with many thanks to toyourdetriment for midwifing/betaing, hockeypicking, and helping me think up new ways to beat up shane.

if you want more info about what's all going on here, check the end notes (spoilers!)

AU after the end of ep 4; Rose doesn't tell him about himself and we're skipping allstars!

Shane realizes by the time he’s thirteen that being the fastest isn’t enough and being the most accurate isn’t enough and being the biggest is never going to happen. He has to be the smartest, to perceive what no one else can, and act first.

Shane has to see it coming.

*

Two months into his rookie season, 2-1 in the last period with Philly leading, and Shane bleeds all over home ice. It’s mortifying, red everywhere, and he needs a ref to help him back to his feet. A camera records every gush of blood from his nose, and he can hear the commentary already. Welcome to the NHL, Shane Hollander! Guy sure knows how to make an entrance. That is a lot of blood. Rookie mistake, am I right? For the number two draft pick, you’d think he’d know how to dodge a stick.

People are looking at him, and he can’t get his face under control, he can’t make himself stop bleeding. Olivia leads him off the ice with a stern expression. He’s seen other guys attempt to argue with her and he knows better than to try it.

“I’m fine,” he says as soon as she gets him sat down. It comes out garbled. He doesn’t know how to spit blood discreetly and it seems rude to bleed on her.

She hands him a cup wordlessly and sets about her examination. It involves a lot of looking in his mouth and feeling the bridge of his nose, which makes his eyes well up. A particularly hard squeeze forces a grunt out of him; his face feels uncharacteristically fragile.

“Sorry,” he mutters, and spits into the cup as politely as he can.

*

The first concussion happens when Shane is twelve.

Jake Ford gets checked too hard and just drops. Coach Harris, a burly six-two former enforcer with a foghorn voice, shouts at Jake to get up. He doesn’t. The entire game comes to an abrupt halt; Shane’s momentum carries him into the boards. Coach Harris turns fluid with urgency, rushing to Jake’s side, tossing his helmet off. Jake’s bleeding from one nostril and his pupils are glossy.

Harris’s big hand cradles the back of Jake’s bared head, the invention of tenderness.

*

The very first time Rozanov boards him, the breath surrenders from him in a rush.

No, not the first time. At Juniors, more than once. But the first time on NHL ice, their uniforms crisp and virginal, cameras watching, everyone watching, an announcer somewhere describing it with just enough relish to keep the viewers at home hooked, while Shane’s ribs heave and the pressure is already gone from his back.

His intercostals spasm and he thinks, deliriously, here, in front of everyone? But where else, what else for them, than this?

*

He loses his first tooth to the game at eleven. Spits it right out onto the ice, the exposed roots like a told secret, too surprised to cry.

His mom wrings her hands in the car on the way home, her tennis bracelet shimmering.

But his dad laughs. “Just a baby tooth, it was bound to come out eventually. You’re growing up, Shaney!”

He grins, showing off the gap. Left canine. His dad likes the look of it, and his mom takes a picture when they get home. For the next month, any time someone asks, Dad tells the story. Stick to the face and he didn’t even flinch. Mom laughs and says, That’s my brave boy.

He keeps running his tongue over it, that raw meat absence they’re so proud of.

*

Shane’s got two dislocated fingers and two hours before he needs to be back for curfew, and he can’t get any of that out before Rozanov’s shoving him against the door. He slams both Shane’s wrists against the door and Shane curses.

“Watch it,” he says, and holds up his hand, pinkie and ring finger taped together.

“Oh, poor owie booboo,” says Rozanov. His entire face is infuriating. Shane needs to be kissing it.

“Shut up, man.”

Rozanov does, his tongue filthy in Shane’s mouth. His hands roam restlessly as he crowds Shane against the door. He pins Shane again, both wrists; not as hard as he did the first time, but enough that Shane still feels the uncertainty in the dislocated fingers. Shane tests his grip, and it tightens to the point of pain.

“Next time my fingers taped together you will have to take them all at once,” Rozanov says into his neck.

Shane almost loses it before they’ve even begun.

*

Twelve, the first time he gets called a fag. Not directly, they’re not that bold yet, but it’s coming. In the locker room that smells of old sweat, always. They are beginning to smell of it too, acridity creeping in in fits and starts. Shane sniffs himself discreetly after practice, searching for that hot, bitter edge.

