 

“I’ll teach you how to stay off everyone’s bad side,” Hayden says after a moment. “It’s not too hard once you learn what they’re all watching for.”

Shane glances at him. “I thought I was supposed to be nothing.”

“You are,” Hayden says easily. “I’ll show you how.”

Shane nods and lets the tightness in his chest loosen just a little. 

He can’t stop thinking about the way that Bennet had held him there, forced him to keep moving and then just as quickly had let him go. And he can’t stop but think about the way he’d gotten claps on the shoulder and an offer for a beer after. 

The goal hadn’t done that. The goal had made him visible but this had made him part of something even as he wants to curl up small. 

Next to him, Hayden chatter about nothing washes over Shane like a balm. It’s low and easy and Shane can’t help but let it soothe the parts that hurt. 

There's a promise Hayden is offering; that tonight wasn’t random, that there is a system and it can be understood and won. If this is how it works, what it takes to have a place on an MLH team, he can learn it. He just needs Hayden to show him how.

Chapter End Notes

Welcome back to my angst filled sandbox! I couldn't shake the idea of looking more fully at what Shane's experience would have been like in Montreal so wanted to write something that fully explored that idea.

All this said, Montreal is an explicitly abusive environment and this story will deal heavily with themes of punishment, abuse, homophobia, and racism. Please read at your own risk! Ultimately Shane gets out and has a beautiful life but this story is very much dealing with what happens before then.

Chapter 2: 2013-14 Season: The Captain Year (Part 1)

Chapter Notes

This chapter contains explicit racism and references to abuse. The themes of this story are intentionally heavy and deal with very real abuses that happen in professional sports so please read at your own risk. Please also take note of the tags!

September 2013 — Captain’s Skate

Shane grins as Hayden finally drops the last cone at the goal line, the soft clatter echoing faintly in the otherwise quiet rink. “Took you long enough,” he calls across the ice. “I finished my side ages ago.”

“Oh, fuck off, Captain,” Hayden shoots back, laughing as he pushes off toward him, his stride loose and unhurried in a way that makes it look effortless. “You get a letter and suddenly you’re a nag?”

Shane huffs a quiet laugh, the sound easier than most things here ever are. “Someone has to keep on you when Jackie isn’t around.”

In retaliation, Hayden digs in his edge as he closes the distance, spraying a sharp burst of ice across Shane’s shins before coming to an easy stop beside him, body loose, shoulders relaxed. “Yeah, yeah,” he says, rolling his eyes, “don’t let it go to your head.”

“Don’t worry,” Shane replies, a little too evenly to be entirely offhand, his gaze drifting over the lines they’ve set before the rest of the team gets out here and disrupts it. “There’s no danger of anyone letting that happen.”

He doesn’t think much of the line until he catches Hayden’s expression. The grin is gone, replaced by something tighter, more careful.

“Hey man, don’t. I didn’t mean anything by it,” His eyes settled into a pinched look Shane has become intimately familiar with. “Don’t let me get you back in your head.”

Shane lets out a breath and does his best to put on a smile even as he knows it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I know,” he says, quieter now. “I’m not trying to—” He cuts himself off, shakes his head once. “I just… I don’t want to pretend the title is more than it is.”

“The C is what matters,” Hayden cuts in quickly, trying to cut off the retread of old ground. “Theriault is pissed Bennett retired, he wanted his pick, you weren’t it. Fine. Management made the call anyway.” He shrugs, like the conclusion should be obvious. “He’ll get over it. You’re the captain. End of story.”

“Because of sponsors,” Shane replies flatly. “Because I’m good press and when I do interviews they can cut to me on highlight reels.” There’s no pride in it, just a statement of fact. “Not because they think I should be leading this team.”

Hayden tilts his head, his expression getting stubborn. “You are leading the team,” he says slowly. “You’ve got the C.” The phrase is a frustrated mantra between the two of them at this point.

“That doesn’t mean I should have it,” Shane replies. “Or that I’ll be able to keep it.”

The quiet that follows is familiar. Hayden reaches his hand up in an aborted gesture and then lets it fall, exhaling slowly through his nose. “Theriault’s old school. He’s a dick, yeah, but—” he shrugs, small and practiced, like the rest should be obvious. “That’s the league. You know that.”

Shane does. He’s known it for years but that doesn’t make it less clear what’s happening.

“He doesn’t think I’m a real player,” Shane says, the words pulled in tight and controlled. “Not like the rest of you.” 

Hayden frowns slightly. “That’s not—”

“It is.” Shane cuts in, sharp and certain. “You’ve heard the way he talks about guys. About what the game is supposed to look like.”

Hayden doesn’t answer immediately because he has heard it and they both know. 

“He thinks I’m a skills guy,” Shane continues, voice steady. “That I don’t play the game the right way. That I don’t fit what this team is supposed to be.” A small pause. “That I don’t look like it either.”

The last part sits there, unspoken but clear.

