Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types

Relationships:

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

Characters:

Theriault (Game Changers), Brandon Wiebe, Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Zane Boodram, Luca Haas, Gilbert Comeau, Hayden Pike, Ottawa Centaurs Team Ensemble (Game Changers), Montreal Voyageurs | Montreal Metros Team Ensemble (Game Changers)

Additional Tags:

Homophobia, Racism, Violence, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Physical Abuse, Hurt/Comfort, Shane Hollander Needs a Hug, Protective Ilya Rozanov, Montreal Voyageurs | Montreal Metros Being Assholes (Game Changers), Spoilers for Book 6: The Long Game (Game Changers), Post-Book 6: The Long Game (Game Changers), Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Canon-Typical Violence, Mental Health Issues, Trauma Recovery, Past Abuse, Supportive Ottawa Centaurs (Game Changers), Ottawa Centaurs Player Ilya Rozanov, Ottawa Centaurs Player Shane Hollander, Angst with a Happy Ending, Heavy Angst, No beta we die like Grigori Rozanov, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD

Language:

English

Series:

Part 1 of After the Whistle

Stats:

Published: 2026-02-23 Completed: 2026-02-25 Words: 18,982 Chapters: 3/3

Under Review

Summary

Shane doesn’t realize he’s braced for silent eyes until he feels the absence of it — the weight of teammates immediately finding him and going quiet, waiting for him to fuck up, to say the wrong thing, to exist wrong. He expects the chatter of a room to drop when he enters and its disconcerting to find it doesn't yet in Ottawa.

He stands at the entrance a beat too long.

--

It’s the start of Shane Hollander’s first season in Ottawa and he should be settled. The Centaurs are friendly, the room is easy, and Ilya is finally close enough to touch. But, as Shane is intimately aware of, old habits learned the hard way will linger.

Chapter 1: Part 1

Chapter Notes

(3/23/26) I've been doing some rewrites of this as its been getting more eyeballs. Please see the end notes for more detail if this is your second time around!

Ottawa Training Center | 2022

The first thing Shane notices about the Centaurs’ locker room is how noisy it is even with his early arrival time.

Not loud — It’s still 30 minutes until practice and there are only a few people here but the atmosphere is bright.  There’s music playing somewhere already, low and bass-heavy. Laughter breaks out from the far side of the room from a few of the earlier players punctuated by sticks knocking against the racks.  It’s a happy buzz.

And no one is watching him.

Shane doesn’t realize he’s braced for silent eyes until he feels the absence of it. He's had years of experience bearing the weight of teammates immediately finding him and going quiet, waiting for him to fuck up, to say the wrong thing, to exist wrong. He expects the chatter of a room to drop when he enters and its disconcerting to find it doesn't yet in Ottawa.

He stands at the entrance a beat too long.

“Hollander. Here!” Ilya calls from across the room, already half-dressed for practice. He’s sprawled in his stall like he owns the place, all relaxed limbs and loose curls, a grin spread across his face. It startles Shane to see how similar Ilya is here as compared to in their living room just a few hours ago. He's just as relaxed, just as loud.  You could swap out the stall for their new couch and its almost an identical Ilya.

Some of his new team look up, catch Shane's eye with short grins and quick waves before going back to their own prep. It’s nice Shane thinks. Low stakes and friendly. 

He tells himself he’s fine as he crosses the room. He’s signed the contract with Ottawa and it’s done. Montreal is behind him. New team. New city. 

Same league. Same ice.

Except this time, he reminds himself, he’s not alone. Ilya watches him, grinning like a puppy, and Shane can't help but automatically smile back. His husband is happy, delighted that the team he's building and the man he loves are finally all together. 

Shane keeps his shoulders loose. Keeps his face neutral. Doesn’t rush. Doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t—

He almost flinches when someone slams a locker two stalls down, but holds it together; dropping his bag in front of his new spot as cover.

There's no mean spirited laughter, or a shout to highlights his discomfort. It's fine. 

He takes a breath, lets the moment go, and settles into his routine.

Ilya notices. It is not obvious but a door slams and Shane has this flicker of stillness. And then, his shoulders don’t relax after; they reset. Like he had to consciously lower them.

Ilya is proud to say that he is obsessed with his husband. He has been obsessed with Shane Hollander for over a decade and has cataloged every look and move he can make. Ilya knows his faces and he knows the way his shoulders sit when he has braced himself for the world, putting on imaginary armor. When he left Shane this morning to go to the Captains meeting, there was no armor. Now, it is fully in place. What he can't figure out is why.

Ilya pushes up from his stall and crosses the room in three easy strides, bumping his hip lightly against Shane’s as he passes.

They've never been in a real locker room together. All stars does not count - it is barely more than an overgrown summer camp the way it is run and doesn't have enough time to settle into the rhythms and habits of a normal room. He is learning his Husband in all new ways this year, finally getting to share a home, city, and team with him. 

“Everyone,” he announces, loud enough to cut through the music without shouting, “this is Hollander. Try not to embarrass yourselves. He is big star.”

A few chuckles ripple through the room.

“Shut up,” Shane mutters automatically, but there’s the color in his cheeks that only Ilya can put there.

Ilya grins wider, pleased. He gestures loosely with his tape roll. “He thinks he is fast. Almost as good as me! We will test this.” He looks around pointedly. “Dillon, you race him first. I want to see if he can lap you.”

“Please,” Dillon snorts. “Guy’s been terrorizing us for a decade. I don't need a demonstration.”

“Do not be big baby.” Ilya says. “It is honor to be terrorized by Hollander. And now he is our terror!”

It is light. Easy. The room smiles along, unbothered. A couple of players nod at Shane again — casual, light introductions. One of the younger guys tosses him a fresh roll of tape like it is already routine.

Shane catches it cleanly, his body language neutral. It's all very normal.

Ilya watches Shane's hands though. The catch is perfect, automatic in the movement, but there’s tension in his fingers. Ilya can't help but catalog the way Shane's body language is all off for an easy practice: His jaw is set too tight, his eyes flick once — quick, tracking, there's a straightness to his back that Ilya hasn't seen before. There is anxiety there that makes no sense for the first day of training camp with a secure spot. 

Ilya steps closer, moving into Shane's space and lowering his voice.

“You are early,” he says lightly. “Very boring but I like this.”

“First practice,” Shane replies. His tone is even not taking the bait. “Just want to make a good impression.”

Ilya bumps their shoulders again. “You already have. They are intimidated.”

Shane huffs a soft laugh, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I haven’t done anything to be impressed by yet. Nothing worth noting.”

Ilya looks at him dead in the eye, “You are Shane Hollander. You are always worth noting.” it was intended as a gentle flirt but lands wrong somehow. Shane’s shoulders make the aborted move upward again. It is odd. 

“You are ok?”

“Just nerves,” Shane says. “New room. That’s all.”

Ilya studies him, taking a few seconds longer than normal to survey his husband. It makes sense to have nerves. This is all new: new team, new systems. Anyone would feel it. And the last year has been hard. But he has never seen this shade of anxiety on Shane before and Ilya can't help but feel concerned.

Still.

The room is humming. There's nothing out of place and everything Ilya can see feels fine. All Ilya can do is choose to believe the other man. 

Ilya reaches up and squeezes the back of Shane’s neck — firm, grounding. Shane tenses for a moment, his eyes flicking to the other players. None of them so much as glance at the two of them, let alone take  notice the gesture.

“They are fine. You will be fine,” Ilya says quietly. “And if you are not, I will score five goals and distract everyone.”

That finally pulls a real smile from Shane.

“Only five?”

Ilya’s grin turns wicked. “Do not push your luck, kotenok.”

Shane shakes his head, turning back to his stall, shoulders settling just a fraction lower.

Ilya watches him for another moment before returning to his own gear. The unease lingers — faint, like a draft in an otherwise warm room.

He tells himself it’s nothing. His Shane is a creature of habit and this is the start of a new routine. Of course he is anxious, of course there are nerves. 

First practice with a new team.

There's nothing to worry about. 

Shane expects chirping. He’s a former rival and comes with both a reputation and a reputation. He’s not naive enough to believe that even being tied to their Captain he’ll be spared the frustrations of this new team, the C had certainly had never made a significant difference for him in Montreal. As he steps on to the ice there’s cold comfort in knowing that whatever they throw at him here, he’s heard worse.

But he slides into place on the blue line and…nothing. Some intros, a few handshakes. Some of the guys eye him curiously as they line up but not a single person makes a crack. Ilya had said this team was different but it is jarring to see it in reality.

Throughout the practice Shane feels off. There’s competitiveness from the other guys, sure. A few comments about being shorter than the legend of Shane Hollander implies. But it’s so gentle it hardly counts. The kind of light ribbing that is mostly just for the sake of having something to say and has nothing but professionalism underneath it. 

When a defenseman bumps him hard in a drill, Shane absorbs it, keeps skating, keeps his eyes forward. 

Back at the line the guy - Dykstra - murmurs quietly, “Nice edgework man. Hard to get in your way” Not watch your back. Not should’ve stayed in Montreal. Just… hockey.

It throws him off more than cruelty ever did.

During a water break at the boards, Coach Wiebe skates over. Shane stiffens automatically.

“Hollander, good tempo. Seems like you're getting into a good groove.”

There’s a half-second delay before he nods.

“Yes, sir.”

Wiebe blinks. “Call me Coach. Or just Wiebe.”

“Right. Coach. Sorry.”

Ilya, circling nearby, hears it.

He doesn’t say anything but his jaw tightens slightly. There’s something he doesn’t like about the look in Shane’s eye and it's making him antsy. 

Montreal Rink | 2010

“Again.”

The word echoes before Shane fully stops moving.

They’ve already been out here too long — a punishing string of bag skates after a scrimmage loss that had nothing to do with his line. The rest of the team leans against the boards now, helmets tipped back, watching.

Correction is public in Montreal.

Shane turns at the line and pushes off. His thighs burn and his breathing is scraping his lungs with every inhale. He keeps his stride clean anyway — knees high, edges sharp, no wasted movement. Theriault stands at center ice, surveying but not tense. His second, Assistant Coach Michael Finn, skates close, his whistle already coming up to his mouth, 

“Again.” 

As Shane skates past center, Theriault calls out, his voice carrying, “You want to be the face of something, Hollander, you better skate like it.” It’s dispassionate but there's a thread of malice that never quite disappears when directed at his way. Shane isn't his only target but he does seem to be the favorite. 

A ripple of laughter from the bench.

Not cruel but not quite. It's a familiar sound by now. Someone mutters something about media darlings and draft luck. Shane doesn’t look. He’s learned that much already — don’t look for the source. It only invites more.

Hayden is at the boards, stick resting across his gloves. Two draft classes ahead. Already fluent in this language of punishment-as-motivation. When Shane passes, Hayden jerks his chin once — not sympathy or warning. Just support: keep going.

Shane does.

Finn glides backward near the red line, tracking Shane’s form like a drill seargent. When Shane’s stride shortens slightly on the turn, the whistle shrills again.

“Again Hollander. You heard the standard”

He survives here the only way anyone does — by being better than the correction. By finishing first even when he’s the only one still skating. By never giving them the stumble they’re waiting for. When Coach Finn finally blows the last whistle, Shane glides in controlled, upright, breathing hard but steady.

Theriault only nods.

“Good,” he says. “Now we can move on.”

The team pushes off the boards as one.

Lesson delivered.

Shane rejoins the line without comment. Hayden gives him an encouraging shoulder bump, most of the rest of them just watch with disinterested annoyance. This day has been long enough. A few shoot him a sneer that he ignores.

No distractions.

As they move into the next drill Shane squares himself up. If they’re going to watch, he’ll give them something worth watching.

Carmichael’s Steak House, Ottawa | 2022

The restaurant is rustic in that curated, expensive, way. There are low amber lights on the Centaurs banner, exposed brick, and polished wood tables cleared to make room for standing clusters of donors and media. Waitstaff weave carefully between athletes and auction tables.

It should be easy. Shane has done this hundreds of times. It’s not a game. It’s not even practice. All he's responsible for tonight is smiling and signing and letting people take pictures of him for a good cause.

He knows exactly how to stand. Shoulders back. Chin level. Smile controlled — not too wide, not stiff. He shakes hands firmly but not aggressively. He makes eye contact. He remembers names. He remembers to breathe too sometimes.

Flawless. But not easy. 

