Rating:

General Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories:

Gen, M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, (past), Minor or Background Relationship(s)

Characters:

Wyatt Hayes, Shane Hollander, Zane Boodram, Lisa Hayes (Game Changers)

Additional Tags:

Ilya Rozanov Haunts the Narrative, Post-Break Up, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, POV Wyatt Hayes, Ottawa Centaurs (Game Changers), Shane Goes to the Centaurs First, Ottawa Centaurs Player Shane Hollander, Anxious Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Leaves the Montreal Voyageurs | Montreal Metros, wyatt hayes pop culture references, Supportive Ottawa Centaurs (Game Changers), Shane Hollander Gets Outed, Shane Hollander Is a Menace, Shane Hollander is scary, Secret Relationship, nobody knows about Hollanov and they have broken up, POV Outsider, Shane fucking hollander

Language:

English

Series:

Part 1 of Shane Hollander's Centaurs

Stats:

Published: 2026-03-14 Words: 9,093 Chapters: 1/1

Countdown to Connect

Summary

Shane Hollander doesn’t take the hit from Cliff Marlow, and Ilya Rozanov ends their arrangement in 2017. Heartbroken, Shane tries to move on. He wins another Stanley Cup. He sleeps around. He’s fine. Until he is outed in photos leaked to the tabloids, clearly hooking up with a man.

The following season, Shane Hollander is traded to the Ottawa Centaurs. Shane fucking Hollander. The legend himself.

Suffice it to say, the Centaurs are a little intimidated, and Wyatt Hayes is man enough to admit it.

Notes

7 DAYS BEFORE TRAINING CAMP

Wyatt Hayes has been with the Centaurs for a couple years now, and he more or less knows what to expect at training camp. Fitness tests. Pep talks. Guys feeling each other out, coaches watching like a hawk. Wyatt is an irreplaceable asset to the Cens in this rebuilding period, even though he was only a backup goalie back in Toronto. He knows he has nothing to worry about, not like the rookies and AHLers fighting for their chance to make it big. But this year, he’s a little nervous, and he’s man enough to admit that it’s because of Shane Hollander. 

Arguably the best player in the league (though Bood would probably make an argument for Rozanov). Definitely the best player in Canada. Three Stanley Cups, and every other award under the sun. Skating and stickhandling to rival the all time greats. More focus and controlled aggression than the Terminator on Adderall. And against all odds, he’s here, playing for his hometown team — his bottom of the barrel hometown team. 

Wyatt has played with a lot of great players. Fantastic players, even. But none of the calibre of Shane Hollander. 

Like many teams, Cens veterans start informal practice during rookie camp, about a week before training camp begins in earnest. Obviously, Shane Hollander is invited this year. 

He’s met the guy a few times in passing. More than a few times, if you count Hollander humiliating Wyatt with his diabolical shots every year. He’s not worried about Hollander being difficult, like he might if it were Rozanov or Kent. By all accounts, Hollander is a chill dude. 

But then Wyatt sees him on the ice, and he can’t deny that he’s a little intimidated.

He and some of the other guys are early for practice, but Hollander’s already there, and clearly has been there for a while. At first, Hollander is clearly just playing. Getting a feel for the Censplex with fancy footwork and simple stickhandling drills. Wyatt opens his mouth, eager to introduce himself to Hollander as a teammate. 

But something shifts in the air. Hollander abruptly goes from playing around to tearing across the ice like there’s someone on his tail, shooting pucks from every angle. He sends each puck flying with a vicious snap, like the net killed his dog. He swings around the net and returns to centre ice, rapidly shooting one last puck into the right corner as he goes. Wyatt remembers watching Hollander score from centre ice after winning a face-off in a pre-season game, once. He’d really felt for the poor goalie. Hollander doesn’t grunt or huff as puck after puck flies with deadly accuracy. He’s quiet in a way that’s honestly a little unsettling. Wyatt can only hear Hollander’s skates carving the ice and light murmuring from the sidelines. 

He glances at the guys that have gathered around him. Their younger guys are watching with stars in their eyes. Some of the older guys too, if Wyatt is honest. Nobody moves to alert Hollander to their presence. Wyatt is comforted by the fact that they’re all a little intimidated. 

Bood appears in his gear, takes one look at all of them, and rolls his eyes. He steps out onto the ice. 

“Hollander, you maniac! What did that net ever do to you?” he calls, skating over to dap him up. 

Hollander looks up, surprised to see the team gathered around. Wyatt hurriedly steps out onto the ice to join them, not wanting to look like a gawking fanboy. Hollander seems guarded, but his smile when he says he’s happy to be here is sincere. 

Hollander joins them in their warmups, even though he’s clearly already warm. He’s a man of few words. Wyatt had heard that from other players, but faced with that quality for an extended period of time, it kind of freaks him out. What is Hollander thinking? His eyes are sharp and unreadable. Does he think they’re all losers? (They are, statistically). Presumably, he chose to come to Ottawa over any other team, who must have tried everything to get him traded to them last season when mutterings of negotiation breakdowns with Montreal began to pick up. Ottawa is thrilled and disgusted at their hometown hero returning. The prodigal son, who squandered his dynasty in Montreal by having the audacity to be gay in public. 

Wyatt psychs himself up to approach Hollander after practice, in the dressing room. He notices that Hollander didn’t shower with the rest of them. He seems to be killing time, moving shit around in his bag until the last guy is out. Only then does he go into the showers. 

Wyatt wonders if the Voyageurs had a problem showering with a gay man. 

He wanders over to Hollander as he’s getting dressed, hoping he seems casual and chill. 

“Hey, Hollander. Good practice,” he says, smiling. Hollander returns it hesitantly. 

“Thanks. You too.”

“How’s it feel to be back in Ottawa?” Wyatt asks. Hollander pulls on a shirt and seems to think about it for a second. 

“It’s nice. I came back a lot to see my parents and stuff. But it’s weird to be on this side of things,” he says. It’s not a lot to go on, but it sounds like an honest answer, which Wyatt appreciates. He half expected the PR spiel he heard in Hollander’s press conference about how right it feels to come home. 

“The losing side, you mean?” Wyatt jokes.

“You said it, not me,” Hollander says lightly.