Hayden shifts, uncomfortable in a way that doesn’t quite reach the surface. “That’s not why—”

Shane doesn’t push it. He doesn’t need to. They both know the line he’s not saying out loud.

“Ok. You’re thinking too hard already,” Hayden says abruptly, backing off the conversation. His voice shifts lighter, redirecting in a way that is just as familiar as the argument itself, “Come on man, focus on today. It’s a skate, not a referendum.” 

“It’s a captain’s skate,” Shane counters, like the distinction should explain the tightness under his ribs. “First one.”

“Yeah,” Hayden says, tone easy. “We’re gonna fuck around for three hours and meet the rookies, relax. This doesn’t matter.”

Shane exhales through his nose, gaze drifting back out across the ice, over the cones they’ve set and the empty space that will be filled soon enough. 

“It feels like it does,” he admits, quieter now.

He knows, deep in his bones, that from this point forward every decision he makes with that letter stitched into his jersey will be measured. He has built his entire life around exceeding expectations, around making himself necessary enough that nothing else gets questioned. In Montreal, they’ve sharpened that instinct to the point he can never quite rest.

“It’s not,” he says, nudging his skate lightly against Shane’s, the contact brief but grounding. After a beat he adds, “You’ve got the room. You know that, right?” His voice is deliberate, trying to mask concern.

Shane’s mouth tightens slightly, almost imperceptibly. Montreal is an old team, steeped in its own history, and calcified into expectation and hierarchy, resistant to anything that doesn’t fit cleanly. Having the room isn’t something you’re given here. It’s something that settles slowly, something that can shift under you if you stop paying attention. 

“I just want to get it right,” he says instead.

Hayden looks at him, head tilting slightly as he studies Shane for a long second. “You will,” he says, the certainty in his voice unforced. “You already have.”

At once Shane feels a rush of deep fondness for his friend. 

Hayden says it like it’s obvious, like there is no question that Shane will stand at the center of this team and make it look easy. No question that he belongs and no chance that the decision to give him the C was a risk. It is so generous and Shane finds himself wanting, irrationally, to borrow that certainty.

Beside him, the other man taps the end of his stick lightly against the ice, the sound sharp enough to pull Shane’s attention back.

“Relax,” he says, a hint of a grin returning, soft and easy. “You’re going to scare the kids before they even get out here.”

Shane lets out a breath that feels almost like a laugh, some of the tension in his shoulders easing if only slightly. “Good,” he says. “Maybe they’ll listen.”

Hayden’s grin widens. “Hah,” he says. “And you said you didn’t want to lead like Bennett.”

The doors at the far end of the rink creak open then, the sound carrying across the ice as voices spill out behind it, the first edges of movement breaking into the space they’ve been holding.

Shane straightens without thinking, his posture shifting automatically, shoulders settling back, chin lifting just enough to project certainty even if it doesn’t quite feel like it yet.

The first of the players come out in a loose spill rather than any kind of order. It’s a lazy claiming of space, guys stepping onto the ice in twos and threes and peeling off easily into their own routines. The captains skates are rare opportunities to practice without pressure and they’re all taking advantage of it. 

JJ’s voice cuts across the ice, loud and bright. “Capitaine!” he calls, pushing off hard and carving a wide, exaggerated arc across the neutral zone. “Look at this—he’s already out here working. We’re doomed.”

Shane snorts. “You’re late.”

“I was allocating our resources,” JJ shoots back with a grin, bumping fists with Shane before immediately turning to Hayden and looping an arm around him, dragging him half a step off his glide. “Alternate on the ice, alternate in the locker room. It’s called balance. You keeping him in line?”

“Trying,” Hayden says. “Mixed results.”

“Yeah, that tracks,” JJ replies, already raising his voice again. “We got a serious captain now, boys. He’s got a plan!”

A few of the guys along the boards laugh, easy and familiar, not quite taking the bait but not ignoring it either. JJ glances back at Shane, quick and automatic, checking, Shane thinks, how far he can push it. 

When Shane just rolls his eyes, JJ’s grin widens, leaning into the attention. “I’m serious,” he adds, louder, gesturing vaguely toward the cones. “We’re about to get organized. I don’t even recognize this place.”

Another ripple of laughter follows, looser now, and JJ claps his hands once, sharp against his gloves.

“Alright, alright,” he says, already skating backward into a loose loop, “I’m gonna go make sure the rest of these guys don’t embarrass us.” He pushes off without waiting for a response, spinning across the ice, calling something out to a pair of vets as he folds himself into their lap.

Behind Hayden, Cameau drifts into the space JJ left behind. He’s broad through the chest, heavier in his stride than the younger guys, but controlled in a way that makes people give him space without thinking.

“Captain.” His gaze settles on Shane in a way that feels like a quick read rather than a challenge.

Shane meets his eyes evenly, offering up a fist bump. “Cameau. Welcome back.”

Cameau taps it once, then gestures loosely toward the cones. “You running this?”