Ilya meanwhile moves through the room like he owns the place. He laughs without a care, loose posing during photos, teasing one of the veteran defensemen about his tie, switching to Russian when one of the event sponsors recognizes his accent. Comfortable. Effortless. Shane watches him between handshakes. He wants that ease. The feeling that the air isn’t thin.

Instead, he positions himself half a step behind Ilya in most conversations. Not enough for anyone to clock it but enough to let Ilya set the tone. It's strategic and will hopefully give him space to learn where the undercurrents are. Let Ilya talk first and Shane can mirror. He laughs when Ilya laughs. Nods when Ilya nods. Adds something bright and articulate when it’s his turn.

It’s as close to perfect a performance as he can manage.

A donor squeezes his arm and says, “We’re so thrilled to have you here in Ottawa. Must be a big adjustment.”

Shane smiles, just the right amount of teeth, and doesn't flinch back. “It’s an honor to be here. The organization’s been incredibly welcoming.”

True. Probably.

Across the room, his attention flicks to where Assistant Coach Delaney stands near the silent auction table. He has a drink in hand, scanning the room the way coaches scan drills — assessing posture, volume, who stands with whom.

Shane's pulse ticks up and he adjusts his stance without meaning to, straightening up just in case. Like auto pilot, the mantra that got him through his career kicks in: Don’t be too loud. Don’t be too relaxed. Don’t give them a reason.

When Delaney’s gaze lands on him for half a second longer than Shane feels is necessary, it feels like a physical touch.

Ilya is mid-story about a road trip disaster when the coach drifts over, clapping Ilya first on the back.

“Rozanov. Behaving yourself?”

“Always,” Ilya says easily. “You know I am model citizen now.”

Delaney snorts, then turns to Shane.

“I think we know who to thank for that. Hollander, I wanted to say hello outside of the rink. You settling in alright?”

The hand comes down on Shane’s shoulder — firm, casual.

Shane goes rigid.

Not visibly, not enough for anyone to call it out. But inside, something locks.

“Yes, sir,” he says immediately.

There’s the faintest pause. Delaney’s brow ticks up.

“Coach. I think Wiebe told you, we’re not that formal here in Ottawa" he says lightly.

“Coach,” Shane corrects. “Sorry. Yeah. It’s been great.” Too fast. Shane would wince but he’s practiced enough to hold it together. 

Delaney studies him for a second. Then nods. “Good. We’re glad to have you.”

He moves on quickly, making his rounds to other players. Shane exhales only once he's begun talking to the next group. Throughout it all he can feel Ilya watching him. Not openly but eyeing him out of his peripheral vision.

“Relax,” Ilya murmurs under his breath as another donor approaches. “You look like you are at dentist.”

Shane smiles without turning. “Just getting a feel for everything, making sure I’m saying the right things and all.”

“You always say the right things.”

Later, near the bar, the rookies have clustered together. There a sweet if awkward group Shane thinks. They still have that look of kids playing dress up with ties that have been slightly loosened and beers in hand that they clearly are not quite sure if they're allowed to enjoy.

One of them — a twenty-year-old winger whose name Shane has yet to internalize — is mid-recount of the afternoon.

“…and then I completely lost the puck on that drill. Like, full-on whiffed it. Coach just stared at me. Don’t think he ever had seen something quite so uncoordinated on his ice.”

The group laughs, the energy self-deprecating and light.

The rookie shrugs. “Guess I’ll be bag skating till Christmas.”

More laughter but Shane’s stomach drops.

Bag skating till Christmas. He hears the words the way they were said in Montreal. Not a joke there just endless laps until your vision goes white and your legs tremble. Until the message is clear: Don’t embarrass us.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Shane says quickly. Too quickly. “The pass was off. I should’ve adjusted. I can talk to Coach.”

The rookie blinks. “Uh. No. It was a joke.”

Shane forces a laugh, louder than necessary. “Right. Yeah. Of course.”

Silence stretches half a second too long.

He doesn’t know where the Coaching team is but he knows they are somewhere in this room. He hopes Delaney, or worse Coach Wiebe, hasn't been listening in. Shane shifts slightly on instinct, angling himself so he’s between the rookies and the open floor.

“Look,” he adds, tone steady now, controlled. “First camp’s always chaos. You’re doing fine.”

The rookie’s smiles, a little unsure but basking in the super star’s praise. “Thanks.”

“Just,” he takes in the kids olive skin, slight accent, too open eyes, too willing to show weakness, “Don’t give them a reason to single you out,” Shane says before he can stop himself. There’s a sense-memory of his own Rookie training camp lingering somewhere. 

Another beat.

The rookie frowns. “Single me out how?” He’s genuinely confused. Shane recalibrates immediately, pushing forward the smooth smile he perfected almost a decade ago.

“Just — stay sharp. That’s all.”

From a few feet away Ilya watches the exchange, drink forgotten in his hand.

Shane is too alert. Eyes tracking the room. Managing but not fully engaging.

When the event winds down, Shane thanks the organizer again. And again. And again.

Flawless.

Ilya & Shane's Home, Ottawa | 2022

Ilya loves their house. He loves even more that Shane is finally, permanently, here. Tonight is their first time coming back to this home together, publicly, from an event and Ilya wished it felt better. 

At home, Shane is usually kinetic. He wanders the space, setting things right and poking at Ilya. He chirps back when Ilya teases. He grins when he gets under Ilya’s skin. Even when anxious, Shane is a ball of energy, usually twitchy until Ilya can distract him enough to settle. 

Today Shane was curated at the event and muted at practice. Even now that armor is still in place, his movements controlled in a way that is out of place. He is being careful in his own home and it makes Ilya’s skin itch.  

“You apologized a lot today,” Ilya says finally.

Shane pauses, mid-unbutton of his cuff. “What do you mean?”

“You took blame for drill you did not mess up. You apologized at practice to everyone.”

“It’s nothing.”

“It was something.” Ilya comes up behind Shane, wraps his hands around Shane’s waist.

Shane shrugs, not quite leaning into Ilya but not stepping away either. He carefully sets his cufflinks into a neat line on the dresser. “It’s just easier, you know.”

The word lands wrong.

Ilya thinks about Delaney’s hand on Shane’s shoulder. The way Shane had said sir. The way his spine went rigid. He thinks about the rookie’s joke and Shane jumping in immediately, like he was intercepting a hit.

“Easier than what?” he asks it quietly, breathing into Shane’s neck.

Ilya catches Shane’s expression in the window — confusion first. Then something shuttered.

“Easier than it being a thing, causing waves” he says.

“That was not a thing.”

“It could become one.”

The answer is automatic - it is not prepared exactly but sounds practiced, as if it’s a line being fed from somewhere visible only to Shane.

Ilya studies him. When they are alone — in bed, on the ice, in the kitchen arguing about pasta — Shane is direct. Quick. Sometimes sharp.

Tonight he was… compliant.

“Did something happen? You watched Coach all night. And,” Ilya paused but decided to press, ”you seemed tense with Delaney.”

“I wasn’t.”

“moya lyubov, I know you. you were.”

There's a pause in the room. Ilya lets it sit. 

Finally Shane exhales slowly. “It’s just different here. I’m new.”

“You have been new before.”

“It’s different. I don’t know how anything works here yet.” There’s a thread of frustration in his voice now.  And also something unspoken that Ilya can’t grasp. 

Other moments of the day filter through Ilya’s mind — the way Shane positioned himself slightly behind him when talking to the GM. The way he scanned the room when a drunk donor laughed too loudly. The way he was silent on ice except for yes, sirs that never seemed to correct to “coach”.

He files it away. He doesn't have an ideas yet. No theory to chew on, just data starting to pile up.

Shane unbuttons his shirt the rest of the way and pulls away from Ilya to head toward the bathroom.

Ilya follows more slowly.

“Hey,” he says softly.

Ilya searches Shane's face when he turns. He's not sure what he's looking for exactly. Maybe cracks or some tell, something he can name. 

Whatever it is he can't find it. There's just composure. Ilya steps forward, brushes his fingers lightly along Shane’s jaw.

“This is not Montreal. We are not hiding.” Even as he says it, Ilya knows that it is not quite right, just off from whatever is plaguing Shane. 

His husband's smile is small and careful and gives nothing away.

“I know. It’s just early days.”

The words settle heavy in the quiet of their home. Ilya doesn’t argue but he does not believe him either.

And for the first time since the trade, a thin line of unease threads through his chest — quiet, but persistent. He files that away too.

Montreal Training Center | 2021

Hayden didn’t mean for it to happen the way it did. It had been an accident. Shane knew that, even Ilya knew that although he still looked like he wanted to punch Hayden in the face every time it came up.

A bad camera angle and that was it; the whole world knew that Shane was a fag for his rival. 

The first day was a blur. Nothing but flashes: a news alert, his mom on the phone - her voice tight, his phone buzzing non-stop until Ilya took it forcibly out of his hand. The first 24 hours were lost in a haze of swirling movement Shane could never have hoped to take in.

The next day though: Shane remembers that perfectly. 

Practice that morning ran long and hard, with none of the usual rhythm of camaraderie. Drills were clinical, almost silent and stripped of banter. Theriault didn't shout. He didn't need to. The absence of all the normal noise did the work for him. The entire team had avoided Shane’s eyes. Every pass felt feels fractionally harder than it had two days earlier.

When it’s over and the room begins the familiar scrape and hiss of gear coming off, there's no other noise. No one says a single word to the point that it's almost a relief when Coach calls out, "Hollander" without looking at him. 

He walks into the conference room and isn’t surprised to see it’s mostly full. Half of the management and the entire coaching staff is sitting silently in this sad room that smells of burnt coffee. 

No Farah or Yuna though, Shane notes. 

No one offers him a seat. Shane stays standing. 

The GM, Marcel Gibbons, folds his hands with careful precision, like he’s beginning a sponsorship pitch rather than an interrogation.

“We want to be clear,” he says, voice level and corporate, “that the Voyagers organization does not take issue with your personal life.” The phrasing itself is telling. The part of Shane raised by Yuna Hollander can see the story they're going to try and sell unspooling in front of him. 

“But,” Gibbons adds, leaning forward in his chair, eyes sharp, “there are questions when something like this becomes public.” Shane internally winces. The press on this must be a mess and Marcel looks both tired and like he’d like to take his payment out of Shane’s hide. 

For his part, Shane keeps his shoulders squared and his hands behind his back. He focuses on breathing evenly; if he can remain calm, the meeting will remain calm. That’s how these things work.

They ask how long the relationship has been happening. Whether it overlapped with team travel. Whether it compromised preparation. Whether he disclosed it to anyone inside the organization.

For an hour they go round and round, the questions pointed but everyone's tone perfectly professionally polite. It feels like glass on his skin. 

“Did you ever toss him a game?” Theriault asks finally, his tone deceptively mild.

“No, sir.”

“You understand that perception matters,” Gibbons says. “You’ve already drawn media attention over the years. Now there’s another layer.”

Another layer. As though he is an accumulation of inconveniences barely balanced by the talent he brings to the roster.

“And,” Theriault steps in. “you’ve always been… visible. This team doesn't need to have this to be another distraction.”

The word hangs there, heavy with implication. Shane nods, because agreement is safer than arguing.

“I can’t help that,” he says evenly. “But it's understood, sir. I show up, I do my job better than anyone.” It’s not a boast, it's just true.

Theriault studies him for a long moment.

“Maybe. Maybe not. Right now I'm looking to see if you're worth the baggage.”

It isn’t framed as a threat and Iit doesn’t need to be.

Gibbons picks back up his pen, “Let’s start again, when did your relationship with Rozonav begin?”

By the time he leaves that miserable room, the sky outside has gone gray. When he catches his reflection in the hallway glass he's happy to see that he looks steady.

On ice, it isn’t as clean, it doesn’t erupt all at once. Instead the team shifts slowly but inexorably into a new normal. The gayness of it all is never spoken about directly again but the message has been made clear to everyone. 

At first, the punishment is procedural.

He is pulled from shifts earlier and paired with rookies more frequently in drills, told to “set an example” while being given extra conditioning at the end of practice. When he asks once if the additional sprints are standard for everyone, Theriault’s mouth curls faintly.

“If you want to represent this team, you’d better be above reproach.”

Off the ice the locker room changes. Where earlier there had been begrudging respect, now there are conversations that don’t bother lowering their volume. The group chat is silent and when he is spoken to it is with a look of distaste. The message becomes layered: you’ve always been different, and now that difference is a liability. 