“Not for much longer, now that we have Shane fucking Hollander!” Dykstra hoots, and the dressing room cheers. Hollander smiles, and lets the cheers wash over him. Wyatt thinks he looks like a benevolent king presiding over his peasants. 

“No pressure,” Boyle jokes. Wyatt remembers the violent way Hollander slapped those pucks into the net this morning, when he thought nobody was watching. He suspects there’s no escaping the pressure, not for Shane fucking Hollander. 

Wyatt walks out of the dressing room with Hollander in companionable silence. Hollander frowns as if he’s just remembered something. 

“You’re friends with J.J., right?” Hollander asks. Wyatt perks up, trying to be cool and chill and not let on that being remembered by Shane Hollander feels kind of fucking special. 

“Yeah! I wasn’t sure if you’d remember, but we’ve crossed paths outside the rink a couple times,” Wyatt says. Hollander shakes his head.

“Oh, I remember. You pissed yourself in an Iron Man costume that one time,” Hollander says with a sparkle in his eye. Wyatt’s jaw drops. He hurriedly looks around to make sure nobody else heard.

It was one of the lowest lows of Wyatt’s youth. Just so deeply embarrassing. That costume was really hard to take off, okay? He hadn’t even realised Hollander was witness to that. It was probably the drunkest he’s ever been, though, so…

“Hollander, I will pay for all your drinks for the season if you promise to never say that out loud ever again,” he bargains. 

Hollander smiles serenely. “I don’t drink during the season.” 

Wyatt stares at him in horror, but Bood calls Hollander over to meet some of the staff before Wyatt can make a better offer. Then, Wyatt laughs to himself. Hollander’s kind of an asshole. J.J. never mentioned that. 

Somehow, despite the mortification and general terror, Wyatt never feels like Hollander is actually going to weaponise that little anecdote against him. So he guesses it still feels kind of special. Like he has an inside joke with Shane fucking Hollander. Isn’t that something?

— — —

4 DAYS BEFORE TRAINING CAMP

Bood wants them to scrimmage a little, not in the serious way they’ll scrimmage in the next couple of weeks at camp, but a team bonding exercise of sorts to shake off the cobwebs. He doesn’t say it, but Wyatt thinks Bood wants them to get used to Hollander, and there’s no better way to endear a man to a group of athletes than to throw him into a competition with them. 

Wyatt is on Hollander’s team. He’s relieved, and feels a little guilty about it. Their backup goalie, Whittaker, glares at him. Wyatt waves cheerfully.

Hollander starts off slow (for Hollander). Wyatt wouldn’t call it going easy on them, exactly, but he’s definitely being…friendly. That’s normal for an informal scrimmage. But Wyatt can tell it’s not what Bood wants. Bood wants blood. 

“That all you got, Hollander?” Bood teases after he scores on Wyatt, “They’re just handing out Conn Smythes these days, huh?” 

Hollander’s lips twitch. “Is that how it is?” he asks. 

Bood grins. “That’s how it is.” 

Hollander skates back to centre ice to face-off against Boyle. He wins the face off and takes off at neckbreaking speed, dashing away to receive a clumsy pass from Dillon. He slaps the puck into the net decisively. Wyatt can’t help letting out an excited whoop. Hollander swings around the net and turns to Bood expectantly. 

“That’s more like it!” Bood laughs, “We got a game on our hands, boys!” 

The scrimmage heats up. Wyatt watches as every man on the team tries to up his game. Bood and Dykstra do an admirable job, as does LaPointe, their rookie from last season. But it’s their first scrimmage before camp has even started, and everyone’s a little rusty. 

For the last decade or so, the Centaurs have been a mediocre team at best, and the worst team at worst. Today, out-of-sync and unaccustomed to Hollander’s level, the Centaurs on Wyatt’s scrimmage team just can’t keep up with him. They’re barely able to participate in his play once he’s in the offensive zone. With nobody to pass to, he shoots around the ice with the puck like a pinball wizard. He’s not playing so friendly now. He checks Boyle more than a couple times as they wrestle for possession. Eventually, he manages to score again. Practically a one-man team. 

Wyatt sees a little action, blocking a couple shots before LaPointe scores. He feels Hollander’s assessing eye on him and tries to remind himself that he is a full grown man with a wife and a mortgage. He cannot wilt like dry grocery store basil just because another man looked at him funny. 

Still, the attention makes him alert. He watches Hollander attentively as the scrimmage goes on. In a messy battle for possession with the defenders both gunning for him and his own defenders doing a piss poor job of getting involved, Wyatt sees Hollander start to smile. It’s a nice smile. He’s having fun. It makes Wyatt smile, too. 

“Can’t tussle, Hollywood?” Chouinard challenges. 

Hollander pushes past Chouinard, hard, and scores half a second before Whittaker  manages to drop his knees. Chouinard doesn’t get up from where he’s fallen on the ice. 

“He was smiling,” Chouinard complains, languishing dramatically, “He just tried to kill me in a friendly scrimmage and he smiled while he did it!” 

Hollander laughs, and offers him a hand up. 

“Don’t be a sore loser, Nicky,” Dillon teases.

“Shut up, Dill, you were still over there waiting for the face off when he scored,” Chouinard shoots back. Dillon raises his hands as if to say ‘you got me there’. 

“Guys, off the ice in 10, please!” an assistant coach calls from behind the boards, “We need to get the prospects out here!” 

Bood looks up at the clock. “Oh, shit. Let’s get out of here. Good practice, boys.”

They head off to the, chattering and chirping as they go. Wyatt notices LaPointe and Hollander trading lighthearted banter and shoots Bood a double thumbs up. His plan is working. Bood grins.

“I’m fucking starving. Anyone want to get lunch?” Bood asks the dressing room at large when they’re all stripping gear off. A few answers in the affirmative. 

Wyatt hears LaPointe’s voice nearby: “You coming?”

A beat. Then Hollander says, warily, “Depends where you’re going.”

The guys freeze, and glance at each other like a bunch of rowdy schoolboys caught acting up. This is definitely a test. Hockey legend Shane Hollander is going to pass judgement on what they eat. They’ve all heard he’s a diet freak like Djokovic, and fuck, does that mean it works? Should Wyatt go gluten-free? Should he start eating kale?