“That’s the idea.”

Cameau glances past him, tracking the ice where a few of the vets have already shifted from laps into light stickhandling, pucks moving lazily along their blades as they warm up hands and edges. “We gonna start or what?” he asks. “Everyone’s antsy.”

“Noted.” Shane keeps his voice even, not letting himself being goaded to start before he’s ready. “We’ll start in five.”

That’s enough for him. Cameau pushes off, cutting toward the right side where Drapeau is stepping into motion, and the two of them fall into rhythm almost immediately, shoulders aligning as they pick up a puck between them.

Shane catches Drapeau’s voice as he passes, low and angled away—meant for Cameau, not for him. “Still waiting for some fire.”

Cameau huffs something that might be a laugh. “Not his style.”

Drapeau glances back once, quick, measuring, then turns away again. “We’ll see.” It’s said quietly but Shane hears it anyway.

Shane tracks the two of them for a minute and then lets his attention shift to the last group coming out onto the ice: the Rookies. They’re trying not to get in the way which means that instantly they are. 

Before he can fully take them in, a shot cracks hard off the glass from somewhere to Shane’s left. He hadn’t seen Wilson come out, but he’s there already shooting. 

Another puck follows immediately, just as hard, just as deliberate. Wilson doesn’t look up. Studiously, doesn’t adjust for where the pucks get close enough to the new kids to make them scramble. 

One of the rookies — Hank Johnson if Shane remembers the draft report right— veers wide on instinct, giving him space.

“Jesus,” JJ mutters as he loops past. “Guy’s trying to kill the boards.”

“He’s warming up,” Hayden says.

“For what?” JJ shoots back. “War?”

Hayden laughs, but keeps moving as Wilson loads another shot.

This one rings louder causing a couple of heads to turn. Matty Lewis, the new rookie winger, stutters half a step then corrects, forcing himself back into his lane.

“Keep your head up Rook,” Drapeau snaps out, not looking at him.

Shane watches for a second longer than he means to, long enough to register the pattern. It’s not aimed exactly, but the shooting’s not neutral either.

Around the rink, the team is settling in, most of them besides Wilson falling into their usual groups. JJ’s gotten a crew together with Hayden near the blue line running through stretches while Cameau is working tracking drills with Drapeau and some other vets. The rookies, mostly seem to be hanging at the edges, pulled along but not yet part of anything. 

Shane lets the picture lock into place, then pushes off to meet them. As a unit, all three of the rookies straighten when he approaches, the shift immediate.

“Sir,” Hank says first, posture snapping into something more formal without quite meaning to.

“Captain’s fine,” Shane corrects, easy, closing the distance and coming to a controlled stop in front of them. “You don’t have to—yeah. Captain, or Hollander.”

Hank nods quickly. “Captain.” His smile flashes quick and bright against dark skin, just a little too wide.

Up close, Johnson is even younger looking than Shane expected. At 6’ 4” he’s got a big frame but is still clearly growing into it. He’s broad shouldered but it’s offset by lanky limbs and shoulders that sit high with tension that give him a gangly look. His posture screams Don’t notice me. 

“Vancouver, right?” Shane asks, prodding the man 

“Yeah.”

“Another Canadian!” The shorter man next to Hank chimes in, already grinning. “I’m Matty Lewis, Toronto. And yeah, before you say it, I know there’s a report.”

“Yeah?” Shane replies, a hint of a smile pulling at his mouth. “Should I be worried?”

Matty lights up. “Only if you hate fun.”

There’s no hesitation in him. He’s all movement—hands, shoulders, weight shifting from edge to edge, energy spilling out faster than he can manage it. It should be a liability. Instead, it reads as something sharper, something that could turn into confidence if it’s handled right.

“I don’t,” Shane says. “In moderation.”

“Good,” Matty shoots back. “I’m extremely moderate.”

There’s not a chance that’s true but Shane can’t help but find it sort of charming. Matty’s got an infectious smile, perfect jet black hockey hair, and big eyes that make him look more like a movie star than a troublemaker. 

“Koch, or Leo.” the last of the trio says, quietly.

Shane turns. Leo Koch stands just off to the side, posture studiously casual. His eyes though are constantly tracking from behind strawberry blonde fringe.

“Detroit,” the kid adds awkwardly. “Not Canada.”

Shane nods once. “Yeah. I saw some clips of the Griffins last season. You had some strong breakaways.”

Leo blinks, caught off guard by that, then shrugs slightly. “Thanks.”

Shane lets his gaze move between the three of them, quick, efficient, building a read. Hank: earnest, coachable, wants direction. Matty: talent and chaos, needs boundaries more than instruction. Leo Koch: observant but reserved, in danger of becoming isolated.

Behind them, the rest of the team continues to move, lines forming and dissolving. A few of the vets glance over, quick and assessing, then look away again.

“Welcome to Montreal,” Shane says, looking between the three of them. “Looking forward to playing with you all.”