Drapeau to his credit Shane suppose, never pretends it's anything else. He makes a show of shifting his stall further down the row one morning, dragging the metal bench with a screech that cuts through the room.

“Not sure I want that in my space,” he says lightly, not looking at Shane.

Comeau laughs under his breath.

The rookies watch.

One of them — Martinez, nineteen and still carrying the stiffness of junior hockey — hesitates, then deliberately drops next to the seat Shane usually occupies during team film. It’s a small act. Quiet. But visible. The next day Finn runs Martinez through bag-skated until he throws up on the edge of the ice and Comeau clips him as he finally catches his breath.

“Conditioning builds character,” the assistant coach says flatly, staring straight past Shane as he says it.

Later, in the locker room, Martinez avoids Shane’s eyes.

“I’m fine,” he mutters quickly, as if preemptively withdrawing whatever solidarity he’d offered.

Maybe three weeks in, Hayden tells Drapeau to knock it off when a joke goes too far. The room goes still and Theriault hears about it by the next morning.

The forward’s ice time drops by six minutes that week and he gets scheduled for a press event during the twin’s birthday.

No explanation is given but Shane notices.

He also notices what happens when he stays quiet. When he accepts the extra reps without complaint and nods at criticism that doesn’t fit the play.

Hayden goes home on time, Martinez gets off the bench for the first time in a month, and the pressure in the locker room lessens a fraction.

So he begins to stay later after practice even after the coaching team calls it, he runs shooting drills until his shoulders burn and then runs ten more. In scrimmage, he blocks more shots absorbing pucks off his hip and ribs without wincing. Bruises bloom under his gear but Shane’s stopped bothering to mention them to the team doctor.

The injuries start stacking up. It's small at first. A strained wrist he tapes tighter. A deep thigh bruise he pretends doesn’t affect his stride. In December he plays through a lingering shoulder tweak that would have earned anyone else maintenance days.

When he finally does take a hit that sends him hard into the boards, Comeau skates past as he’s getting up.

“Distracted, cocksucker?” he says conversationally. 

The slur is everywhere now but its "Distracted" that makes Shane tense up.

It pops up in post-game meetings and not so subtle digs. It’s in the way Coach Finn taps the whiteboard and says, “We need men who are focused.”

JJ tries a different angle to be supportive. During a players’ meeting, he suggests they “tighten up the room” and cut the "cheap shots" between players. The suggestion is mild, diplomatic.

Theriault steps in before it can gather momentum.

“Accountability isn’t a cheap shot,” he says. “If someone’s bringing noise into this organization, we’re going to address it.”

The message is clear enough that no one speaks again.

Hayden corners Shane once by the equipment racks, voice low.

“Have you talked to Farah? This is getting out of hand.”

Shane gives him a tired half-smile.

“It’s just an adjustment.”

“Adjustment doesn’t look like this.”

Shane shrugs, even though the motion pulls at his shoulder.

“They’ve always been old school.”

Hayden looks like he wants to say more. He doesn’t.

Over time, participation becomes easier for the others, even the few who seemed uncomfortable with how easily faggot gets thrown around the locker room or the speculation of how Shane likes to take it. Laughter comes quicker and the comments get bolder. By February the line between coaching and targeting dissolves.

Shane works harder. He plays through pain and when they win, he lets himself enjoy the relief that brings as the franchise remembers his value for a day or two.

When Yuna calls, she tells him that the media cycle will die down soon and Shane tells her that management is starting to lighten up. It is easier, he thinks, for both of them to lie. 

On trips to see Ilya he tells him he’s pushing so hard so that his skating is the story; that the Coaching Staff are supporting him, pushing him because expectations are high.

“They’ve always been tough,” he says. “It’s fine.”

He doesn’t realize how abnormal it sounds, even as he says it.

From the inside this reality doesn’t feel like persecution, it feels like correction and that has always been the norm in Montreal.

If he can just be perfect — flawless in drills, silent in meetings, unbreakable on the ice — then eventually there will be nothing left to correct.

Chapter End Notes

(3/23/26) Hi and thank you for reading!!! I'm so appreciative of all the attention this story has gotten. It's been amazing to see peoples responses and how much it resonates. In full disclosure, I wrote the original in about 36 hours. It was fast and dirty had had quite a few errors throughout it. Over the last few weeks I've been going back in and doing some clean up. Mostly this is in fixing grammar and spelling mistakes, fixing continuity errors, and updating the hockey to make more sense. If this is your second time around reading this, you may notice some changes but major plot points and structure have all been left as is.

I also want to take an opportunity to share a little bit about me as a writer and my process. This is something I do for fun in between my regular life and full time job and while dyslexic. I am often working fast and wanting to get it out to see how it lands so there are almost always things I want to go back and revise later. I love feedback, especially if there are errors or things that really take you out of the story or ways you would see to make it stronger. That said, my preference is to get that kind of critical feedback in a spirit of generosity rather then as stand alone nit-picking comments. It can be demoralizing to get comments that tell my my grammar is bad or that things sound cheesy.

All that said, please keep commenting and keep reading! I think I'm going to be in this sandbox for a while and its been so much fun to connect with folks over this world. Thank you for all the support and I hope the edits I've made make the story more enjoyable!!!

 

(TLDR: I did a bunch of editing to fix grammar and continuity issues. I love writing but do it fast so there may be yet more errors. If you see things that take away from your enjoyment, feel free to share them with me, but please do it generously and not in a mean way. So appreciative of all of you!!!)

Chapter 2: Part 2

Chapter Summary

The first time Shane steps back into Montreal, he tells himself it’s just another rink. Just another game. The ice is the same. The boards are the same. The lights are the same blinding white.

It isn’t the same.

Ottawa Training Center | 2022

Centaurs vs. Voyagers. The game is officially two weeks away now and it's the first time they'll play since Shane signed with Ottawa.

The schedule had been printed months ago, but the proximity of the game had charged the air. Outside the rink, the media has been spinning up a narrative frenzy for weeks and it just gets worse the closer the game gets. Every presser now is filled with questions about reunion, rivalry, and what ifs. 

Ilya can not stop obsessing about it. Shane, meanwhile, is treating it like nothing.

Ilya watches as his husband moves easily through drills, posture loose, stride efficient. If anything, he is sharper than usual — composed in a way that bordered on immaculate. His edges carve clean crescents into the ice and his passes arrive exactly. A month into the season, however, Ilya has learned to measure Shane in the rink by the absence of friction rather than its presence. As he moves through his on-ice stretching routine, Ilya’s mind flicked back to the night before.

It had been jarring wandering into the kitchen and finding Shane standing at the counter in bare feet, most of the lights off. He had been methodically re-organizing a spice drawer that had been perfectly labeled and alphabetized that afternoon. The kettle had screamed itself empty on the stove.

“Shane,” Ilya had said gently.

Shane startled, blinking as if surfacing from underwater. “Sorry. I was thinking.”

“You were glaring at smelly orange spice.”

A small, apologetic smile. “Turmeric. And same thing. I'm done anyways.” He didn't turn away from the spice drawer though. 

Later, in bed, Ilya had slid in closer, pressing his mouth to Shane’s shoulder, with just enough teeth to be a promise. Shane had leaned into it automatically, muscle memory for Ilya’s touch stronger than whatever else was happening beneath the surface. Even so, Ilya noted that his husband's body had never fully softened. That night in his sleep, Shane’s hands were tight and tense.

It made Ilya crazy. The worst part was he did not fully understand what was causing the love of his life this level of distress.

Wiebe called the team in to start morning skate and Ilya consciously forced it out of his mind. 

Or he did until Haas fumbled. He was running a breakout rep and caught his edge wrong, just enough to loose the puck with an under the breath curse. It was nothing. Rookie nerves.

But Shane was beside him instantly.

“You’re telegraphing the pass,” Shane said, not unkindly. “They’ll isolate you for it.”

Haas blinked. “They?” Shane didn’t respond but showed him how to change his grip. 

There was nothing wrong with the moment in theory. It was good that Shane was integrating into the team, same with teaching the kids. And yet watching the vingette set Ilya’s teeth on edge. For days now wherever the rookies were, Shane was close behind like the worlds most built mother hen. 

Bood circled slowly up to Ilya, bumping his shoulder as he slid in next to him. “He’s been like this all week,” his eyes flicking to where Shane was hovering around Haas. 

“I know.”

“He’s scaring the Rookies.” Ilya wanted to protest but it wasn't even an exaggeration. The rooks all hung off Shane's every word but they also were tripping over themselves trying. Even now he could see Young and LePointe shifting awkwardly on the ice, trying to emulate Shane, as he nit picked their form.

“What the fuck do you want me to do about it, Bood. I fucking know.” Ilya snapped. Bood paused, took in the twitch in Ilya’s jaw and the way his eyes wouldn’t look away from his husband. 

“Is it Montreal?"

Ilya sighed. "Probably? I do not know. He won't say. Just pushes harder here." 

Bood nodded, thinking it over. He glanced at Shane again, watching him tap the ice with an anxiety at odds with how composed his face was. 

"He thinks it's going to be bad?” he said finally. 

“I think," Ilya said, hesitating slightly. "He thinks it is going to be normal.”

Shane liked Haas. The kid is funny, has an amazing hockey IQ, can see every play five moves before it happens, and is so eager to please it scares the hell out of Shane.

At nineteen, Shane watches him and sees a version of himself that hadn’t yet learned what a team of promised brothers could become. This man, on the brink of being a star, has his whole career stretched out ahead of him and is unguarded in the way rookies are when they believed mistakes were fixable rather than indictments. Part of Shane knows — rationally, distantly — that the risk is lower here. The coaching staff has a reputation for being soft touches: Wiebe corrects without spectacle, Delaney rewinds film and doesn't add in any biting asides. Since Shane has been here, no one had been bag-skated just to prove a point and no one has been called to stay alone on the ice after practice while the rest of the team showered. 

So far. 

Shane is far to familiar with the cadence of a season. After losses, after management put on pressure and the sponsors start calling, systems tighten and accountability gets sharp. Coaches who said the right words in October shifted tone in February. It would not take much either: A bad stretch, a defensive lapse in overtime, and a promising rookie could be labeled as inconsistent. Shane can feel the shape of it already, as though the future is nothing more then muscle memory.

If Haas gets named undisciplined or soft or distracted, it would begin the way it always does — extra reps called development and private meetings framed as investment. Shane can already here the way the suggestion would begin to appear, subtle but persistent, that effort was a choice. And then the room would adjust because rooms always adjusted.

Shane wouldn’t let that happen.

When Haas misses a rotation during a defensive zone drill Delaney blows the whistle to call them in, Shane is already moving toward him. Across the rink, Wiebe makes a small note on his clipboard, saying something to Delaney that makes them both smile faintly — not conspiratorial or irritated. Just observational.

But Shane’s eyes track them anyway.

He can feel Ilya watching him watch them. The awareness sits between his shoulder blades like warmth but also scrutiny. It's been getting harder to tell the difference lately. Shane doesn't look over, he doesn't want Ilya to see more than he's prepared to show.

At the end of practice, Shane skates a slow loop past Haas.

“Want help with that interception?” he asks lightly.

Haas grins, clearly excited for the attention. “Yeah, sure!”

The two of them run retrieval drills in the thinning quiet of the rink. It's peaceful Shane thinks. Nice to be able to just relax into the work without tracking who is watching. 

“You don’t want Delaney seeing that gap,” Shane says at one point, adjusting Haas’s angle by a few degrees. “It looks lazy on video.”

Haas frowned. “Coach didn’t say anything.”

Shane had just offered a small shrug. “He won’t the first time.”

He kept his tone casual, didn't say: I’ve seen what happens the second time.

When they finish up, Ilya is waiting by the bench, already changed and hair damp from the showers. He doesn't critique, just hands Shane his water bottle and shoos Haas off to the locker room. It's sweet and Shane can't help but take the moment to sit next to Ilya and lean into him. 

“So, finished saving the children tonight?” Ilya asks, his voice gently teasing.

Shane smiles. “Just helping.” Haas is improving and Shane can't help but feel some relief. 

Ilya’s gaze searches his face, steady and unflinching. Shane holds it for as long as he can before looking away. He wants to protect Haas, all the rookies really. But in the back of his mind he knows it's more then that: he doesn't want Ilya to ever see his room change.