LaPointe looks at Wyatt desperately. The poor kid lives on Wendy’s. Wyatt shrugs. He mostly eats at home. LaPointe turns to the other side and makes the same helpless face at Soupy, another younger Canadian who probably had a poster of Hollander on his walls just a few years ago. He swallows nervously. 

“You’re sort of vegan during the season, right?” Soupy asks Hollander tentatively. Hollander looks surprised, but he nods.

“Macrobiotic diet,” he says, as if that clarifies anything to anyone. 

“Right…well, uh, there’s a Mediterranean place nearby with a separate vegan menu. My girlfriend is vegetarian and she loves it,” Soupy suggests. 

The entire room seems to hold its breath while Hollander considers this. Then, Hollander smiles. Not the guarded, tight, closed-lipped thing he’s been offering them so far (except on the ice, but Wyatt gets the sense Hockey-Player-Shane-Hollander is almost a separate entity). A warm, eye-crinkling, handsome smile. 

“That’s thoughtful of you. Thanks. If everyone’s cool with that.” 

As if any of them would argue about lunch with Shane Hollander. The entire room relaxes. Soupy is stunned still for a moment, blinking into the middle distance like he’s just looked into the sun. Wyatt grins and claps him on the back. 

LaPointe and Soupy hog Hollander the whole time at lunch, and the boys seem so fucking thrilled about it that none of them have the heart to butt in. They definitely tease the kids about it afterwards, though. And If Wyatt orders a salad on the side, that’s definitely not because of Shane Hollander. 

— — — 

3 DAYS BEFORE TRAINING CAMP

By the end of the week, guys are starting to shake off the dust a lot quicker than the past two years Wyatt’s been with the team. He’s certainly been pushed harder this week with Hollander around. 

It’s a Friday evening, and the younger guys are going out to a bar. Wyatt begs off. He always tries to spend as much time with Lisa as he can before pre-season. A lot of the older guys have similar excuses. Hell, Boyle’s wife just had twins. He hears LaPointe and Soupy trying to convince Hollander to go with them, much more respectfully than they usually cajole the rest of them. He thanks them for the invite and says “next time”. 

“Got someone waiting for you at home, Hollander?” Dykstra asks. 

“Yeah, your dad,” Hollander retorts immediately. The guys are stunned for a second, then everyone dissolves into incredulous laughter. 

“Damn, I thought you didn’t chirp!” Dykstra exclaims, delighted. 

“I don’t. Much. But you try being nice all the time when you grow up with Ilya Rozanov,” Hollander says dryly. That strikes Wyatt as sort of an odd phrasing for being in the same draft-class, for being rivals, but he guesses it’s true. They’ve known each other since they were teenagers. 

“Too right. That guy’s such an asshole he could get a chirp out of Mother Teresa,” Chouinard says.

Everyone moves on easily to shit-talking Rozanov, but he knows that the team have received the message loud and clear. Hollander doesn’t like to be asked about his personal life.

He sees the way Hollander’s muscles relax one by one, how his fingers uncurl from where they’re gripping his shirt before he pulls it over his head. He thinks about the way Hollander had chirped at Dykstra almost reflexively, so fast he didn’t even seem to think about it. Like he’s been hassled about who he’s going home to one too many times, and he has comebacks locked and loaded in the chamber. 

Honestly, though, Wyatt is super curious. Does Hollander have a boyfriend? That man from the leak, maybe? 

Hollander glances around the dressing room dangerously, eyes sharp despite the easy tilt of his lips. Wyatt wisely decides not to push.

— — —

DAY 1 OF CENTAURS TRAINING CAMP

There are 54 guys at training camp this year. The fresh blood is always hungry for a spot on the roster, but Hollander’s presence has racked more weight onto their shoulders. He sees the way the boys sit up straighter when Hollander enters the room. How they track him to his seat. 

Hollander doesn’t even seem to notice. Maybe he’s just used to it. Maybe it was even worse at Voyageurs camps. He says hello to everyone who greets him, but lets his attention gloss over the ones who dumbly stare. He sits down next to Bood when he beckons. Wyatt has never been the centre of gravity like that, drawing everyone’s gaze from all corners of the room. He wonders at the grace and humility with which Hollander bears it. 

The hushed whispering only quiets when Coach Wiebe claps his hands and begins to speak.

“Okay guys. Welcome to the first day of Centaurs training camp. I hope you’re all ready to work hard, because we have a lot to do. First, I wanted to thank you all for being here, especially our new acquisitions. We’re getting better every year, but we’re still rebuilding, and every single one of you is an integral part of this process. I want you all to savour this time together as Centaurs, even if you aren’t on that final roster by the end.”

He glances to the left, at where Hollander is sitting.

“We have seen teams fall in the standings then rebuild with hard-work, chemistry, and leadership. That is what we’re going to do here in Ottawa. All of us need to be completely committed to this team and our teammates. We are going to push each other to be better. We are going to lift each other up. If we do that, we just might have a chance at the playoffs this year. On behalf of the entire organisation, I want to make it crystal clear: if you are here, you are home. Respect. Loyalty. Trust. That’s what I want to see out there every day. Are you going to give it to me?”

“Yes, coach!” Wyatt shouts. If his voice shakes a little, nobody will notice as the rest of the room choruses around him.

It’s a great speech. He looks over at Hollander, because the speech is undoubtedly for him: an assurance that the front office has his back, and a reminder to the rest of them that bigotry is not part of the team culture. Hollander is a pretty stoic guy, but Wyatt can see the emotion he’s holding back. Their eyes meet for a moment, and Wyatt nods firmly. He has Hollander’s back, too. He feels every word Wiebe said in his bones.

Hollander doesn’t react, but Wyatt gets the feeling he’s done something right. 

Hollander crushes them all during fitness testing. Wyatt knows the kind of fitness and endurance required from a goalie is a little different to the skaters. He’s secure in his level of fitness. But Hollander is frightening on a stationary bike. Every time someone gets remotely close to his pace, he turns into the fucking Flash until the other guy gets tired and slows down again. Wyatt gets a front row seat to his bizarre display of dominance, because their bikes are right next to each other.