“I’m excited man,” Matty grins. “Feels like something to have even made it this far.”

“It is,” Shane agrees carefully, “doesn’t mean it’s done.”

Hank’s expression tightens slightly. Leo doesn’t change, but his attention sharpens. They both understand even as Matty keeps chattering.

“Yeah, no, for sure. Camp is gonna be a bitch.” He says, talking too fast, “But like—I’m here, so I must be doing something right, right? Like statistically—”

“Hey,” Shane cuts in, not sharp, but firm enough to stop the spiral. ““Don’t get ahead of yourself,” Shane continues, tone even. “Today’s not a test.” He gestures lightly out toward the ice, where the loose structure is starting to take shape—lines tightening, pace picking up. “This is just us. Get your legs under you, keep moving, pay attention. Don’t overthink it.”

The three of them nod, earnestly, taking in the advice. 

“Use it while you can,” Hayden adds, drifting in beside them like he’s always been there, tone lighter, easier. He taps Matty’s stick once. “Camp’s a different animal.”

Matty huffs a laugh. “Yeah, I got that impression.”

“You’ll figure out how to stay out of the way,” Hayden says, grinning.

Shane glances at him, just briefly. Hayden had said almost the exact same thing to him two years ago and he still isn’t sure if it was enough. 

The rookies take it in however. Hank nodding along rapidly to the instructions while Leo seems to mentally tuck it away.

Matty just grins. “Got it,” he says. “Be invisible. That’s my brand.”

Shane almost smiles at that then turns his attention back to the ice. He taps his stick once against the ice, just enough to get the attention of the rest of the team.

“Alright,” he calls, voice carrying just enough. “We’re keeping it simple to start. Pairs, quick touches. Let’s see where we are before camp.”

There are a few nods, and a smattering of, Yes Caps. 

Shane notes with relief that there’s no pushback from anyone. The rookies push off first, a fraction too eager, falling into motion together before splitting slightly as they look for partners. The rest of the team follows more loosely, folding in around the structure Shane set without needing to be told twice.

They’ve got a good flow this year, Shane thinks. The team is tight and fast, falling back into each other’s patterns as if the off season didn’t happen.  

From his perch, Shane keeps the drills tight and fast, stepping in and out of reps, adjusting the pace just enough to keep things moving without letting anyone get left behind. His goal isn’t perfection yet, just getting everyone used to each other and to where bodies are going to be without having to think about it.

There’s going to be no time to think once they get to camp, he thinks grimly. 

He watches the rookies more than anyone else, tracking where they hesitate. They’re all good players, he’s seen the tape, watched the skills they brought to juniors and the AHL, but that’s not what today’s about. 

Good isn’t what holds up in Montreal. What matters Shane has found is precision. If they can execute every time then there isn’t space for the kind of scrutiny that sticks. 

So he does the work of a Captain and closes the gaps where he can.

Hank hesitates on his first touch, just a fraction too long overthinking his stickwork.

“Don’t think, just move it,” Shane says, immediate but even. Hank nods and resets, the puck off his stick quicker on the next rep, then quicker again.

Matty tries to force something through traffic that isn’t there. 

“Take what’s open first,” Shane tells him, intercepting the return and feeding it back into space to force the simpler option, and Matty grins like it’s a challenge.

Leo Koch, well, he fits. 

He’s a smart player, reading the shape of the drill and slipping into it in a way that keeps everything moving. Hayden clocks it immediately, and Shane watches him drift close to offer a  small correction that settles Koch more firmly into the flow.

There’s a clean efficiency to the rookie's style of play but there’s also a hesitancy to it that nags at Shane’s brain. He can see where Koch pulls himself back, his instinct to push the play forward sanded down in favor of getting it right. It’s a different player in front of him now then the smart playmaker he saw on tape. This version of Leo Koch is safer, but also worse at hockey. 

Shane lets it happen, even as his attention stays split, pulling Hank forward, tightening Matty’s choices, making sure neither of them falls far enough behind to stand out for the wrong reasons. That’s the line he’s trying to hold here—not easing them in, not letting them find their own pace. Just sharpening them up before someone else sees the gaps. 

“Careful,” Wilson says as he drifts in closer, voice low but carrying just enough. “They’re gonna get used to having a babysitter.”

Shane doesn’t look at him. “They’ll figure it out next week,” he says. “Doesn’t mean they shouldn’t get reps now.”

Wilson snorts, slow, tracking the drill. “Or they won’t,” he says. “And we can find out now instead of when it matters.”

The next rep starts before Shane answers.

Toz, one of the longest playing vets, leans into Hank along the board hard and intentional, muttering something to the rookie under his breath. Hank stumbles, but recovers well, pushing the puck forward. His face though is grim. 

Toz straightens, already drifting back into the pattern like nothing happened, but his mouth twitches at the corner, something satisfied in it.

Shane cuts across the next lane before it can happen again. “That’s enough,” he says. “We’re not working contact.”