Shane’s Apartment, Montreal | 2021

Ilya leaned back against the couch in Shane’s apartment. He's ready for tonight: the TV is queued up with a dumb action movie, the fridge is stocked, and Shane's favorite blankets have been moved from the bedroom to the coffee table for ease. This weekend was a herculean effort to make happen but Ilya is confident it will be worth it. It feels precious to have stolen two days together in the middle of a season that seemed determined to keep them apart.

The door clicks open, and Shane steps inside with a tired but bright smile. Ilya's amused to notice that his hair is still damp from a shower at the rink, as if he rushed through to get home faster. On first glance, he looks happy and normal. 

Then Ilya's brain catches up and he sees the bruise. It's a shadow around Shane’s right eye, swelling at the edges, with a hit of purple starting to show through the skin.

“Hey you,” Shane says easily, no mention of his face. He set a bag of takeout down on the counter and begins to putter in the kitchen. “I figured you’d be hungry from the drive so swung by that greek place.” It's so domestic but Ilya can't focus on anything other then Shane being hurt.

“Shane. What the fuck.” He's sitting up now, his full attention on Shane's face, hands gesturing haphazardly. 

Shane shrugs, apparently realizing that he's not going to be able to blow past this, and lets out an awkward laugh.

“You know, ‘nother day at the office." he says lightly. "It looks worse than it is.” 

There's a forced casualness in his voice that sets Ilya's teeth on edge. Shane's holding his body relaxed but Ilya can see the ways his shoulders keep trying to creep up. He pushes himself over the back of the couch and crosses to Shane in three large steps.  When he reaches him, he brings up his hand and then pauses. 

Because Shane flinched. It was small, but it wasn't from touching him, Ilya hadn't made contact yet. That flinch was anticipatory. 

“You did not get hit at last game." Ilya is careful to keep his voice steady.  "When did this happen?” 

“Power play practice.” Shane says casually, turning back to the takeout. “Went in too hard along the boards. You know how it is.” Shane is being nonchalant and Ilya desperately wants to believe him, except he still hasn’t made eye contact yet. 

“Hard hit from a team mate.” It’s not a question. Ilya has heard the rumors, read between the lines of what Shane's told him about Montreal reacting to him coming out. Hockey may be a contact sport but Ilya this kind of bruise doesn't usually come from practice. 

“Ilya…” Shane starts, then peeters out. He looks down, fingers toying with the zipper of his hoodie. “I’m fine. Just… everyone’s still adjusting.” 

“What did Theriault say?” Ilya asks. “Hit hard enough to do this?” Ilya had little love for the famously stone-faced man, but no matter how old-school Ilya couldn’t imagine a  coach wanting their star at anything less than peak performance.

Shane grimaces slightly before seemingly catching himself, “I mean you know Coach, he doesn’t like anything that interferes with team unity.” It's a non answer and they both know it. There is something off here. Shane's “I’m fine’s” have cracks in them, little tremors of something he isn't admitting and Ilya hates it. He opens his mouth to push but Shane cuts him off. 

"It's barely even a bruise. Come on, lets eat and cuddle." He says it forcefully and Ilya relents. They've got Sixty Five hours together and he doesn't want to spend it interrogating Shane. 

They eat dinner in front of the movie, surrounded by blankets, and practically on top of one another. It's almost perfect, certainly the most relaxed Ilya has felt since the cottage. Except Ilya can't help but notice that Shane eat only half his food, taking careful bites and picking around bits he usually loves.

“I missed you,” Ilya says finally, pulling him even closer. It's insufficient but all he can offer. 

Shane smiles faintly and lets himself be pulled. “I missed you too. Really.”

His voice is soft and all Ilya wants is to keep him safely in this moment. On Sunday he's going to have to leave Shane here again and he doesn't think he can stand it. Looking down at him, he can see the tension still easing it's way out of Shane's jaw and is picking up on older bruising on his forearms. Ilya isn't naive, he's seen the clipped answers in press conferences and read enough anonymous quotes about “distractions” and “locker room chemistry” to understand that something is below the surface in Montreal.

He knew practices have gotten harder. Shane has told him a few times now that he's been staying late more often, pushing himself so his talent could shove away the commentary.

“Are you really okay?” he asks. He doesn't want to press but he also needs to know. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Shane said, waving the question off, smiling again. “Just… Montreal’s Montreal. Nothing unusual.”

Ilya nods. There's nothing else to say really. Instead, he reaches down and closes his hand over Shane's. It's a small gesture, grounding, although Ilya isn't positive which of them it's meant to reassure. 

Much later that night they ended up sprawled across the bed, sheets in shambles and watching the lights of Montreal out the windows. 

“I wish,” Shane says quietly, “we could do this more.”

“I know,” Ilya murmured, pressing a kiss into his hair. “I know.”

"Ilya. I'm really glad you came this weekend." He says it with such seriousness, the sentence charged with something unnamed. It makes Ilya tense. He can't parse the meaning, only knowing that his chest is sining with a steady feeling of unease. 

Something is very wrong. He's seeing fragments in bruises, careful language, and the way Shane minimized and redirected, but he can't see the full picture. He's scared for Shane and all he can do is cling to the belief that he'll be able to endure it. Shane is not just some guy being pushed around, he is Shane fucking Hollander. No matter how big of a bag of dicks Montreal might be, Shane is better than them and they know it. He tells himself that the feeling of winning beats out bigotry and, soon, they'll bend to the innevitable. 

Months later, Ilya would kick himself for not seeing the way the locker room was re-shaping Shane instead.

The Bell Center, Montreal | 2022

Shane is surprised that the Bell Center feels claustrophobic. He doesn't remember the feeling of the air pressing this close. As he steps onto the surface, his body reacts before his mind does. Every sightline maps itself automatically as his shoulders draw tight and his breathing goes shallow. The muscle memory of survival slotted into place as if no time has passed.

He had told himself that he was ready for this, that this was no different than any other game. It turns out he's just as good as lying to himself as he is to everyone else. It's the smell that's gotten to him he realizes.  It's specific to Montreal, a particular blend of mechanical cold air and old rubber mixed with probably the worst concessions vendor in the league. It's in his throat and makes him feel like he never really left.

Across the red line, Montreal filters onto the ice in loose formations. There laughter is easy and their movements unhurried. Shane can't help but think that they move like sharks. They look at him but not with any real intent yet. He know's its deliberate, making sure he sees them and also their dismissal. 

Shane forces himself to look away, and start his own warm up. Edge work first to get a feel for the ice: he lets his mind sink into tight figure eights and carving clean arcs. Focus is his friend now, the textbook movement and self appointed tasks of weight transfering and checking his breathing keep the past from bleeding forward. 

Out of the corner of his eye he can see a pair of Montreal forwards drift up to the Ottawa side. They aren't subtle, getting close enough for Shane to feel the spray of their skates.

“Careful Princess,” one player - Berkes - says lightly. “Wouldn’t want you getting overwhelmed.”

The tone is teasing, almost playful. Another voice followed as they circled back toward their own blue line. “You good, sweetheart? Wouldn’t want to fuck up in front of your faggot husband.”

Shane keeps his head down. He had learned the hierarchy of response in this rink and those lessons don't fail him now.

Before anything else, keep silent. They want visible discomfort, agitation. Tonight Montreal wants him scanning for them instead of tracking the puck and he won't give in.

He can feel Ilya on the opposite side of the ice, running passing reps with Boon. Even without looking, Shane knows Ilya was watching the way Montreal’s routes kept intersected his. Ilya’s presence feels like gravity — steady, constant, protective. That steadiness is a gift usually but tonight it's dangerous. 

If Ilya skates over. If he says something, if he makes this visible, Montreal will hammer home their point immediately. There he is. Can’t handle it alone. Needs his husband to fight his battles. 

Ilya stepping in would prove exactly what Montreal is trying to sell. That Shane couldn’t stand on his own.

Shane will not help them write their narrative. It's been the subtext of every statement and interview. It's not that Shane Hollander, Captain of their team, was untalented, just that he was unreliable. In so many words they want it known that his sexuality made him fragile and his race was a distraction. It isn't subtle when they insinuate that he isn't a "real" hockey player. He doesn't fit their mold and they've made it clear that to them, teams that indulge him open themselves up to losses. 

He inhaled slowly through his nose and counts to twenty. He has survived worse in this arena and he will survive this.

Across the ice, Ilya’s gaze never left him.

From the first puck drop, the shift in Montreal’s strategy is immediate and unmistakable to Ilya. They aren't just forechecking Shane aggressively, they are isolating him.

Every breakout routed pressure toward Shane’s side of the ice. When the puck rotated away from him, the weak-side winger still drifted into his lane, forcing him to hesitate half a second longer than necessary. Passing options narrowed artificially, manufactured traffic closing around him like a vice.

It is suffocating in its precision.

On Shane’s first touch of this shift, a Montreal forward closes the gap too quickly and angles his stick just enough to disrupt the lane. Shane is forced to rim the puck instead of carrying it cleanly and the play dies along the boards.

From across the ice a Montreal voice calls out from the bench. “Atta boy Cam. Make her panic.”

Ilya feels heat spike behind his ribs and wants to start swinging.

Shane acts like he didn't even hear it. He adjusts the next shift, shortens his passes, and moves earlier. Ilya watches as Montreal adapts with him but Shane is in a league all of his own. He wants to be proud but all he can feel is rage. 

The first real hit comes seven minutes in.

Shane chipped the puck past the defenseman and tried to pivot inside. Instead, the defenseman steps into him shoulder-first, driving Shane into the glass. It isn't spectacular, certainly won't be highlight-worthy. But it was calculated, the contact lingering too long so Shane is pinned while another Montreal player drifts past. 

“Too weak fairy,” the second Voyageur mutters. “Told you.” His voice carries to Ilya barely audible over the crowd. The referee’s arm stays down.

Ilya is skating in, shoving the defenseman off harder than necessary. Not a fight yet but ready to make a physical kind of statement.

The defenseman just grins at him. “Relax, he’s a tough little bitch, right?” Before Ilya can do more then snarl, Shane has pulled him away.

Even this early Ilya can see it is going to be a brutally physical game. Montreal isn't playing well but they won't relent either. Midway through the period, Shane looses an edge in the neutral zone — not a dramatic fall, just a slight stutter-step as a stick clipped his skate blade. The puck slides off his control and the the Montreal bench erupts as if its a goal.

“There it is!” 

“League’s not built for ballerinas!”

Ilya can see the Centaurs bench tensing, Haas glancing down the line toward Shane, uncertainty flickering across his face. The ice feels dangerous and they all know it. 

Another shift. Another board battle. A cross-check rides up too high into Shane’s back, driving him forward into the dasher. Ilya understands the game Montreal is playing with sick clarity. They are trying to pressure Wiebe into shorter shifts for Shane's line. Use the feeling of danger to get Ottawa's new start off the ice. It might work too. Wiebe and Delaney are looking increasingly concerned and angry every time Shane goes out. And yet, in the face of all the noise, Shane's discipline is extraordinary. He absorbs every chrip and hit without turning, without retaliating, all while finding opportunities that should be impossible. Ilya is so fiercely proud of him. 

Late in the period, during a faceoff, a Montreal winger leans in close, voice pitched low enough that only Shane — and barely Ilya — can hear.

“What do you think, cocksucker? Ready to call it?”

Shane’s shoulders don't move. He wins the draw clean and pivots out of the circle with mechanical precision, getting the pass off to Ilya before being driven back into the boards. It doesn't escape Ilya’s notice that Shane was clearly bracing before contact, reading it before the hit came. He knows this routine.

Ilya feels his anger turn cold and settle into his chest, heavy and immovable. What Ilya was watching was practiced, a familiar cruelty that Shane had been intimately familiar with before the first whistle of this game. He can't help but think about last season, of what it must have been like to be day in and day out for Shane with this team. How bad had it been?

The period bleeds down to its final minute, tension coiling tighter with every shift. Montreal’s hits have grown heavier, more aggressive as they are getting out played.

Ilya can feel the pressure building, gathering force beneath the surface just waiting for the moment to would break.

The buzzer sounds and Shane doesn't slow at the bench. He steps off the ice, and heads straight down the tunnel without looking at anyone, even Ilya. Inside the locker room, he strips off his helmet, takes a long pull from his water bottle, and then sits down to retape his stick. Ilya has followed him in but stops seeing him sitting there, his posture composed, shoulders perfectly square, as he goes through the meticulous ritual.

He doesn't look shaken and it terrifies Ilya more then anything else tonight. He crosses to his husband, not bothering to go to his own stall. 