After they stumble off the bikes, Wyatt stares at Hollander until he looks at him. Hollander tilts his head at Wyatt inquisitively. Behind them, a juniors prospect who’d been foolishly trying to keep up with Hollander the entire time is panting harder than an asthmatic chainsmoker running a marathon. Wyatt sees the kid collapse flat on his back in his peripheral vision. Hollander sees it too. Wyatt bends over and puts his hands on his knees so he doesn’t do the same thing. 

“That was fun for you, wasn’t it? Showing us all up?” Wyatt accuses him as he catches his breath.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Hollander says. He doesn’t fool Wyatt. There’s something undeniably smug in his eyes. 

You sick fuck, Wyatt thinks admiringly. 

“Guess we need to work on our off-ice fitness, boys,” Wiebe says dryly. The kid on the floor groans. 

— — — 

DAY 3 OF CENTAURS TRAINING CAMP

“So, what do you think of the prospects so far?” Wyatt asks Bood as they stroll in from the parking lot together. 

“I think Haas is ready,” Bood says, “He was good when we drafted him, but now?”

Bood whistles, impressed. 

“He’s quick with it,” Wyatt agrees. 

“I wanna see if he’s got what it takes to flank Hollander.”

“Speak of the devil,” says Wyatt. He waves at Hollander, who’s just stepped out of his car. They wait for him to catch up. 

The wind blows in his hair just so as he strides across the parking lot. Wyatt totally sees why Hollander’s been voted hottest man in the MHL so many times.

“Hey, man. We were just talking about the rookies,” Bood greets him. Hollander looks interested. 

“Haas is really fucking good,” Hollander says. 

Bood nods emphatically. “S’what I’m saying.” 

“Holmberg might make it, too,” Hollander muses, then looks a little surprised at himself. Bood and Wyatt are surprised, too. Wyatt doesn’t know a lot about Holmberg. He vaguely remembers that he’d been drafted in the late-rounds a couple of years ago and gone straight to the AHL after the first week at camp. 

“Oh yeah? What makes you say that?” Wyatt asks. Hollander hesitates, glancing at Bood.

“He’s got foot-speed for a big guy,” he says. Wyatt raises an eyebrow. The guy is holding back. 

“What else?” Bood prompts, sensing the same thing. 

Hollander pauses for a moment answering. “His collegiate record, I guess. His sophomore year, he had 21 points in 34 games. Third highest point total for defensemen in the WCHA that season.” 

“Damn,” says Bood, blinking slowly. Then, “Do you know all our stats?”

Hollander looks back at him steadily. “I do my research.” 

Wyatt and Bood exchange a nervous look. Fucking ominous. The Shane Hollander is looking up and evaluating their records in his free time? What does he think of them? Wyatt had a good last season. Hollander isn’t judging him too hard, is he? 

No. Wyatt reminds himself that Hollander chose Ottawa. He knew what he was getting into. Wyatt has been playing some of his best hockey the past few seasons and has nothing to be ashamed of. Not everyone can be Shane fucking Hollander. 

“Yeah, that makes sense,” Wyatt says, trying his best to seem unaffected, “Highest hockey IQ in the League and all.”

Hollander just shakes his head. An awkward silence reigns. Wyatt reminds himself that he is a grown man. Wife. Mortgage. Do not be afraid. 

“So. Holmberg. If he was so good in the NCAA, why haven’t I heard much about him?” he asks. 

Hollander shrugs. “Record isn’t as good in Belleville. Last season he had 7 points in 19 games. It was his first year in the AHL, though? So he could just be adjusting. From what I saw of his puck-handling and fitness here so far, it seems like he put in the work in the off-season. Or, like, I hope he did. We need more depth in our defense. He needs to get his temper under control though.”

This is the most words Wyatt has heard Hollander say at a time, outside of a press conference. Wyatt feels like he’s cracked the code, and he doesn’t know why he didn’t think of it earlier. Sometimes people call Hollander a hockey robot (both affectionately and derogatorily) — it stands to reason that the thing that breaks the ice (haha) with him is talking about hockey. And they’ve all been trying to ask him about how he’s settling in and his love life. God, they’re idiots.

“His temper?” Bood repeats. 

“He gets so fucking mad. His face goes all red,” Hollander says solemnly. His phone rings, and he waves them ahead apologetically. 

Wyatt and Bood are quiet until they get inside the Censplex. They turn to each other, eyes wide. 

“He’s hockeypedia,” Bood hisses, “He knows more about the team than I do.” 

“Bood, you’ve been here since the dawn of time, nobody knows more about the team than you do,” Wyatt reassures his captain, who immediately complains that he is not being helpful.

“He does his research,” Bood says to himself, “I need to do more research."

During their off-ice workout, another kid accidentally whacks Holmberg in the face with a resistance band. Wyatt watches Holmberg shout at the other kid, irate, and notes that his face does indeed go red.

— — — 

DAY 4 OF CENTAURS TRAINING CAMP

Their first pre-season game is at a neutral site. As many teams do in early pre-season games, Ottawa sends their whackest roster. Whittaker and a prospect hit the road as goalies, so Wyatt gets to stay at home to train with most of the vets. 

As he’s beginning to realise is his usual, Hollander’s already on the ice by the time Wyatt gets to the Censplex. He brightens when he sees Wyatt step out in his gear. 

Seeing him perk up at the sight of him makes Wyatt feel giddy. It reminds him of getting chosen first for dodgeball in gym class as a kid. 

“Hayes!” Hollander calls, “Can I borrow you after you warm up?”

“Yeah, of course,” Wyatt says cheerfully, “How the hell are you always here so early, dude? Did they give you a key?”

He’s just teasing. The arena is open to them long before practice. But Hollander takes it literally. 

“Nah. The staff get here at like 7:30.”

Wyatt does a double take. It’s 10:30. Practice starts at 11. “You got here at 7:30?!” 

“No! No. I got here at 10. I just—talked to the custodians about their hours…” Hollander scratches the back of his neck sheepishly, trailing off. Wyatt can see where that was going. 

“So you can come at 7:30 some other day, huh?” he guesses with a laugh. God, Hollander really is as obsessed with hockey as everyone says. 