Wilson looks over the scene from where Shane had left him, a sharp expression settling over him. “Kid’s supposed to be our new D-Man," he says. “Probably should find out if he can handle himself.”

“Not today,” Shane replies, meeting Wilson’s eye dead on. It’s a challenge and everyone on ice knows it. 

Wilson holds his gaze for a beat, assessing. Then he spits to the side and turns away.

“Your skate,” he says, like it explains everything.

JJ moves first, clapping his stick once against the ice, sharp to break the tension. “Alright, boys, we doing drills or ice dancing?” and the moment folds back into motion. 

Cameau pushes off, collecting the puck and resetting the drill without comment, Drapeau and Toz follow slowly behind. 

They run it again, fast and clean, Shane keeping a closer eye on Hank now. 

Shane lets it run for a beat, then shifts the rotation, pulling Hank onto his line without making a point of it. When the puck comes his way, he feeds it clean and early, forcing the play forward before Hank has time to second-guess.

By the time Shane circles back to the line, the rookies have adjusted without being told. Matty is quiet for the first time since stepping onto the ice and staying closer in. Leo has shifted his route, placing himself just off Hank’s shoulder, an outlet whether it’s needed or not. They’re not clustering obviously but the shape of it is there.

For the rest of the drill, Hank’s path bends just slightly toward Shane.

At the next break, Hayden glides in beside him, "You can shut it down here,” he says quietly. “But Theriault’s just going to turn around and encourage it next week.”

Shane’s gaze stays on the ice. Hank is already resetting again, too quick, stick snapping at the puck like he can outrun what just happened.

“I’m not worried about next week right now,” Shane says.

“You should be,” Hayden replies, just as quiet. “That’s the version that sticks around. Not this.”

Shane exhales slowly. He knows Hayden’s right about the coach. About what gets reinforced. About what gets called “part of the game.” He also knows what he heard—or didn’t hear, but saw well enough.

“I’m not letting that be how we run this,” Shane says. “Not here.”

Next to him, Hayden looks him over carefully, his brow pulling together slightly. “Buddy, It’s not about ‘letting it’” he says, “You can’t control Coach.”

“I control this skate,” Shane replies, sharper now, gesturing lightly to the ice, the drill, the space they’re standing in. “That’s enough.”

Hayden watches him for a second, then flicks his gaze back out toward the ice, following Shane’s site line to where the three rookies are running the drill now.

“Look, that’s what I mean,” Hayden says. “You can set the tone here, sure. But it doesn’t change who’s built to make it through when it tightens up.” He glances back out and then looks at Shane, searching his face. 

“Leo’ll be okay,” he adds kindly, like he’s offering a consolation prize. “He already gets it.”

Shane’s jaw tightens slightly. “It’s not just Leo.”

Hayden shrugs, resigned and practical. “It kind of is.” There’s no apology in his voice and no hesitation. 

It’s a statement of fact that makes Shane’s chest tighten. He looks back out at the three of them, not as a group this time, but separately, tracking where each one is. Hank fighting his timing, Matty pushing too much, Leo holding back enough to stay consistent and safe. He tracks the gaps, the places where it could break.

He nods once, more to himself than to Hayden. “They’re all getting through camp.”

Hayden doesn’t argue. Instead, he just looks Shane over, concern flickering across his face before it smooths out again.

“Alright, Captain,” he says lightly. “Then we better get them there.” It sounds easy when he says it. 

The rest of the skate runs hard and fast, pace climbing until legs start to drag and passes lose their edge, the natural breaking point settling in without anyone needing to call it.

“Alright,” Shane says finally. “That’s it.”

The structure dissolves almost immediately. Guys peel off in loose lines, drifting toward the tunnel, conversations picking back up as they go, easier now, like the tension has somewhere to go.

By the time Shane gets to the locker room, the room is already loud and also slightly off. Overlapping conversations and the noise of gear hitting the floor with more force than necessary fills the space and underneath it, Shane can feel the tension of expectation. It takes him a second to recognize exactly what he’s feeling before it clicks into place.

They’re watching to see what the new Captain is like after practice.

It’s not obvious, but once he realizes, Shane can see the small glances his way and hear how conversations stall slightly when he shifts position. The team is waiting. It’s a new era and they want to know what hierarchy and accountability will look like now. 

He doesn’t engage and he doesn’t hesitate. Instead Shane drops into his stall, and starts stripping off his gear like it’s any other day. Gloves off. Helmet down. Pads next. He doesn’t rush it, doesn’t drag out the movement either. Just goes through his routine like there’s nothing to see. 

Across the room, JJ starts talking louder. A couple of guys laugh and the rhythm of the room settles into something easier. 

Shane keeps his head down a second longer, listening for it—for the pull, the tightening, the moment where it turns. When he’s finally sure it won’t, he looks up and surveys the team. 