Tom Carney is the biggest boy on the team. The second fastest. He says to Brian O’Leary, don’t be such a fag, and the fricative whips round the room. Everyone’s eyes follow it, down to its natural resting place, to him. Usually when they make fun of him, it’s more direct; it’s the silence that unsettles him most. There is no accusation, and therefore no defence. Just the hit, landing from a long way away, like it was always going to connect.

*

A vicious elbow into his ribs in the second period, twice more in the third. The same spot, always, just under his armpit. Rozanov is nothing if not accurate.

Later, he presses his face to Shane’s armpit while he fucks him, spooned up behind him panting open mouthed into the sweat-damp hair there. The point of his chin digs into the edge of the bruise. It throbs bloodily, a second heart there just under the skin. Rozanov digs his chin in when he comes, a bright wash of pain up and down Shane’s whole side.

Rozanov shoves him over onto his back and finishes him with his mouth. Shane keeps one hand braced across his own chest, fingers dimpled into his skin, feeling always for the edge.

*

Can’t actually remember the first time, the thing with the eyes. It was always happening somewhere in his periphery, that gesture that had seemed strange and funny, until Shane realized it was directed at him. When he tells his mother, she goes very still and quiet, her mouth a thin line, and he realizes he upset her.

He is perhaps eight years old when he understands that some pains he will see coming for him in a sharp and brilliant arc; others will simply find a home inside him, and stay.

His mom asks in low, careful tones if he wants to go back to hockey camp; before she even finishes the question he says don’t make me leave. After that, he’s careful not to upset her. He can handle it.

*

Rozanov’s grin flashes in the corner of his eye; he knows it’s him, would know it anywhere. Seconds later, a strike across his forearm has him hissing through his teeth.The ref doesn’t catch it; Rozanov’s too smart for that. But his secrecy is imperfect and Boiziau sees, metes out swift justice in the form of a hard shove. Some of the other guys get in on it; pressure accretes like a horizon considering a storm, threatening a brawl.

But as soon as it begins to gather, it dissipates again. Rozanov accepts one more shove and the order of justice is satisfied. Balance restored. The message is clear: he can’t touch Shane without consequence. But the white beacon of his grin never leaves Shane’s periphery. His forearm throbs secretly under his uniform.

It doesn’t even bruise right away, just goes hard and kind of yellow in the centre and fades out into a light purple. It’ll be lurid in the morning.

Alone, Rozanov reels him in by the forearm; Shane grunts at the pressure and bites the grin off his mouth.

“Ah, did I hurt you?” His mockery is light, but so is his touch, running up the length of the bruise.

“You know you did, asshole.” Shane shoves his other hand down Rozanov’s sweats. He’s already hard. “That was a dick move.”

“Yeah but you like it.” Rozanov squeezes harder; Shane grinds into him, his own cock fat and needy in his briefs.

“Fuck off.” There’s heat in it, but not fury. He’s got Rozanov’s cock in his hand, already wet at the tip. Rozanov kisses him, hot seeking mouth and gripping fingers, massaging the bruise he left on Shane and swallowing down the little moans he can’t quite suppress. He’s felt worse without flinching, but Rozanov’s touch invents new nerves under his skin; they’re still fragile things.

Rozanov pulls away and sucks two fingers into his mouth. Right to the back of his throat, so Shane can feel his pulse from the inside. Is this what Rozanov feels when he fucks him? Shane curls his fingers, seeking.

Rozanov finally gags just a little and pulls away. Shane smirks against his neck; his own gag reflex is far better trained than that. He jerks Rozanov slowly, enjoying the heft of him in his hand. Ilya trails his mouth down the side of his hand, licking at the knob of his wrist and down to his forearm.

“You want me to kiss it better?” he murmurs to the bruise.

Shane snorts. “Sure, man.”

But Ilya kisses gently over it, smoothing one hand over the hair on his arm, gilded in the low lamplight. He licks a stripe up the whole thing, nearly wrist to elbow, and Shane thinks he must have been such a shit as a kid, licking cookies and putting them back on the plate.

He kisses back down again, to the hard centre of the thing. A flash of white–teeth, a grin–and Shane has a millisecond of understanding before Rozanov bites down.

A yelp tears itself out of Shane, a sound like he’s never heard himself make before. High, like a kicked dog. Pain ricochets up his entire arm. He swallows it quickly into a grunt. Swallows again, like he can reel the whole sound back into him, but it’s already out, hanging in the air between them.