Hollander, as it turns out, wants Wyatt to help him drill some backhand shots. It’s fucking sick. Wyatt gets to practice his own skills one-on-one with one of the highest scorers in the league, and he gets a front-row seat to the famous discipline that was instrumental in bringing the cup to Montreal three times over. 

It’s an understatement to say Hollander is a perfectionist. He scolds himself over shots he makes if they don’t go into the net in just the way he intended. It makes Wyatt get serious, fast. There’s no easing into their practice together. It’s nothing but laser focus from the first second. 

The other guys start to trickle onto the ice and take cues from Hollander and Wyatt, settling into practice mode unprompted. By the time Bood and the assistant coaches appear, the everyone present is working on their passes, 10 minutes early.

“Nice one, Haas!” Hollander calls out, and Wyatt watches the kid’s whole face light up like a Christmas tree. 

The coaches have them run 3 on 2s, using the opportunity to get a sense of how Hollander, Bood and Haas play together. It looks to Wyatt like both of them need to find a way to keep up with Hollander if the line is going to work, but in different ways. Haas is fast, but a little green, with all the typical growing pains that come with it. He needs to work on his positioning. Bood is slow by comparison, but his superior experience serves him well. He reads Hollander’s plays better. 

Wyatt sees Hollander skate up to Haas and open his mouth, then glance at Bood and snap it shut again. Instead, he offers the rookie a tight smile and pats him on the shoulder. 

After practice, Hollander stops Wyatt on his way out to thank him for running drills with him. 

“Anytime, man!” Wyatt enthuses, and he means it. Half an hour of that before every practice will only make Wyatt a better goalie.

“You might regret saying that,” Hollander warns him. 

Their away team loses, of course. But Holmberg records a goal and an assist. 

— — — 

DAY 6 OF CENTAURS TRAINING CAMP

Today, the Centaurs play the first game of their training camp scrimmage tournament. The remaining 50 players left after the first wave of cuts are divided into 3 teams. They’re playing round-robin. Two 30-minute periods. The coaching team will be watching them very carefully, and Wyatt can feel the nerves in the room. For many of the players fighting for a spot on the roster, this will be their last chance to prove they have what it takes. 

Wyatt, on Team 2, is wearing white. Hollander, Bood and Haas are on Team 1, wearing red. 

Normally, this kind of thing would be open to the public and livestreamed to their YouTube. Fans are desperate to see Hollander play this season, and the front office knows it. They’ve been saving his superstar debut for the right moment. Random exhos in Abbotsford aren’t that moment, nor are friendly scrimmages. Harris has them all on social media lockdown, and the first week of camp has been far more secretive than usual. He’s filming everything on a fancy video camera — says he’s going to make a docuseries on their first season with Hollander. Wyatt is sure it will do insane numbers. 

The Haas – Hollander – Bood line hasn’t quite gelled yet, and Wyatt’s able to block all but one of their shots in the first period. They’re tied at 1–1 for most of the game. 

At the end of the second period, Hollander hops the boards for his shift. When he gets possession of the puck, Wyatt sees in real time as he glances at Bood, then Haas, then thinks fuck it, it’s time to play selfish. He goes fucking turbo charged like he’s Brian O’Connor hitting the NOS button, flying down the ice and dancing around Wyatt’s team. 

Wyatt sees Hollander shift his shoulders in a way he recognises from their backhand drill practice, and he locks the fuck in. He knows Hollander’s backhand. He’s got this. Hollander pulls his stick back to take the shot, and Wyatt lunges forward to block it. 

But Hollander’s too fast. With those deft hands, he pulls the puck back from right under Wyatt’s arms, and shoots a smacking forehand behind his back, into the net. 

“Man, fuck you,” Wyatt complains. 

“Try blocking it next time,” Hollander shoots back. Haas skates in for a shy fist bump, which Hollander happily gives him. 

“You’re going to frame that glove, aren’t you?” Wyatt snickers. Haas glares half-heartedly at him and denies it very unconvincingly. 

“Hollzy with the fakeout!” Bood calls happily, patting his centre on the shoulder. After that, it’s just a matter of the red team killing time until the clock runs out. 

When the rest of the team heads home for the evening, Bood and Hollander are in the dressing room together, absorbed in discussion over an iPad where they’re still watching playback of the scrimmage. After they just had a whole meeting about it with the coaching team. Wyatt shakes his head fondly and leaves them to it.

— — — 

DAY 6 OF CENTAURS TRAINING CAMP

Team 2 gets a win over Team 3 in a shutout. Hollander compliments Wyatt enthusiastically after the game, which feels almost as good as winning. 

A Swedish kid who’d played on Team 3 shyly approaches Hollander afterwards. 

“Mr. Hollander? Sorry to bother you, but I wanted to thank you,” the kid says. Wyatt whacks Soupy and Haas to shut up so they can eavesdrop. 

Hollander looks confused for a second. “Oh, for the thing with your backhand grip? It’s nothing, man. It’s my worst shot too.” 

“Yes, the coaches said my backhand has improved. But also I want to thank you for—“ the kid cuts himself off, struggling for the words. Hollander waits attentively.

“My brother had to leave hockey when his school learned he had a boyfriend,” the kid says finally. Hollander, and all three of the eavesdroppers, freeze. 

“He was really good when we were kids, better than me. But he could not go on, did not have a choice to come out like Hunter. When he found out you will keep playing after the leak, he cried a lot. This week he joined a beer league and played hockey for the first time since high school.”

Hollander stares at the kid, seemingly speechless. 

“I will be returned to MoDo next week. So. I wanted to tell you first,” the kid finishes weakly, wilting a little in the face of Hollander’s silence. 

“Uh, yeah, thanks. I’m glad you did,” Hollander says eventually, shaking himself out of his shock. He extends a hand to the kid and shakes it firmly. He looks mildly uncomfortable and genuinely touched at the same time.

“Your brother’s a lot braver than I am,” Hollander says lightly, “I don’t know what I’d do if I didn’t have hockey.” 

“Maybe a yoga instructor,” the kid says, then blushes up to his blonde hair, stammers another thank you and evaporates from embarrassment. Wyatt snorts in amusement. Hollander hears him, expression locking down again. He turns to look at Wyatt with those dark, calculating eyes. 

Wyatt panics a little. Oh shit, Shane Hollander probably thinks he’s a homophobic asshole. He swallows. Fuck, play it cool, Hayes. 