The rookies start clustered, all three of them near the same stretch of stalls, but are quickly pulled into the room. Matty goes first, already mid conversation with JJ, half out of his gear, and hands flying.

“—no, but it could work,” Matty is saying, gesturing with one hand, stick still in the other. “Like, if he doesn’t cut me off there—”

“Kid it’s never going to work,” JJ says, grinning, pushing back just enough to keep him going, the two of them folding easily into the louder center of the room.

“It could!”

“You had a bad idea.”

“That’s still an idea!”

A few stalls down, Hank is drawn into something quieter. Drapeau has him there, not crowding, but not letting him disappear either, asking something Shane can’t quite hear. Hank answers, posture a little too straight, like he’s bracing to get it right, but he stays in it, doesn’t retreat. 

Leo moves differently.

Koch doesn't attach himself to anyone right away, instead drifting between spaces, not aimless, just not fixed, pausing long enough to listen, to pick up the shape of things before shifting again.

Shane watches as like clockwork, he ends up near Hayden.

Hayden doesn’t make a point of it. He’s leaned back in his stall, one skate half off, talking about something inconsequential, tone easy, giving Leo just enough to work with. Leo nods, answers in short bursts, shoulders still tight but loosening by degrees as the rhythm settles.

Hayden’s good at this, Shane thinks. Or at least good at directing to the safest version of the room.

Shane files that away, then pushes up from his stall.

He doesn’t call for attention. Doesn’t gather anyone. He just moves, cutting across the room like he has somewhere to be, letting the conversations adjust around him instead of breaking for him.

He starts with the biggest hurdle to win over: Gilbert Cameau.

On the far side of the room, Cameau is settled into his stall shooting the shit with the other vets as they move around the room. Next to him, Wilson is seated, already starting to pack up his bag. 

Shane steps in just enough to be part of the conversation and feels the quick flick of assessment from the group. 

“That pace hold up?” he asks, tone even.

Cameau glances at him, then back down at the tape he’s peeling from his stick. “We’ll survive,” he says, dry, but not dismissive. “Solid morning. Felt good to be back on the ice. Clean.”

From him, it’s practically a gold star. Approval. Shane thinks. Still conditional, but it’s there.

Next to him however, Wilson lets out a short breath. “Clean’s not what wins you games.” 

Before Shane can respond, Cameau cuts in, not looking up. “Didn’t lose us anything either.” his voice is even but Shane can hear a thread of irritation. 

Wilson has had an attitude since Bennett left and everyone, even Cameau is getting tired of it. 

“Rookies kept up,” he says instead, gauging Cameau’s reaction. 

Cameau’s mouth quirks slightly. Not disagreement but not quite agreement either. “For a skate,” he says. “Camp’s a different beast. No point getting attached yet.”

“They’ve got the tools,” Shane replies, keeping his voice neutral. “I can see them filling out our lines once they get there reps.”

Wilson cuts in, his voice just this side of nasty. “Thought your job was to get us a cup, not babysit prospects?”

“Same goal,” Shane draws out carefully. 

“Doesn’t look like it. Maybe don’t waste our time dragging pussies who aren’t going to get there.” The words are dismissive and flat.

Cameau cuts in quickly, clearly ready to stop an argument from brewing.  “They’ll clean up or they won’t.” His tone is carefully easy. “And Cap’s right, we need a new D-Man.”

The alignment from the vet feels like victory to Shane.

It’s cut off quickly however as Wilson cuts in, “We’re not going to find him with Hollander out there playing hall monitor.”

“We got what we needed.” Shane says curt, trying to turn back to Cameau.  

“Yeah,” he says, voice flat. “I saw.” His face is cold as he goes on, “That your plan? Step in every time it gets a little uncomfortable so the new kids don’t cry?”

Shane doesn’t look away. “We weren’t running contact.”

“You’re coddling the ape,” Wilson says, the slur completely casual. “He’s built like a wall, moves well enough, but plays like he’s trying not to break anything, What’s the fucking point of carrying a guy like that if he’s not going to play the way he’s built to fucking play?”

It’s ugly and casual and nothing Shane doesn’t expect and yet makes his blood boil heard directed at Hank. He knows what they think a player like Hank is supposed to be, and the quiet dismissal when he isn’t. He’s heard versions of Wilson’s shit his entire career, dressed up in different language but meaning the same thing. 

He keeps his voice steady even as the anger trickles in. “Knock it the fuck off. From what I saw today he’s faster and with better coverage than Bennett ever had.” It’s a low hit but apparently that’s where they are now. “He’ll figure out the rest.” 

Wilson looks at him with pure venom. “Or he won’t,” he says. “And then where will you faggots be?”

Shane doesn’t answer right away. His gaze drifts across the room, catching on the rookies; Matty talking too fast, pulling Hank along with him, Leo just off to the side, watching and adjusting. They’re trying to look like they belong. 

Shane recognizes the feeling viscerally. He remembers being there and alone, with no one but Hayden’s practical advice to hold onto. 