“What was that?” Ilya demands, fear and anger getting mixed up so much he's unable to moderate his tone.

Shane doesn't look up. “What was what?”

“Fuck off. Those assholes.”

Tape stretches between Shane's hands, then pressed on and smoothed. He's steady, never looking away from his work. 

“It’s nothing.”

“I heard them.” Ilya breathes, stepping closer. He's lowered his voice but not the intensity. “The things they were saying.”

“It’s just chirping.”

“That is not chirping.” He snaps.

Shane finally lifts his eyes. They're completely flat as they stare into Ilya. 

“It’s how they are.” He says it like explaining the sun to a small child. Like it's a fact that shouldn't need an explanation.  

Ilya takes a breath. Tries to regulate, kneeling in front of his husband.

“They are calling you slurs,” he says, distantly aware that his mouth has a metallic taste. “They target you every shift and they want it to hurt.”

A small shrug.

“They always did.”

Ilya could swear the room tilts sideways for just a moment.

“What do you mean ‘always’?” he asks quietly. Behind them the rest of the team is drifting in. They’re keeping their distance but Ilya can feel the anger. He isn’t the only one who sees what is happening out there. 

Shane’s jaw flexes once before settling. “It doesn’t matter. Just drop it.” His eyes drop back to his hands, a clear dismisal Ilya refuses to hear. 

He leans in instead.

“We answer it,” Ilya says, voice low and vibrating. “We push back. We finish every hit twice as hard. We make them pay for it.”

He's already calculating who would be best: Troy would go hard, Haas too if asked. The rest of the Centaurs are ready to rally just as soon as someone gives them permission. Out of the corner of his eye he can see Bood waiting for his Captain to say the word. 

Shane’s head snaps back up.

“No.” It isn't loud but the tone is sharp. In the back of his mind Ilya realizes its the first emotion he's heard from Shane today. 

“That makes it worse,” Shane continues, quieter but more urgent. “You escalate, they escalate. Refs start watching you instead of them. Then it’s retaliation penalties and open season.”

“They already think it is,” Ilya shoots back, barely hearing him. He was a Bear, he knows how to solve a problem with a little violence. 

Shane leans forward, elbows on his knees, voice dropping even lower.

“I know them, I how to handle this. It’s one game.” The words are steady and practiced and Ilya can hear the subtext: I’ve survived this before. He knows that Shane is trying to project confidence but he can see the tremor in his husband's hand. It's only been one period and it is already taking a toll. 

“This is not handling it.” Ilya says in reply, unable to keep the crack from his voice.

Shane doesn't answer immediately, just presses his thumb along the tape seam of his stick as if checking for imperfections.

“This game," he says finally. “I just have to be better. Faster. Make them look stupid. We are not going to lose and if they are hitting me, they aren’t scoring goals. Don’t make this worse Ilya.”

And there it was finally laid out, a philosophy carved into him within this building. Endure. Excel. Outlast.

Ilya feels fury coil in his stomach, hot and useless. He wants to storm back down the tunnel with Ottawa at his back and drag the entire bench of Voyageurs onto the ice. He wants to break something, preferably someone, and he wants to protect his husband in a way that does not require Shane to absorb damage like it was a fact of life.

Instead, he reaches out and grips the back of Shane’s neck, pressing their foreheads together briefly, shielded him from the rest of the room for a breath.

“I do not like this,” Ilya murmurs. He loves his husband, and he will stand down if that's what he demands but he hates it more then he's ever hated anything in his life. 

“I know.”

Shane pulls back first, composure already reassembled. Reluctantly, Ilya steps away, checks on the rest of the team. When he gives Bood a shake of the head, the winger frowns.

By the time they stand up to head back out for the second period, Shane looks exactly like he always does, controlled and unbothered. 

The period begins and Ilya can’t help but feel he is sending his husband out to the executioner.

Voyageurs Training Center, Montreal | 2021

The loss had been unremarkable in the standings but catastrophic in tone. It’s March. The playoff picture is narrowing and every fuck up is cause for concern.

The second line had blown a third-period lead at home, and the building had gone quiet in that particular Montreal way. It was a cliche but true, they didn't get angry, or loud, just disappointed. It was so much worse.

The next morning’s practice began with video. Lights dimmed as the projector hummed to life. Queued up on screen was every turnover Shane had touched from the first moment of the game, replayed in slow motion.

“Explain this,” Theriault asked.

Shane did of course. The explanation was technically correct but Theriault just sneered, “I can’t abide excuses.” 

The bag skate followed. Not unusual in itself — teams bag-skated after losses all the time. But this one didn't have a time limit other then when players began to falter. Shane had skated until his vision swam.

“Again.”

Theriault's voice sharpened when he stumbled. 

“You want to be a distraction? Then you better be worth it.”

Shane got up and went again. 

The next morning Comeau and Drapeau were waiting for him in the weight room.

“So you’re bigger than the team now?”

“I don’t—”

“All that press time but can’t get off a goal - what the fuck are you for Hollander.”

The shove came hard and it wasn’t even a surprise. This late in the season, the little moments had built to something concrete. Shane barely faltered, rolling with the force of the push before stepping back into place. His eyes narrowed but he didn’t so much as curl a fist. 

“Fuck off Comeau. It won’t happen again, I’m making the adjustment.”

Another hit and then they were turning away, “fucking hope so you fucking fag.”

It was as routine now as the endless, painful, drills. A hard shove on the way to the ice. A stick pressed into his spine. In the scrum a glove shoved over his mouth while someone hissed filth into his ear. 

It had become the air he breathed so Shane learned to breathe shallow.

The Bell Center, Montreal | 2022

The Centaurs were up 2–1 when it happened.

Shane had been instrumental in both goals, a clean breakout on the first, assist on the second, clinical in his delivery. If Montreal’s first-period campaign had been designed to rattle him, it hadn’t shown on the scoreboard.

It honestly shouldn't even have surprised Shane that they escalated. 

He carried the puck over the blue line, Bood cutting toward the net, stick down and ready. Ilya was wide, perfectly positioned for the cross-ice feed as soon as the lane opened.

Shane saw Comeau before the pass left his blade. In a breath he registered the the commitment in the enforcer’s stride and got off the pass, trying to pivot out of the line of impact.

Comeau didn't adjust. His shoulder drove through Shane’s jaw with a sickening crack that echoed a fraction longer than the arena should have allowed. Shane's helmet snapped back as his skates left the ice. For a suspended, surreal second, the lights above blurred into white and sound dropped out. The crowd collapsed into a distant, underwater hum. His vision flickered — too bright, then too dim.

Then the ice came up hard and merciless beneath him.

He tasted blood immediately. Somewhere above him, skates carved a tight circle. Comeau leaned down just enough that Shane could see the dark shadow of him against the lights. Something is said but he can’t process it, his ears ringing and his brain refusing to focus. 

Warmth hits his cheek. For a confused moment he thinks it’s more blood. It isn't until much later when he watches the replay that he fully understands.

He tries to push himself up and immediately collapses back down. The ice is tilting violently and his stomach lurches. The world is getting gray at the edges. He hears shouting now. Not crowd noise, they're too sharp and close to be the roar of the stadium but he can't make out the words. A body hits the ice somewhere to his right. Another impact. Gloves scattering.

He blinks, trying to clear his sight, but everything doubles. His shoulder screams when he shifts even an inch. The white comes back, softer this time. Pulling.

When he surfaces again, there are multiple faces above him. Distantly he realizes that his helmet is off, cold air licking against his skin. The medic’s voice is steady but too loud. 

“Don’t move your head.”

“I’m fine,” he tries to say but it comes out slurred.

They sit him up and he nearly vomits, his shoulder buckling uselessly when he instinctively tries to brace. He's surrounded by medical staff, all of them trying to keep his team at bay. He hates that immediately. 

The ice feels impossibly far away as they take him toward the tunnel. The arena is roaring — he can’t tell if it’s cheering or booing.

He tries to turn his head, find Ilya—

But the pain spikes, bright and nauseating. Then the tunnel swallows everything.

Ilya did not remember deciding he was done.

He remembered the sound, the crack of bone and helmet. He saw Comeau bend down. Heard fucking fag even where he was on the other side of the rink. He saw Comeau spit and the look he had of disgust and glee mixed together as it landed on Shane's face

And that was it. Something inside him unlatched and he was completely done trying to keep control.

He reached Comeau in three strides, tossing his gloves aside as he moves. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Barrett, Bood, and Dykstra doing the same. The first punch landed without precision, and drops the Voyager immediately. Ilya is being fueled by something that had nothing to do with strategy or hockey. Officials shouted. A linesman grabbed for his arms and missed.

He was dimly aware of officials shouting. Of someone grabbing his arm.

He shakes them off. Shane is still on the ice still not moving the way he should.

Ilya bends down and hits Comeau again. It feels fucking good. He’s never hated a man as much as he does Comeau at this moment. How dare this fuck treat Shane like he is disposable.

It takes multiple bodies to drag him backward and he fights them the whole way, chest heaving, eyes locked on where trainers are now kneeling around Shane's prone body. There's blood on the ice but Shane is breathing, trying to move.

And behind him is Montreal’s bench, grinning like Christmas came early. The Voyagers couldn’t have planned it better.

Shane is down. Ilya is being escorted off the ice. Two players removed, and there is still twenty eight minutes of regulation time left.

As he’s forced toward the tunnel, he sees medical staff lifting Shane carefully up, being braced against the gurney. The sight of his husband unable to stand on his own scrapes something raw inside him.

Shane is sitting upright on the table when Ilya is finally allowed in. There’s dried blood at the corner of his mouth and his right arm is cradled awkwardly against his body while a trainer finishes wrapping his shoulder. His eyes look wrong. A little unfocused for sure but also just distant. 

The trainer gives Ilya a warning look but leaves.

“What did they say?” Ilya asks immediately, voice tight despite his effort to keep it level.

“Concussion protocol,” Shane says. His words are careful, like each one requires placement. “Shoulder’s not dislocated.”

“Not dislocated,” Ilya repeats, eyes searching Shane’s face. “Good.”

Shane’s jaw tightens. “What was the final score? He asks the question somewhere just past Ilya’s right year, “No one will tell me.”

Ilya tenses, not want to be the person to share this. “We lost.”

It is a weak dodge and he knows it. Shane’s eyes sharpen, finally focusing.

“Obviously. What was the score, Ilya?”

A beat.

“Five–two.”

The number settles heavy in the room. Shane’s expression falters and then he closes his eyes and leans his head back. It’s like his strings have been cut. 

Silence drags out between them.

“You shouldn’t have done that.” It’s so quiet Ilya almost misses it. 

Ilya stares at him. “Done what?” He’s genuinely confused.

“Lost control. Got ejected.” The phrase comes out brittle. Ilya needs a moment to understand. Then a whole new kind of rage comes rising up. 

“He spit on you. He called you a fag. I would not let that stand. Ever.” Ilya knows he is breathing too heavy, his voice too loud, but he cannot – will not – even for a second imagine a world where he would not burn down the world let alone punch one asshole in retaliation for what happened to Shane tonight. 

Shane doesn’t react, “That doesn’t matter.”  There’s something unsteady in his face, not just the lingering potential concussion.

“It matters to me. It matters to the team”

“It shouldn’t!” Shane’s voice rises slightly and he winces at the volume, pressing his fingers briefly to his temple. “You could have stayed out,” Shane continues, pushing through the haze. “We were up. The team needed you and you got thrown out.” his words are coming fast and hard now, “You can’t do that. You can’t just—”

“So I should have watched?” Ilya fires back. “Watched him spit on you while you were unconscious?”

“I wasn’t unconscious.”

“You were down and not moving.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Then explain the point to me.”

Shane’s breathing shifts, getting shallower, and his left hand curls against his thigh. Ilya can see that the wrapped shoulder is trembling now with the tension.

“I can handle it,” he says. The heat in his voice feels brittle, not solid. “I’ve handled worse.”

Ilya goes still. That answer isn’t about tonight.

“You are scared,” he says, softer now.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

Shane’s jaw locks. His hands fist harder. The movement pulls at the wrap and a flash of pain crosses his face before he forces it away.

“I’m fine.”

He isn’t. Ilya can see that much. Shane's his eyes don’t quite settle and his breathing won’t even out. His focus keeps narrowing and widening like he’s trying to find stable ground. Whatever battle Shane is fighting within himself it is taking everything he has to keep it under control. 

Ilya steps closer despite himself.  “You were on the ice and not moving,” he says, voice rough now. “Do you understand what that does to me?”