“My sister and her girlfriend love your lake mansion yoga video too,” he teases, hoping to god it sounds natural. He should’ve had a t-shirt made that says I LOVE MY LESBIAN SISTER. 

“Gays love yoga,” Soupy nods, serious like he’s imparting deep wisdom. 

Hollander looks between them for a long moment, face unreadable. Wyatt feels like he’s standing before a judge for sentencing. Then, to his relief, Hollander’s shoulders drop a little. But he doesn’t crack a smile. 

“Yeah, I guess,” Hollander says slowly, “And it’s not a yoga video. I only do yoga in it for like 5 seconds.”

“No, it is not a yoga video. We are all watching it for the architecture, of course,” Haas says sarcastically under his breath. 

It takes every single minute of training Wyatt’s done in his life to force his body into stillness. He needs to laugh. He wants to laugh so bad.

But then his brain jumpscares him with the image of Hollander staring into his soul with cold eyes 30 seconds ago, like gay superman with homophobia x-ray vision. It’s all the motivation he needs to keep it together. 

He glares at Haas instead for almost breaking him. Fuck them kids. 

— — — 

DAY 7 OF CENTAURS TRAINING CAMP

Bood, Haas and Hollander make a handful of them come in early to run drills with them before the last scrimmage. It’s still not great, but something seems to click a little more. Team 1 wins the tournament handily. 

Wyatt watches from the stands with the rest of Team 2. Chouinard nods approvingly as Haas scores off Bood’s assist. 

“So, what do you think about Hollander, eh?” he asks.

“I think he goes home and watches video review until it’s time to practice again,” Wyatt jokes, because that’s easier than explaining the complex mix of awe, intimidation, strange affection and desperate craving for approval he feels.

“God created him only to skate and eat vegetables. You think he sleeps?” Chouinard plays along.

“I bet he sleeps like a baby for eight hours every night, and his pillow is always cold,” says LaPointe, admiring and envious. Wyatt laughs. 

“Here’s some good news for you, Pointy: I think he’s single,” he teases. LaPointe rolls his eyes.

“What makes you like him so quickly? It took you two weeks to look at Jakey when he was called up,” Chouinard asks. The poor AHLer had thought LaPointe didn’t speak English at first because he’d barely reacted to anything he said. Wyatt had liked Jakey just fine. 

“Jakey is annoying. And he is not Shane Hollander. We talked a lot at lunch last week—“

“We know,” Wyatt and Chouinard interject. 

“—and he is a nice guy. Bah, it was rude, I know, but I asked him about his rivalry with Rozanov. I thought Hollander would hate him. He is so rude, and Hollander is so polite. He told me that Rozanov is the best in the league, so of course he wants to always beat him. I was surprised, no? Rozanov, sure, maybe he has more natural talent, but Hollander has beat him in everything. More cups, more Harts, Conn Smythe, more points…”

“And a Lady Byng. He’s known for good sportsmanship,” Wyatt points out. 

“Yes, yes, but I didn’t know it was real. So many people hate Rozanov. I think it would be okay if Hollander talked shit a little bit. But he told me Rozanov is not so bad. He said he is funny.” 

That comment sticks with Wyatt, but he can’t quite place the feeling. Shane Hollander thinks Ilya Rozanov is funny.

“Anyway, he is humble. He wins a rivalry with a very annoying guy, and all he says is that Rozanov is the best and funny?” LaPointe concludes. Wyatt does not point out that Rozanov and Hollander still have years of hockey ahead of them, and now that Hollander’s in Ottawa it’s not inconceivable that Rozanov will pull ahead in the so-called rivalry.

Chouinard nods pensively.  “He is a nice guy, non? He is quiet, but he works hard. It is sad Montreal guys would treat him like this after so many years, even with the pictures.”

Wyatt makes a questioning noise. He valiantly chooses to ignore the disapproving tone Chouinard takes about the pictures. He’s long since learned that there are odd limits to Chouinard’s progressive Catholicism and it’s better for their relationship if he doesn’t challenge it. As long as Chouinard is cool to Hollander and not explicitly homophobic—which he isn’t—he’s doing better than half of the league, anyway. 

“Oh, you did not hear? They say Hollander came out to his team before the leak and they were not good. They say this is why he waived the no movement clause, and the front office used the scandal as an excuse.”

Wyatt had not, in fact, heard that. But now that Chouinard has said it, it makes sense. The strange, stilted statements from the Voyageurs upon their captain’s departure. The way Hollander has yet to mention the Voyageurs organisation or his former teammates, despite the fact that his entire professional career is tied to Montreal. Wyatt had, perhaps naïvely, assumed that Hollander had been fucked over by the front office alone, and that his teammates were just as blindsided as the rest of them. 

“That’s fucked up,” Wyatt says. 

“I heard Theriault tried to bench him after the leak, but Hollander said he would sue,” Chouinard adds gravely. 

“Bench your best player right before playoffs! Osti d’cave,” LaPointe curses. 

The longer he thinks about it, the angrier Wyatt becomes. 

“We’re not gonna be like that,” Wyatt declares, “We’re gonna be the best allies. We’re gonna be better gay allies than the Admirals.” 

Chouinard laughs. “I do not think there is a trophy for that, Hazy.”

“But we will still win!” LaPointe crows. 

— — —

DAY 10 OF CENTAURS TRAINING CAMP

“—and fans are expecting the birth of a new era for the Ottawa Centaurs.”

“That’s right, John—the shocking trade of Montreal Voyageurs captain Shane Hollander to Ottawa is one of the biggest stories of the season. Everyone is eager to see how Hollander plays with the Centaurs tonight, after playing with the Voyageurs for almost a decade and leading them to three Stanley Cups.” 

[Live in the Canadian Tire Center, the jumbo screens play a Shane Hollander highlight reel. Fans file in to find their seats.]

“Centaurs fans are hoping he can bring that success to Ottawa. The last time the Centaurs made the playoffs was in the 2008-09 season, right before Hollander was drafted by Montreal.”

“The Centaurs are dressing Hollander for the first time tonight. They waited for their first home game to bring him out on the ice.”