Now they’re looking to him.

He pulls his focus back, jaw tightening.

Cameau exhales, pushing himself up slightly from where he’s sitting, like he’s done letting it circle. “We’re not cutting the roster,” he says. “They’ll get their shot and we’ll see where it all lands. That’s what camp is for.”

Wilson doesn’t push further. He just holds Shane’s gaze for a second longer, like he’s filing the moment away, then drops his eyes back to his gear.

“Hope you’re right,” he says. He lingers a second longer, then straightens, rolling his shoulders again like the moment didn’t matter, and walks away toward the showers. 

The space he leaves behind doesn’t settle. Cameau watches him go, then glances back at Shane, expression unreadable. 

“He’s not wrong about camp,” he says, his tone measured but not unfriendly. “It gets sorted there.”

Shane nods once. “I know.”

Cameau studies him a second longer, then reaches for his bag, conversation already moving on. “Then if this is how you want to play it, make sure they’re ready.”

It’s as close to backing him as Shane’s going to get. He stays where he is for a moment after, the tension still sitting sharp under his skin, then exhales once and squares his shoulders.

Information is good, he reminds himself. He knows where the lines are and he can work with that. 

Carefully, he makes his way to where the rookies have gathered, his mind already turning with how to bridge the gap between what the vets see and what the three might be.

Matty doesn’t stop talking when Shane steps in, just pivots slightly to include him in the conversation mid-thought. Up close, he’s all angles—too thin for the level, Shane thinks instinctively, all wiry reach and quick hands, dark hair falling into his eyes as he talks.

“—I’m telling you, it’s there,” he insists, hands moving as fast as his thoughts. “If I hold it half a second longer—”

“You didn’t have half a second,” Shane cuts in, not sharp but precise. He knows the moment Matty is referring to.  “You had your first read. You argued with it.” Matty makes a face, half-annoyed, half-intrigued, already turning the note over in his head. “At this level, that’s the difference.”

Beside him Hank lets out a quiet breath that almost reads as a laugh before he cuts it off like he thought better of it. There’s a stiffness in his posture, shane notices, that wasn’t there at the start of the practice. Next to him Leo, doesn’t say anything but the quirk of his lips is back and he’s glancing over to the corner Shane just came from and then back to Hank. 

Looking at the three of them, Shane can see the pattern already settling into place after just a single skate. There’s some trust here, a valuable asset if Shane can get them past there bad habits.

“You all did pretty well today,” he says, keeping his tone even looking between them as they perk up at the praise.  

Good. He thinks. They want it and they’ll need that. 

He can still hear Wilson in the back of his head. If the three of them are going to be on this team, they can’t just play safe and they can’t be off for long. 

“You’re here because you’re good,” he continues, “that’s over. Everyone in this room is good. If you want to stay, you have to be better than the guy next to you, ever rep, every shift.”

Their attention sharpens immediately. He lets his gaze settle briefly on Hank, then back to the group. 

“Look,” Shane says, softer now but no less deliberate, keeping all three of them in it at once. “You don’t need to be perfect today. But at camp, you won’t get time to figure it out; you’ll need to get there fast. Trust what you’re seeing, fix the issues on the next rep, and don’t wait for perfect.” 

His eyes flick back to Leo, just for a second. “If you keep taking the lowest-risk option, you’ll stay out of trouble,” he adds. “But you’ll also disappear. And once that happens, it’s a lot harder to get back in.”

Leo stills at that. His expression doesn’t change, but Shane can see his focus go bright, more engaged then he had been a minute earlier.

Hank is the one who speaks, quiet but steady. “It’s fast,” he says, like he’s still catching up to the pace of it. “Feels like if I miss it once, it’s already gone.”

“It is,” Shane says, because there’s no point softening that part. He knows that Hank is already starting to see the shape of this room. He knows intimately the realization that this isn’t just about playing well but about surviving long enough for skill to matter. 

“That’s why you don’t wait,” he continues. “You already know where it’s going. Move it before it disappears. You won’t get extra time here, so don’t waste it.”

Matty nods along like he’s filing everything away at once, while Leo stays quiet, eyes sharper now, recalibrating. 

Hank looks at Shane again, that same instinctive check for confirmation Shane saw on ice. “You think I can keep up?” he asks, not fishing, but looking for some reasurance.

“You did today,” Shane says, and means it. “But that’s the baseline. It doesn’t stay there.”

Hank nods, his face setting in determination. “Heard Captain.” 

Matty echoes it with a quick, “Yeah,” already leaning forward like he wants the next rep. Leo doesn’t say anything, just meets Shane’s gaze for a second longer than before and nods once, measured but deliberate.

Shane beathes out a sigh of something like relief. They’re not there, not close, but they’re engaged now, locked in, looking to him for the line instead of guessing at it. For today, it’s enough to work with.

With a last survey and a round of fist bumps he excuses himself from the group,  leaving them to pick it apart together, Matty already talking again, Hank answering this time, Leo still watching but a little less removed. 