Shane looks up at him then. For a fraction of a second, something unguarded breaks through, anger stripped back to something closer to despair. It vanishes almost immediately.

“I don’t need you fighting my battles.”

“I am not fighting your battles,” Ilya says, trying not to snap. “I am standing next to you.”

“Don’t.”

The word is immediate.

Ilya blinks. “Do not what?”

“Don’t make it about us.”

The air changes.

“You think this is about optics?” Ilya asks, incredulous.

“You need to play hockey,” Shane says, jaw set. “Not loose your shit every time someone tries to get under my skin.”

“That was not 'getting under your skin'. He tried to injure you.”

“And he did.”

The admission slips out of Shane before he can seem to stop it. He swallows hard before continuing, “It’s a contact sport,” he says, flattening his tone. “It happens.”

“No,” Ilya says. “That was targeted.”

Shane doesn’t answer. That silence tells Ilya more than an argument would. Around them the room hums with the sound of fluorescent light. 

“I would do it again,” Ilya says finally, conviction laced through his voice. He will give Shane almost anything but not this.  

Shane closes his eyes.

“I know.” It isn’t approval.

A knock at the door interrupts whatever would have followed. A nervous press rep pokes her head in, and asks if Shane is up for looking at a statement. Ilya tries to intercede but Shane is too fast.

"Yes of course, I'll be right there." His game face is back on as he slides off the table. 

The room tilts; Ilya sees it in the way his balance wavers as he tries to stand. He moves without thinking but Shane flinches before he can touch him.

“I’ve got it.” His voice is tight and he refuses to look Ilya in the eye. 

Ilya lets his hand fall. They stand there for a moment, close enough to feel each other’s breath, but not touching. Shane’s posture is rigid every line of him held together by force.

“This is not over,” Ilya says quietly.

Shane’s expression shutters.

“It is for tonight.”

He walks to the door without waiting for help. Each step deliberate. Ilya can do nothing but watch the set of his shoulders and the way he doesn’t look back.

Chapter 3: Part 3

Chapter Notes

Shane & Ilya’s Car, Ottawa | 2022

Despite his protests, Ilya is driving Shane to the rink. It’s awkward in the car; the same tenseness that has pervaded the last thirty five hours fills the small space. They’ve been in a stalemate since Montreal with the battle of wills lasting from getting off the bus through their forced day off. 

Ilya pushes to get Shane to rest and Shane rebuffs him, refusing to engage in any discussion about what happened beyond the most logistically necessary parts of their shared life. He’s made it clear that any mention of the game, of the fight in medical, or even his own injuries are strictly off limits. Any questions about what Shane is thinking or feeling have been shut down with surgical precision. 

Ilya would be impressed if it wasn’t so fucking infuriating. In other circumstances he may have considered giving in and moving on but the last two nights Shane has cried in his sleep. 

He grips his wheel and looks over at his husband. Beside him, Shane is sitting stiff, eyes straight ahead. He’d been, reluctantly, cleared by medical to skate today but his entire right side is bruised and he still can’t lift his arm all the way. Dr. Terry had been unimpressed but had relented after two hours of badgering and Shane agreeing to a  laundry list of restrictions. Given the parameters, Ilya hardly thought it was worth it to go in, but Shane had insisted. 

That morning, Ilya had watched from the end of the hallway as Shane struggled to tie his shoes with his left hand.  His fingers had a tremor that Ilya had resigned himself to not comment on. 

“I want to say again, this is bad idea. You do not have to go in.” Ilya tried. He knew it was hopeless but he couldn't help but keep pushing.

Shane didn’t look up. “I do.”

“This is optional skate for you. Better to rest and be ready.” Shane didn't even pretend to be listening as Ilya stepped closer. “Dr. T and Coach Wiebe both told you to take time. You are still symptomatic.”

“I’m not.” His words were calm, measured in the way Shane got when he’d already decided the outcome. “I’m fine.”

The lie was automatic, not even bothering to be defensive. All Ilya could do was grind his teeth and bend down to finish the knot Shane was struggling with. As he stood back up, dropping on instinct a kiss on his Husband, he couldn’t help but see the way Shane’s skin looked thin. Even without the bruises there were dark circles under his eyes as he stared. 

Shane had been still. His hands coming to grip one another in his lap, trying to get the shaking under control

After a moment of silence, he finally looked at Ilya. 

“I need you to support me. I can’t disappear.”  It was barely more than a whisper, but it had also been the first honest thing Shane had offered since Montreal. 

So now they are in Shane’s boring car, silent and decidedly not fighting, and Ilya is just hoping this day doesn’t end with another trip to medical. 

Ottawa Training Center | 2022

Wiebe spots them the moment they step out into the tunnel. Shane steels himself, willing himself not to react as the Coach’s eyes  flicker over the bruises on Shane’s face. The rink is already alive with the rest of the team, their skates cutting hard and loud into the ice. It takes all of Shane’s willpower not to wince.

“You want to sit this one out?” Wiebe asks, voice unhurried. “Take notes from the bench today?”

Shane’s spine straightens automatically, every instinct in his body screaming. “No, sir,” he answers, the honorific slipping into place before he realizes it. “I’m good to skate.”

Wiebe studies him for a moment, “It’s Coach.” he says it without reproach, “And you sure?”

“Yes, sir.”

“All right,” Wiebe says finally. “Go easy. You say something if anything feels off.”

“Of course, sir.”

Shane nods and steps onto the ice, conscious of both Ilya and Wiebe’s eyes on him.  

It takes him longer than it should to find for Shane to find his rhythm in the loose rush of movement as the team warms up. The first few laps stretch long, his legs disproportionately heavy to the effort he made. He compensates without thinking, tightening his turns, cutting his strides shorter, refusing to lag. 

He ignores the pain and pushes through as best he can. When Troy glides up alongside him, matching Shane’s pace with easy precision, he doesn’t have more than a grunt of acknowledgment in him.  

“You good?” Troy asks quietly.

“I’m fine,” Shane replies, forcing a quick exhale that almost passes for a laugh.

His teammate looks skeptical, “Don’t be a hero. Those fuckers know how to do a number on someone.” There’s a knowing look in his eye and Shane remembers some of the rumors about Barrett’s old locker room in Toronto. 

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Shane says. The attention is equal parts warm and unsettling.  He appreciates Troy, the entire team really, But the checking-in feels less like something to lean on and more like a spotlight right when he most wants to stay out of view. 

When Wiebe finally calls them into center ice, it’s a relief. They gather in a loose circle around where Delaney and Wiebe stand, tablets in hand.  

“We’re going to work on building a better response to the overload Montreal ran last game,” Wiebe begins, tone even. “They did a good job isolating our retrieval. We clean that up, the game looks different.”

The screen freezes and Shane recognizes the play instantly: it's six minutes into the first period and two Montreal jerseys are collapsing high, bodies angled to cut off a pass before it can fully materialize.

“Our system needs to include better support overall. You’re going to see the gap here,” Delaney says, circling the screen. “Montreal overloaded his lane, but that meant someone was open. We use that to get bodies to take control of the middle and give options to Hollander.”

Shane can’t help but hear it: The team is compensating for him and it makes him vaguely nauseous. Shane nods quickly, pulse climbing despite the neutral tone. “Yes, sir.”

Wiebe glances at him, before turning back to the team. “Structurally we’re not playing flexible enough yet. I want to fix that today. ”

“Yes, sir,” Shane says again, too fast. “I should’ve moved it quicker.”

“Coach. And it’s not about quicker,” Wiebe replies, patient.

“Sorry, sir. Understood.” He can hear himself, hear the apologies and the anxiety, but can’t seem to stop. 

“Hollander,” Wiebe says as they break apart, “you’re one of the best players in this league. That’s just a fact. The goal here is to support that, not correct it.”

Shane knows, intellectually, that Wiebe is trying to be supportive. The words however land more like pressure then reassurance. Today, he can't stop thinking about Montreal. 

Coach Fynn is pausing the screen on his turnover, the monitor glowing blue. “The team is wasting energy here, Hollander. You’re here to be the superstar, so get it together so we’re not spending ice time fixing fuckups. ” 

He takes a breath to steady himself. 

It’s the locker room after a loss, silence too thick, the unspoken knowledge that someone will be made an example of.

“Yes, sir,” Shane hears himself say.

Out of the corner of his eye he can see Bood catch Ilya’s eye, a look passing between them. Shane doesn’t have it in him to follow it but it makes his chest tight. 

Wiebe keeps his tone light as he says, “Let’s just run it and see it live.”

No one presses the issue as they break into groups.

The retrieval drill is almost simple in its set up, with a steady tempo designed to build muscle memory.  Delaney rims the puck hard around the glass to force a clean retrieval for Shane. Bood and Ilya come in to simulate Montreal while Haas and Barrett move to the gap for the pass. 

It’s not full out, everyone is careful of the bounds of Shane’s medical clearance as they run it, but Shane’s skin is crawling after only a few minutes. The sound of skates scraping amplified by unforgiving acoustics of the enclosed rink, is setting his teeth on edge and the ice below the dots feels smaller than it is.

“Middle’s there!” Delaney calls out.

Shane collects the puck for half a second—just enough for a first touch—and bumps it across to Haas in the middle lane. Clean and out.

“Good,” Delaney says. “We don’t need him fighting two guys down there. Again”

Whistle.

The sound reverberates against the inside of Shane’s skull. He wants to recoil from the noise as they reset again but Shane clamps down hard on the instinct. 

Another puck rims.

This time Ilya’s angle is tighter. The strong-side pinch coming in close enough that Shane can feel the brush of Ilya’s jersey against his skin. It’s exactly the positioning from the film, three below the dots, tight on each other.

“Touch and go!” Delaney calls. “Beat the second layer!”

Shane drops lower, shoulder protesting sharply at the turn. Haas is there—middle, present, exactly on time—but the space to reach him feels thinner now, a narrow seam of white between converging bodies.

The ache in his thighs intensifies, his muscles burning as if he has been skating sprints for an hour instead of controlled reps for just a few minutes. Beneath the tape, his shoulder flares hot. He can’t help it as his breath goes short. 

He’s still in Montreal. 

His legs are on fire as he skates hard after a miserably close loss against the Centaurs  – against Ilya – the whistle screams for rep after rep of the bag skate as he pushes off the line. His lungs are heaving. “Faster,” someone barks. He’d pushed. “Again.” He’d stumbled.

Back on Ottawa ice,  the puck skips beyond his reach. 

“Again!” Delaney calls. 

There’s no pause between reps now as they work to get the drill up to speed. It’s an endless cycle of clear the puck, new rim, collapse, and then the shout over and over of ‘Again.’

The whistle, the shout, are hammering into his chest like nails. Around him the play begins to blur, just flashes:

Ilya angles. Bood seals. Haas drifts middle. Barrett presents.

“Under it, Hollander!”

Bodies are closing in once more on Shane. It’s not aggressive, no one’s coming anywhere close to touching him but the proximity shifts from neutral to suffocating in an instant. The nearness of teammates’ shoulders feels catastrophic. 

His leg gives out in Montreal, ice rushing up too fast as muscle fatigue finally wins. There's a sharp sting of impact. Sweat pools into his eyes blurring his vision and its sheer force of will keeping himself from puking. From the boards he hears the low rumble of angry laughter.

The Ottawa logo blurs into indistinct white as his vision tunnels. Around him the rink is reduced to a thin strip of light surrounded by shadow. Shane tries to move, but his legs refuse, his muscles locked under the memory of strain.

Theriault’s voice is over him, his legs crowding Shane’s field of vision. Shane tries to stand, tries to snap to attention. His thighs don't want to listen though. He gets a quarter of the way up and then falls back down again.

“If you want to be on your knees so bad, stay down.” The sneer in his voice is louder than it's ever been. There’s real anger 

Ottawa ice tilts beneath him.

Another whistle pierces the air. Whatever awareness he had left is fractured by the sound.

“Unreliable,” Theriault continued, circling him where he is half collapsed, half kneeling. “You’re team can’t fucking trust you, Hollander. If we can’t trust you to go up against Rozanov, can’t trust you to stay on you feet, what is the fucking point? Do you get this?” 

He’s spitting mad now. Cuts a tight circle around Shane, “That wasn’t fucking rhetorical. Answer!”

“Yes sir.” Shane chokes out, still desperately trying to suck in air. “I understand sir.” 