“And you can see why. The Canadian Tire Center is sold out tonight, if you can believe it! For an exhibition game. The Cens only had 9 sellouts the whole of last season.”

[The camera pans over the stands, lingering on a group of fans wearing Hollander Centaurs jerseys. They shoot to their feet, cheering and waving pride flags.]

“Here come the Centaurs now for the warmup. Looks like Hollander’s getting the first lap on the ice, and the crowd is on their feet.”

[A fan in the stands with rainbow facepaint on her cheek is interviewed by a reporter. She’s a middle aged woman standing next to a teenaged girl with bright purple hair, and a burly middle aged man with a soul patch.

“What brings you out here tonight?”

“We’re here to see Shane Hollander! My family and I have been Voyageurs fans for generations, but we just can’t support them anymore. We love Shane, he’s done so much for Montreal, we drove from Montreal to cheer for him, and we’re rooting for the Centaurs this season!” 

“This is an exhibition game, what made it important enough to drive two hours to see?” The reporter points the microphone at the man with the soul-patch. He leans over awkwardly.

“Well. People say pre-season games don’t matter, ‘n’ all. But we got gays in our family. So to me, this game is bigger than the points and standings.”

The reporter turns to a gay couple sitting next to the family. They’re wearing skin tight red-tshirts and have 24 written in gold glitter on their cheeks. 

“And what about you guys? What are you hoping to see tonight?”

“Um, hot guys slamming into each other? We don’t know anything about hockey! But we know a lot about being gay,” says one of the men. His partner grins.

“We wanted to see Shane Hollander. He’s gorgeous. And out gay hockey players are so rare…you could say we’re looking for a unicorn.” He winks.]

“You know, John, you have to hand it to the fans—they’re showing up for Hollander after his controversy.” 

“Absolutely. Gay hockey players are here to stay, whether you like it or not.” 

— — — 

DAY 12 OF CENTAURS TRAINING CAMP

At the end of training camp, when the roster is finalised, the Centaurs vote on a captain. Wyatt likes how they do it here. Anonymous, equal votes, every season. It really feels like they all have a say, even though they all know that they’re all just going to write Bood’s name down again. 

Playing CS:GO on a voice-call with some of the guys, a thought occurs to Wyatt. 

“Hey, do you guys think Hollander will want to be captain?” he asks. 

“Oh, true. I don’t know. I’ll probably still vote for Bood,” says Niem.

“Same. Hollander would be a good alternate,” Dykstra chimes in, “Why don’t we do him this season? I don’t like the press shit anyway.”

“‘Cause you’re so fucking bad at it,” Niem chirps, before doing a freakishly accurate impression of Dykstra stammering through attempts not to cuss on TV. 

“Will Hollander be pissed?” Soupy asks hesitantly. The faint sound of gunfire prevails for a moment. 

The rumours were true about Hollander being easy to work with. Wyatt can’t imagine the polite Canadian throwing a hissy fit about the captaincy at this point, but he has been a captain for many years now. It might feel weird for him. He might be kind of pissed about it in silence. 

“Naaaaah,” Dykstra says eventually, but he doesn’t sound completely confident about it. 

“Okay, we’re still doing the barbecue at Bood’s tomorrow, right? I’ll get Lisa to ask Hollander about captain shit. Like, subtly,” Wyatt schemes. 

After they get their asses handed to them by some shockingly racist 14 year olds, the guys call it a night. Wyatt tells Lisa about his plan as they get into their pyjamas. She sighs and raises an eyebrow at him.

“And the reason a whole team of full grown men can’t ask him themselves is…?”

If he were talking to anyone else, he might make up some bullshit about an unbiased third party, or a joke about espionage, or something. Since it’s Lisa, though, Wyatt immediately fixes her with his most earnest eyes and says:

“Because we’re all scared of him.”

It makes Lisa laugh, so that’s a win, and she even agrees to talk to Hollander. Wyatt tells her she’s the best, because it’s true.

— — — 

DAY 13 OF CENTAURS TRAINING CAMP

Barbecues at Bood’s are Wyatt and Lisa’s favourite team functions. The food is good, everyone brings friends and family, the atmosphere is easy and Dykstra is banned from connecting to the bluetooth speakers. Now that he thinks about it, part of LaPointe’s disdain for Jakey could’ve been because he liked the same shitty country music as Dykstra. Enabler.

When Hollander arrives with a bowl of fruit salad, Billy Joel is crooning under the cheerful babble of conversation. Various team members’ kids are shrieking under a tree somewhere as Selena Chouinard and Caitlyn Dykstra supervise. A nervous Haas has been surrounded by a circle of WAGs, who all look about two seconds away from pinching his cheeks. 

Wyatt gently knocks his shoulder against Lisa’s where she’s been devouring a serving of Selena’s fèves au lard. She follows his gaze to Hollander, then rolls her eyes good naturedly. Hollander deposits his healthy dessert on the sprawling feast table, then the moment he turns around he is cornered by Bood’s precocious 13-year-old nephew.

Wyatt waits patiently for Lisa to finish her beans. Hollander listens to the little boy with the same solemn expression he wears when he and Wiebe talk strategy. 

“Okay,” Lisa says, setting her bowl aside, “Let’s go.”

Bood’s nephew is ranting about his incompetent teammates on his club hockey team with barely a pause to breathe, let alone for Hollander to reply. Surprisingly, Hollander seems perfectly happy to stand there and nod. Lisa slides into the conversation smoothly. She’s awesome and Wyatt loves her so much. Bood calls the nephew over to have a slice of cake, and Wyatt gives Lisa’s hip a squeeze. This is their chance. 

“So. First game of the season soon. Think the Centaurs are ready, Shane?” Lisa asks playfully. Hollander shrugs.

“I think we’ll surprise people,” he says. 

“What a media friendly answer. I suppose you learned that from your time as a captain,” Lisa muses.

Wyatt watches Hollander for his reaction, but the man is difficult to read sometimes. He just shrugs and says: “I got a lot of practice, yeah.”

“You didn’t enjoy your press obligations then, I take it?” Lisa presses.

Hollander scoffs. “You mean being publicly on the hook for everything that goes wrong all season? Yeah, no, I won’t miss it.”