Shane turns away, already moving, mind working ahead—how to push them, where they’ll break, what it’s going to take to get them through camp before the room decides they don’t belong. 

He’s halfway back to his stall when Hayden falls into step beside him, easy as ever, like he’s been there the whole time.

“You were getting into it with Wilson,” he says, low enough that it doesn’t carry.

Shane doesn’t break stride. “We talked.”

“That’s one way to put it.” Hayden glances past him, toward the far side of the room, then back. His tone stays light, but there’s no give in it. “You know who he is to Theriault, right? You pick at him, that’s not just between you two.”

Shane turns into his stall, dropping his gloves into his bag with more force than necessary. “He was being a racist asshole,” he says flatly. “Someone needed to say something.”

“And it had to be you?” Hayden asks, stepping in closer, shoulder braced against the next locker so they don’t carry. “Season hasn’t even started and you’re already doing the opposite of keeping your head down and letting him cool off.”

Shane doesn’t answer. His hands keep moving through his gear, tightening, resetting, anything to keep from looking up.

Hayden doesn’t let it go. “And it’s not just Wilson,” he adds, voice lower now, more serious. “You stepping in like that with the rooks? That’s you drawing a line. With all of them. You’re making it yours. Every mistake they make, every slow read, every time they look like they don’t belong—that’s coming back to you. Not them. You.” He watches Shane closely. “You get that, right?”

There’s real fear in his voice now, stripped of the edge. It makes Shane finally pause.

Hayden’s right. He knows today already has consequences. Even if he backs off now, disappears for a while and lets it settle, it won’t undo what Wilson saw. What Theriault will hear. The smart play is to take his licks when they come, keep his head down, and let the rookies figure it out or fall out.

He knows that. And yet, he also knows what it looks like when no one steps in.

Wilson’s sneer flashes sharp in his mind, but it’s not the one that stays with him. It’s Bennett—casual, bored, picking him apart shift by shift like it didn’t cost anything to do it. Like it wasn’t shaping Shane into something more like a tool then a person.

Shane swallows against the memory.

“They’re already going to get it from the coaches,” he says finally, quieter now but no less firm. “They don’t need it from us too.”

Hayden studies him. “That’s not what I said.”

“That’s what you mean.”

“No,” Hayden says, sharp, frustration breaking through. “What I mean is that this turns into is you taking the hit for all of it and thinking that’s going to fix something. It’s not. You don’t get to absorb it and make it go away.”

Shane looks up at that.

“Hayden—” He stops, resets, forces the words into something cleaner. “If we’re halfway through the season, sitting middle of the pack with a shit defense and no shot at playoffs, I’m the one they’re coming for anyway.” His voice stays measured, but there’s no space left in it now. “I’ve got the C. I’m the one Theriault’s looking to blame.”

Across the room, Matty’s voice cuts through again, bright and uncontrolled, dragging a laugh out of Hank and a smile from Leo.

Shane tracks it without meaning to.

“At least this way,” he continues, eyes still on them, “we’re not breaking them before they even get a chance to play.”

Hayden exhales hard, scrubbing a hand back through his hair. “You’re not wrong about them needing help ok?” he says. “I get that. I do.” He looks back at Shane, something tighter in his expression now. “But you taking all of it on like this? That’s just painting a target on your back and calling it strategy.”

It’s touching how concerned Hayden is. And at the same time, Shane wishes that he would be able to understand that there isn’t a version of this where Shane isn’t already standing in the middle of it.

He can feel the tension, even now the way the room shifts and every decision gets measured against something he can’t quite see but knows is there. If the team doesn’t work, it won’t matter how well he kept his head down.

It will come back to him like it always does.

“It’s the best option,” Shane says finally.

Hayden huffs out a breath, not quite a laugh. “It’s an option,” he says. “That’s not the same thing.”

They sit in silence together as around them, the room starts to thin. Doors slam and voices carry out into the hall, the energy bleeding off, as guys filter out into the rest of the day.

Hayden finally pushes off the bench and grabs his towel. “Just… don’t be surprised when it comes back on you,” he says quietly, his eyes resigned. 

Shane nods once, like he’s heard it.

Hayden lingers a second longer, then lets it go, turning to get rinsed off.

 Shane stays where he is, watching the way the rookies fold into the group, the edges blurring just enough to pass for belonging.

For now, that’s enough.

Chapter End Notes

This was a doozy of a chapter to write and I'm still not sure it's quite right. I'll probably keep tinkering with it for a while but wanted to put something out there. Please let me know in the comments if you have constructive feedback! I really want to get this right so would love to know what's working or if there are places that feel heavy handed or out of line.

I'll also flag that you may also have noticed that i've updated the tags and changed the number of chapters I'm expecting this to be. I've outlined this story but am writing it in real time and am discovering as I go that some parts just need much more space to fully unpack then I originally intended.

Thank you for reading!