“You’ve let down this team, Hollander.” Theriault says in disgust. "Do you understand?"

"Yes, Sir!" There's a sob in his voice now that Shane hates.

Theriault turns to the board, to the line of teammates watching. “Do you trust your captain?”

“No sir!”  The shout comes in unison, no hesitation. 

“Tell him.”

And they did, most of them, cataloguing flaws with detached glee—too soft on the boards, not aggressive enough in his play style, too reserved, too visible—each critique punctuated by the demand from Theriault that Shane agree.

“You hear that Hollander.”

“Yes.”

“Louder!”

“Yes, sir.”

Shane is frozen. His chest constricts and each breath is painfully sharp. It’s as if the space around his lungs has collapsed inward and air won’t come deeply enough. 

“Yes, sir,” he whispers. He’s barely aware that he is speaking, his body and mind on protective autopilot.

Out of the corner of his eyes, through blurred vision, he can see bodies circling. Teammates he thinks although he isn’t sure what team. They’re circling closer, skates carving toward him. The sight of them converging sends a jolt of terror down his spine.

His body is screaming danger. It feels like Montreal, kneeling at center ice while insults rain down and skates carve around the perimeter of his humiliation.

Hands reach for him and the circle tightens. He flinches, scrambling backwards trying to get away. He is running on base instinct and every fiber of his being is telling him that he has failed publicly and irreparably, that this is the moment the team decides he isn’t worth protecting.

He cannot see their faces anymore, just the feeling of the world closing in.

It happens in between one breath and the next. One second Shane is skating, the next he is frozen in place.There’s no stumble, no obvious misstep, just an abrupt stillness, like someone has paused only Shane while the rest of the rink keeps running. 

It strikes Ilya immediately, even as it takes a minute for the rest of the team to notice. Delaney calls out the next rep, the rest of the line circling back but Shane doesn’t pivot. He stands stock still at the top of the circle, shoulders squared staring straight ahead.

“Hollander, reset!” Delaney calls again, as if Shane just didn’t hear. Shane’s head dips a fraction, his right hand tightening on his stick until the tendons in his wrist stand out pale against his glove.

“Yes, sir,” he murmurs but still doesn’t go. It’s so quiet Ilya isn’t sure that anyone else even heard and Ilya can see that Shane’s eyes aren’t focusing. 

Immediately, Ilya drops his stick and skates to his husband. Up close, it’s so much worse than he thought. Shane’s eyes are frantic in comparison to the stillness in the rest of his body. His pupils are blown wide, frantically darting side to side, unable to land on anything specific. He isn’t moving a finger but his chest heaves, breathing gone uneven with sharp pulls that don’t seem to fill his chest.

“Shane.” Ilya calls, reaches for his hand.

Shane flinches violently, his whole body jolting as if struck.

“I’ll fix it,” Shane says, louder now, panic threading through the words. “Sir. I’ll fix it.”

Around them, the team slows and begins to circle back. They’ve clocked the disruption. Ilya can see Bood’s posture shift, alert and protective, as he pushes off center to check in. Haas coasts closer from the blue line, slightly lost but clearly looking to understand.

Without anyone meaning to half the team is circling in close. Ilya wouldn’t have noticed them except the way that their presence causes Shane to tense more. He edges backward half an inch, shoulders curl inward. His free hand lifts slightly, an aborted defensive motion like he expects to be grabbed. The movements are small but devastating, something brutal happening in miniature inside Shane’s mind. 

“Back up,” Ilya says quietly, not taking his eyes off Shane. It isn’t sharp, but it carries. The others hesitate, then move away again.

Ilya steps in closer, careful now, stopping just within reach. He can see every tremor in Shane’s body, terror written across his face.

“Moya lyubov,” Ilya says, softer. “Look at me.”

Shane’s gaze flicks toward him but doesn’t quite land. “I can go again,” he insists, voice splintering. “I’ll be better. I promise, sir.”

The last part is barely air.

“I am right here. No one is going again,” Ilya says evenly. “There is nothing to fix.”

Shane shakes his head minutely and makes an aborted whimper, like he’s arguing with someone Ilya cannot see. The sound of it scrapes across Ilya’s nerves.

“Shane.” Ilya lowers his own stance, softening his posture so he isn’t looming. “You are at practice. Ottawa. Tuesday. It is just us.”

A whistle chirps uncertainly somewhere behind them, and Shane’s knees nearly buckle. Ilya closes the distance without thinking, one hand hovering near Shane’s elbow. He wants to swing around and scream at Delaney or Wiebe but he holds it together, his focus singular on Shane.

“I have you,” he says, steady and low. “No one is yelling. No one is mad. You are safe.”

Shane’s eyes squeeze shut like the word hurts, before snapping wide and unseeing again.

“Yes, sir,” he chokes out again.

The obedience hurts like it's carved into bone. Ilya has heard him say ‘sir’ a hundred times since he got to Ottawa. It's a habit he's learned his husband has that has worried him for months.

“I am not your coach,” Ilya says quietly. “It is just me. Ilya.”

For one fragile second, Shane’s focus sharpens. His eyes find Ilya’s fully, and Ilya sees the panic and confusion pressing in. Then, as if Ilya was a signal, Shane’s body gives out on him, his legs collapsing. 

On instinct, Ilya catches him before he hits the ice. Shane isn’t unconscious; he’s fighting to stay upright, but his legs are shaking so badly it feels like trying to anchor someone in a storm.

“Okay,” Ilya murmurs, guiding them both carefully until Shane’s skates are flat and stable. “We are just going to breathe.” Shane is leaning into him now, trusting Ilya at least with his body but he is still frantic. His eyes darting in the space behind Ilya seemingly trying to track every seeming threat. 

“More space,” Bood says calmly from somewhere nearby. Ilya had forgotten he was there but finds himself grateful to the Alternate Captain. The rink has gone quiet from the sound of twenty three men trying not to stare. 

Wiebe and Delaney skate closer, take in the scene, and, mercifully, say nothing but their presence is enough to cause Shane to go tight against his arm.

Ilya doesn’t wait.

“I am taking him in” he says, not asking permission. “We are going to locker room then home.”

Wiebe nods once, no protest on his face. Satisfied, Ilya slides one arm securely around Shane’s waist and guides his good hand over his own shoulder. Shane resists almost out of instinct, but his knees wobble again and that settles it.

“I have you,” Ilya repeats, not looking at anyone but Shane. “We are going home.”

He skates slowly, half-carrying, half-guiding Shane toward the tunnel. He keeps his steps deliberate, trying not to exacerbate the tremors running through Shane’s body. 

As the tunnel greets them and the noise fades, Shane’s grip gets stronger, tightening on Ilya’s arm.

“I am here,” Ilya murmurs as they disappear down the corridor toward the locker room, voice low and unyielding. “I am not going anywhere.”

Shane and Ilya’s Home, Ottawa | 2022

Ilya tries to watch Shane and the road at the same time. His husband stares out the window, hunched in on himself. The tremors are smaller now but haven't fully stopped. Ilya can still see the after effects of what happened in the way Shane’s fingers flex and release without meaning to.

When they get home, Shane makes it three steps past the entryway before his posture folds, like the scaffolding holding him upright has finally been allowed to come down.

“Shoes. Sit.” Ilya says gently, closing the door behind them. 

Shane does not respond but he does lower himself onto the bench. For a moment Ilya can’t help but see this morning superimposed: same place, same pose but the entire world shifted. He crouches down in front of his husband for the second time that day and slides off Shane’s shoe, careful to steady Shane’s ankle when it wobbles. The domestic intimacy of it calms something in his chest.

“You are shaking, let’s get you warm.” Ilya says, careful to keep his voice gentle. 

“I’m fine,” Shane replies automatically.

Ilya looks up at his husband. He reaches up and cups the back of Shane’s neck, thumb pressing into the tense muscle there. Shane is still coiled tight, his eyes fixed on a point deep below the floor. 

“No more, dorogoy,” Ilya says softly. “You are not.” Shane’s breath stutters and then evens out. "Let me take care of you." it takes a beat but finally Shane gives the smallest nod.

Ilya gives him one more gentle touch with his thumb and then moves deliberately to get them settled. He takes Shane’s bag from his shoulder and slides his jacket off, careful of the bad shoulder. Keys go into the little dish, shoes tucked under the bench, and he’s careful to hang up their jackets neatly the way Shane prefers. His hands are steady even as his pulse is racing. Buried somewhere in the back of mind there is a thread of fury he is carefully keeping at bay for much later. 

“Look at me.” He says taking Shane’s chin carefully. It takes a minute but Shane’s eyes lift, red-rimmed and still distant. Ilya runs his thumb along Shane’s jaw, tilting his face just slightly upward.

“You are home,” he says. “With me. We are safe.”

Something in Shane’s expression fractures. Ilya doesn’t wait for it to become a full break. He pulls him in, holding his body close to shut out the world. Shane melts against him with desperate relief, fingers fisting into Ilya’s shirt like he’s afraid of drifting.

“Breathe,” Ilya murmurs against his hair. “Slow. I am here.”

He keeps one hand steady at the base of Shane’s skull, fingers threading gently through his hair until the tremor starts to ease.Ilya takes that as his cue, walking them both to the couch without breaking contact. 

He sits, pulling Shane gently down with him so he’s half across Ilya’s lap, half sprawled along his chest. Shane doesn’t seem to notice as Ilya takes a minute to carefully arrange his limbs, pulling him in close, and dragging the throw blanket Shane prefers tight around their entwined bodies. All he wants is to keep his husband wrapped up here, safe from whatever demons were at the rink waiting for him today. 

Ilya presses his lips to Shane’s temple. “How are you doing kotenok?” he says quietly.

Shane doesn’t respond but his hands slide up under Ilya’s shirt like he needs to feel skin. Ilya lets him, taking Shane’s fingers with his own and holding them flat against his ribs.

“Feel that?” Ilya asks. “Steady. Can you breathe with that beat?” Shane just nods faintly.

They sit like that for a long time. Ilya regulates his own breathing deliberately so Shane can match it. His palm wide and warm over Shane’s back, applying the slightest pressure. He hopes it’s a physical reminder that he is solid, that neither of them are going anywhere.

Eventually the tension seeps out of Shane’s body and he goes boneless in Ilya’s arms. When he feels it, Ilya realizes his own shoulders have been tight since the rink and carefully lowers them. Looking down at Shane he can’t help but let his  hands drift across Shane’s hair, brushing strands away from his eyes.  

“Now, will you tell me what has been happening?” It’s a request but there’s a thread of steel in it. 

After a moment, quiet and somewhere near Ilya’s collarbone, Shane starts.

“I was back in Montreal and... Montreal believed in making an example.” He doesn’t look up as he speaks and Ilya doesn’t make him. He doesn’t interrupt either. 

“It didn’t have to be big to make the example be you. Simple as a couple bad shifts was enough. It was worse if it was visible.” His fingers curl tighter in Ilya’s shirt. “They said it was about discipline.” A thin breath of humorless sound escapes him. 

Ilya’s hand continues its slow motions at Shane’s back. It's not a surprise, Ilya knows that the last season had been bad, knows that there is little love lost between Shane and his old team. And he's seen the outlines of something worse than what he had heard. It does however bring an image into sharp focus that previously was only hinted at, and it takes Ilya's breath away with how angry he feels for his husband.  

“It was always like that,” Shane says, and this time there’s no distance in it. Just a fact. “My rookie year, too. Before I wore a letter. Before anyone knew anything about us.”

He swallows.

“The culture was already there. Someone always had to be the one who cost us the game.” His jaw tightens faintly. “You mess up, you get punished. You get tested. You get pushed until you break or prove you won’t.”

His thumb presses harder into Ilya’s ribs, anchoring himself.

“Last year wasn’t different, It just… shifted.”

Ilya’s eyes sharpen. “Shifted how?”

“It focused,” Shane says quietly. “When I was younger, it wasn’t just me. It rotated. Rookies. Guys in slumps. Anyone who looked unsure.” He hesitates only a second. “But yeah, I was a favorite target for it. I don’t think Theriault wanted me on his team from the start. When I got named captain, it got sharper I guess. And after the video—” His breath hitches, but he keeps going. “After that, it stopped rotating.”

Ilya tries not to clutch Shane tighter even if that’s what he wants. It’s an effort to keep his breathing steady, to not change the weight of his hands. 

“It wasn’t even subtle anymore,” Shane says. “It wasn’t about performance. It was about what I represented. They didn’t have to say it outright. It was just… understood.” His mouth twists faintly. “I made things harder. For the team. For the league. For the brand.”