Wyatt suppresses the urge to pump his fist. God, his wife is good. He fights the urge to run off and tell Bood and Dykstra right this second. A voice that sounds like Lisa in his head informs him that he still has to be normal for the rest of this conversation. She’s been trying to train him out of walking out of conversations the second he gets distracted. It’s been years now and it’s only kind of working.

“What’ll you do with all your free time then, Hollzy?” he asks. Nailed it. Participated in the conversation normally. The question kind of throws Hollander. Lisa shoots Wyatt a meaningful glance. Usually when she does that in a conversation, it means that he’s said something insightful. She gives him way too much credit for it, but Wyatt maintains that he’s mostly insightful by accident. 

“You’ll have more time to chill out, right? What do you like to do when you’re not playing hockey or working out?” Lisa asks gently. 

“Um…” Wyatt suspects Hollander is casting about for something he does that doesn’t qualify as working out, “I read, I guess.”

Lisa lights up. She’s a voracious reader. Sometimes it scares Wyatt. When the new Hunger Games book came out earlier this year, she read it in like two hours. In that same amount of time, Wyatt did the laundry and watched a YouTube video about a guy teaching his octopus to play the piano.

Wyatt tunes back into the conversation in time to register Hollander briefly telling Lisa about a hockey book he’s been reading recently. 

“Coast to Coast…oh, hey, I think I read that book!” Lisa says. Hollander looks surprised and impressed. Very typical reaction to Lisa. 

“I remember there being a chapter on the Ladies Ontario Hockey Association? That stuck with me. I took a class on the history of hockey as an elective when I was in college and that book was one of our assigned readings,” Lisa explains. 

Wait. Hold up. Wyatt squints at Hollander.

“You’re reading an academic textbook in your free time?” Wyatt asks slowly. 

“It’s about hockey,” Hollander protests, but Wyatt isn’t listening. 

All of a sudden, all the pieces slot into place. How Hollander doesn’t talk much, except when it’s about hockey. How he never goes to the club and refuses to talk about his personal life and doesn’t drink during the season. He shows up early for practice and always folds his jersey before he puts it in the laundry bin. All of these traits have been chalked up to Hollander’s Canadian golden boy perfection that the rest of them can never live up to, a dauntingly high bar. But they haven’t seen the crucial final piece that humanises him.

A slow grin grows on Wyatt’s face. 

“You’re not scary!” Wyatt declares, “You’re a giant nerd!” 

They just haven’t seen it because he’s a nerd about hockey. 

Lisa’s eyes go wide. She immediately turns to Hollander, presumably to smooth things over if Hollander is offended, but the man seems too stunned to be offended. Wyatt claps a hand on his shoulder.

“Oh man, this is awesome. We were all so intimidated. I thought you were just like, perfect and mysterious. But underneath the superpowers you’re just like me! Like gay Superman!” 

Hollander blinks at Wyatt like he can’t decide whether to be outraged or flattered. Lisa finally fails to contain her laughter, her giggles ringing out like a chime. That seems to make Hollander tip begrudgingly into amusement, too. 

“Thanks, I think. If you guys were scared of me, I guess that explains your shitty defense,” he jokes. It takes a second for Wyatt to register that as a self-deprecating joke, rather than a dig at their reaction to him.

Wyatt laughs, but incredulously. Sure, he’s no Rozanov, but Hollander is a big guy who’s not afraid to get aggressive if the play calls for it. He’s spent way too much time with hockey players and not enough with normal people if he thinks being scared of him is laughable. That only reinforces the whole hockey nerd thing, actually. 

Lisa, who’s a strong 5’4”, rolls her eyes.

“You’re Shane fucking Hollander,” she says simply. And, like, yeah—that too. Just because Wyatt suddenly sees Shane for the awkward young dude he is and not Hollander the legend, doesn’t mean he’s not still in awe of him. But…

“Shane fucking Hollander is a nerd!” Wyatt can’t help crowing again. 

Shane shoves him and tells him to fuck off, blushing and biting back a smile as he does. He puts up token protests that he’s not a nerd, but Wyatt feels like he’s cracked the fucking enigma code.

Now that the intimidation factor has softened, being normal in conversation with him feels easier. He rambles to Shane about Chip Zdarsky’s Daredevil run for nigh on 20 minutes. Shane has absolutely no idea what he’s talking about, but he nods along gamely and asks sweet, clueless questions. He and Wyatt are definitely different flavours of nerd, but that’s kind of perfect. Shane seems genuinely fascinated by Lisa’s research rabbit hole about the contested health benefits of milk and how commercial interests supercede medical research when it comes to promoting it as a superfood. 

Wyatt and Lisa monopolise Shane all night. He totally understands how this happened to LaPointe and Soupy at the Mediterranean restaurant. The guy doesn’t exactly say much, but something about him draws you in. He’s a good listener—the kind that really, genuinely wants to know about you. Before Wyatt knows it, he and Shane have plans next week. He’s not inoculated against Shane’s starpower enough to prevent him from freaking out about that on the inside.

Lisa gushes about how sweet Shane is the entire way home. Wyatt still barely knows the guy, but he can’t deny that he kind of feels like Shane’s got his undying loyalty now. Like when you’re watching a random tennis match with nobody you recognise and for some reason you just decide yeah, the guy in the puke yellow, that’s the guy I’m rooting for.

Wyatt feels a burning need to explain his epiphany to the entire team, but he quickly realises that the nerd override might not work for everyone. 

Because Shane Hollander is intimidating. Even though some of his tense silences stem from awkwardness rather than danger, he is still genuinely guarded. Even though he’s obsessed with hockey to an almost-lame degree, it still means he knows more about it than almost anyone you’ll ever meet. Even though his body language is carefully contained, he’s still a fucking strong fucking fast fucking 6-foot-tall dude. 

It’s just that Wyatt can suddenly see that Shane doesn’t really understand that he’s intimidating. He knows he’s famous, he knows he’s good, he knows he’s controversial. But to Shane, he is just playing hockey because he loves it. He’s not trying to scare people or show them how much better he is or anything. He’s not even really trying to change the league or be a role model. He just wants to play good hockey. 

Wyatt feels a kind of tenderness about it. He has a feeling Shane Hollander is going to help the Centaurs do great things. And he has a feeling he and Shane Hollander are going to be really good friends.