Ilya’s hands tighten on his jaw.

“So it focused on you,” he says, voice forced to calm.

Shane nods once.

“And it got worse. I could feel it,” Shane continues. “Every mistake wasn’t just a mistake. It was proof. That I was distracted. That I was fragile. That I wasn’t built for it. So they hit harder, punished more so I’d show it.”

He laughs under his breath, but there’s nothing amused in it.

“They didn’t have to invent anything new after I was outed. It was all already there. They just aimed it I guess.”

Ilya’s jaw flexes. He can see how it all plays out. Shane, conditioned to try and succeed in that culture, would have relied on muscle memory to endure what they threw his way. Only there was no way through, and the more he endured the more they escalated. 

“This morning, it felt like I was back in it.," Shane says again, returning to the center of it, "We lost in Montreal, and when I'm not perfect - not at 100%, I'm pretty sure that structure is going to come back. Anywhere. It doesn’t matter if it’s Ottawa. It doesn’t matter if Wiebe is decent. If I become a liability—”

“You are not a liability,” Ilya cuts in softly.

Shane presses forward anyway.

“If I become someone the team has to compensate for, if I create noise, if I make it harder for you—”

“You do not,” Ilya says firmly.

“I can’t risk it,” Shane whispers. “I can’t let it spread. I can’t let them start seeing me as the reason adjustments have to happen.”

His voice drops even lower.

“You love it here,” he says. “You have a room that feels like yours. Teammates who would bleed for you. You gave up Boston.  I’m not having you lose another team because of me.”

Ilya closes his eyes and takes a deep breath to steady himself in the face of Shane’s belief. At the heart of all of this is not Shane’s own safety, but a fear for Ilya and that is so much more devastating that Ilya understood. 

Once he is steady, he shifts, guiding Shane’s face up again so he can’t look anywhere but at Ilya.

“You think I am here because it is safe?” Ilya asks quietly. “You think I would choose comfort over you?”

Shane doesn’t answer.

“I left a city that worshiped me,” Ilya continues, matter of factly. “I did not do that because it was convenient.”

His thumbs press gently into Shane’s cheeks.

“I did it because I love you. Not because Wiebe is kind. You.”

Shane’s breath trembles.

“If this room ever turns,” Ilya says, voice low and unyielding, “If Wiebe adopts punishment. Then I will make them remember that we are Ilya Rozanov and Shane Fucking Hollander. You do not carry the weight of something I choose.”

Shane closes his eyes.

"But," Ilya continues, pulling Shane closer, trying to will safety into his husband's bones, "I do not think that is going to ever happen here."

“For them it was normal,” he says softly. “It’s always been normal in hockey.”

“Not here,” Ilya replies. "Trust me. It is different here."

Shane doesn’t argue, instead he takes a breath and lets his head fall back onto Ilya’s chest.

 “Okay,” he says, like he’s trying on the concept.

Hours later, when Shane can move away from Ilya without it feeling like the world will fall apart, he finds that there is a text waiting for him from Wiebe.

Let’s talk tomorrow. You and me. Rozanov is welcome if that makes it easier.

He reads it twice, his thumb hovering over the screen like it might change if he waits long enough. Ilya is sitting casually nearby, pretending not to watch him freeze.

“Wiebe wants to meet,” Shane says finally, voice even but thin around the edges.

Ilya nods once. “Good.”

Shane exhales slowly through his nose. “It doesn’t feel good. Feels like I’m about to find out what Wiebe looks like angry.” 

The anxiety comes in sharp and familiar. He fucked up the drill after loosing a game, left practice early, caused the Captain of the team to leave as well. It was a laundry list of sins for a coach to choose from.  He can feel his breathing going ragged again in the face of it. 

Ilya sits up more fully, turning so he is facing Shane square on. He doesn’t crowd him but he is unavoidably present.

“This is not Montreal,” Ilya says evenly, holding out his hand for Shane. Shane takes it but his mouth twitches, humorless. 

“You don’t know that.”

Ilya leans in so they’re eye-level, steady and unflinching. “I am confident. But I go with you, and if I am wrong then we know.”

Shane glances at him, searching Ilya’s face for something that he can’t name. 

“If you want,” Ilya adds, softer now. “You do not walk into anything alone.”

The tightness in Shane’s shoulders shifts, it’s not gone, but he doesn’t feel quite like he’s braced quite for impact. Whatever he needs from Ilya, he has it. 

“Yeah,” he says. “I’d like that.”

Ottawa Training Center | 2022

Wiebe’s office is tucked away at the back of the rink and smells faintly of coffee and ice melt. The normalcy of it feels surreal after the previous day.

When they step inside, Wiebe isn’t behind his desk. He’s sitting on the old beat up couch in the corner, his desk chair and usual guest chair pulled up to form an impromptu sitting area. It’s a small thing but Shane notices. 

“So,” Wiebe says, once they’re settled. “How are you doing?” He’s sitting back into the couch, intentionally casual. There’s no tension in the question. It couldn’t be a greater contrast then to Shane who feels like his whole body is about to come apart.

“Fine, better. Sir.” Shane wants to wince. He knows it's a thing, the sir’s. If the goal of this conversation is to convince Wiebe that Shane is fine enough to play, no further follow up needed, that isn’t helping. 

Wiebe seems to consider Shane’s answer.

“Well, I’m glad to hear it.” he says slowly. “Do you want to tell me about what happened yesterday?”

There isn’t an accusation in the question even as Shane twists it trying to find one. If there is an attack coming, he doesn’t know what it is. He wishes that it felt more comforting. 

Shane keeps his hands clasped loosely in his lap so they don’t curl into fists. 

“Yeah. Yes." He looks away, out of the corner of his eye he sees Ilya lean forward, not reaching but present. Ilya doesn’t say anything but he doesn’t need to. They're in this together and that’s enough. 

He keeps it structured and clinical. He’d run through what he wanted to say with Ilya multiple times last night and he sticks to the facts. He talks through the triggers from the drill clinically, references the panic from the whistle as a medical event instead of a memory.  He doesn’t say Theriault’s name and he doesn’t describe the specifics of Montreal.

He doesn’t need to. Wiebe listens without interrupting, his expression going tight halfway through. He looks mad and it makes Shane wince but Wiebe doesn’t say anything or get in his face so he keeps going. 

When Shane finishes, the silence that follows is measured. 

After a beat, Wiebe says plainly, “That was abuse.” 

The word lands differently than Shane expects. Not easy, but not jarring either. 

“I’m sorry that happened to you,” Wiebe continues. “And I’m angry it did.” It’s funny how little performance there is in it, no locker-room bravado, just a steady, controlled anger on his behalf.

“If you ever want to pursue something formally — league review, legal action, whatever that looks like — you tell me. This organization backs you. Fully.”

Shane hadn’t thought that far, for years his world has been no bigger than survival. He can’t help but turn over the option in his mind, trying on this new future, and finds that he can’t stand to look at it yet. 

“I don’t know if I want that,” he admits.

“You don’t have to,” Wiebe says immediately. “But you’re not alone in it if you do.”

Next to him, Ilya leans back again, relaxed into his chair, apparently satisfied. 

“What do you need from us? From the team?” Wiebe continues.

The question is a surprise. In almost a decade of professional hockey Shane doesn’t think he’s ever been asked that. 

“I don’t know,” Shane says finally, when he realizes the silence has gone on too long.

“That’s fine,” Wiebe replies. “We can start small.” He sits up slightly, tone firming in a way that Shane is surprised to note doesn’t feel ominous. “You’re not skating this week. I don’t care how good you think you feel tomorrow. You’re off until Terry clears you completely.”

Shane’s mouth opens instinctively.

Wiebe raises a hand, calm. “That’s not punishment. That’s me protecting my player.” 

My player shifts something somewhere deep in Shane’s chest, as if some muscle finally had released that he didn’t know was strained.

“And,” Wiebe continues, gentler now, “It’s not a requirement, but I’d like you to talk to Terry about support. For the mental fallout from what happened to you. What you described is trauma and we treat injuries here. All of them.”

He says it like it’s shoulder rehab. Routine and responsible. It’s absolutely insane and not for the first time Shane finds himself looking at Wiebe differently. 

Shane nods slowly.

“Yes, Coach.”

Wiebe’s mouth curves faintly at that. “Good.”

When they stand, Shane feels lighter. Wiebe holds out his hand, gives Shane a firm handshake and looks him straight in the eye.

“We’re building something here,” he says. “You’re part of that. Not a problem to solve.”

Ilya wants to stop by practice before they leave so they head down to the rink. There’s a moment where Shane considers taking him up on his offer to meet at the car but he shakes it off. He is still Shane Hollander and if he could show up to face his team mates at Montreal, he damn well can do it here.  

When they step into the arena, the sound of skates hits Shane first and his chest tightens reflexively. Ilya’s hand brushes his back once. Steady. 

Bood is the first to notice them: He taps Haas with his stick. Within seconds, the drill dissolves into a loose orbit near them but not crowding. No one forms a circle this time.

“You good?” Haas asks, voice earnest and too young to hide it.

Shane swallows once.

“I’m working through it,” he says carefully. “It’s still sitting with me.” He forces himself not to minimize it. “Montreal was hard”  He doesn’t explain if he means the recent game or his time with the team but the guys seem to understand anyways. 

“I’m okay,” Shane adds, softer. It’s closer to true than it has been in weeks.

Bood folds his arms across his chest. “You scared the shit out of us.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t,” Bood says immediately. “That’s not how this works.” Shane blinks faintly at that. "Just saying we were worried. And want to support and shit."

Haas shifts his weight. “Also, for the record, I appreciated you looking out for me.”

Shane frowns. “With what?”

“The video stuff. The reps. The over-explaining.” Haas shrugs, then grins broadly. “Even if you were projecting like a psycho.”

Shane huffs a reluctant breath. “I wasn’t projecting.”

“Sure,” Haas says easily. A ripple of low laughter moves through the group. The tension loosens almost visibly; shoulders drop, someone chirps at Haas about needing a babysitter, sticks start tapping the boards again.

Bood comes in to bump Shane’s good shoulder lightly. “Roz is my dude,” he says. “But you are too. Let us know what you need.”

“Thanks,” Shane says, slightly choked up and trying not to show it.

Delaney yells from center ice, gesturing the team back. They peel away slowly, dropping fist bumps and kind hearted chirps in their wake. When Shane looks to center, Delaney gives him a wave and a smile before turning back to the team.

“Hey,” Barrett calls before Shane can step back toward the tunnel. He skates over at an unhurried pace, helmet tucked under his arm, expression measured.

“I won’t pretend I know exactly what happened in Montreal,” he says. “But I’ve been there.”

Shane studies him.

“Toronto,” Barrett shrugs. “Different flavor, but same structure I hear. Someone always has to bleed.”

That Shane understands. He is all to aware that most places aren’t Ottawa.  

“If you ever want to grab a beer,” Barrett continues, casual but steady, “I’m around.” There’s no pity in his voice. Just some understanding and a door left open.

“Yeah,” Shane says after a second. “Okay.”

Troy nods once and pushes off.

It’s still early in the day when they step outside, the sun reflects hard off the snowbanks lining the lot, turning everything brighter than it was twelve hours ago. Shane pauses before they reach the car.

He looks back at the rink, not bracing this time. Just taking it in.

Yesterday, the arena had felt ominous, a monument to his worst fears. Today it feels more real. Imperfect. Loud. Complicated. But also manageable.

I think,” he says slowly, testing the words before they settle, “this might actually be a good team.”

Ilya studies him, not the building. “For you?” he asks. 

Shane shakes his head once. There’s still caution in him — there probably will be for a long time — but it isn’t running the show in the same way.

“For us,” he says. The correction is quiet but intentional.

Ilya reaches for his hand, fingers threading together easily, familiar and sure. He presses their joined hands briefly against his chest, a small, grounding weight between them.

“Yes,” he says. “It is.”

And when they turn toward the car, it does not feel like retreat.

Chapter End Notes

Thank you everyone who came along this ride with me! This was a fast and dirty project to dislodge this idea that kept bouncing around my head: how bad must the culture of that team been already that they would turn on their captain? I'll be going back in the next few days to clean a few things up and might at some point tag a more celebratory epilogue onto this thing but for now I'm just happy its out of my brain and into the world!

Works inspired by this one

[Restricted Work] by Erisiana