Rozanov does it again.

“Fuck!” He jerks his arm back, and Rozanov lets go at once. “Fuck you, man, you can’t leave teeth marks.”

“Already bruised, no one will see.” He nips again, a little promise.

“That’s a big gamble.”

Rozanov shrugs. “Want you to remember me when you jerk off.”

“I’m ambidextrous.” To prove it, he gives Ilya a long, slow twist of his hand over the head of his dick.

Ilya’s eyelashes flutter, but he says, “You favour your right hand.”

“Do not,” he says, and gets his left around both of them, spits on their two flushed heads to slick the way. Rozanov makes a surprised noise and grabs his face roughly, shoving his tongue in Shane’s mouth in a rough panting kiss.

It’s going to be over so fast, their first round always is; his thrusts and his kisses get sloppy. The tip of Rozanov’s dick kisses his own, over and over again, wetly, sweetly, while his teeth worry Shane’s lower lip. In everything else, closing in on the end of something hones him, makes him a meticulous and subtle instrument. Here, he diffuses, leaking out at the edges, over his own fist, enough sensation that it has to flow out of him.

It spills out of his mouth, a murmured ah, ah, more breath than syllable. His balls are tight and heavy, his entire pelvis molten. He tightens his hand around them–

Pain cracks across his forearm, shaped like Ilya’s fingertips, already retreating. Shane’s breath chases it in a high cry.

“You fucking asshole,” Shane pants. He squeezes their cocks reflexively, grinding against his own grip.

“Not yet, Hollander,” Rozanov mutters. And then, blessedly, “Keep going.”

Shane does, his hand automatic, like it’s Rozanov’s nerves that control it and not his own. Maybe it is, something growing up into him from everywhere they touch. So maybe that’s how he knows it’s coming, as his abs start to quiver and his balls tighten, and Rozanov presses down viciously in the hard centre of the bruise. Shane lets it surge up and over him, the pain in his new nerves, up his arm and throat and out of his mouth in a wet string of curses.

For a week after, it hurts to jerk off. His forearm throbs with every movement of his wrist. After three days, his dick begins to feel chafed too, all familiar motions made newly tender.

*

Ankle sprain at fifteen, broken ribs and another lost tooth at sixteen. At seventeen, a hairline clavicle fracture that almost cost him his spot at Juniors.

He’s a good patient. Quiet, says please and thank you to the nurses, always does his physio. Never, ever complains.

*

Shane doesn’t need to pay to get into a club, because he’s Shane Hollander and he’s with Rose Landry. It’s new, the way people he doesn’t know turn to invite him into their conversations. He’s not sure he likes it; too much opportunity to say the wrong thing. The singular blessing is that it’s so loud, and so talking is limited.

Rose is beautiful, yes. He knows this by the way light refracts off her dress. Touching her is easy, the fabric smooth and cool against his hands. If he sticks close to her, people don’t brush up against him that much, and he doesn’t have to worry about strangers pressing against his bruised left side.

And yet still, pain a sudden strobe of light across his cheekbone: Rozanov, his hands on someone else, a woman, beautiful probably but Shane realizes he can’t really tell.

People brush by him, too close to where he’s mottled green all up his side from a hit he took and absorbed and ignored. He’s felt worse. He has.

*

Shane rises from the twilight of a bad nap, into an unpleasant wet spot on his pillow that smells like the inside of his mouth. Like his whole body can’t stop leaking.

His head’s pounding. Or–no, that’s the door. He gets his feet under him. His ribs protest, new bruises layered on top of old ones.

The pounding doesn’t let up. Shane navigates his apartment at a slow shuffle. His mom bought a bunch of blackout curtains. They’re up everywhere, but the ones Amazon sells aren’t quite long enough for his penthouse windows, so shards of reflected light flash up from the floor in a painful strobe. He put his sunglasses down somewhere. And his water. The world comes to him in grey outlines and sudden collisions—the coffee table, the edge of a chair.

Twist of nausea when he wrenches the door open, like his body already knows: Rozanov. Refracted hallway fluorescence off the gold at his temple stabs at Shane’s abused visual nerve.

Ilya shoulders in silently. Shane stumbles aside. Shocked, maybe, or wanting to be shocked but not really managing it. He can’t manage much right now.

“Look like shit,” Rozanov says eventually.

“Yeah, thanks for that.” He can speak, he can form words, he can make himself understood.

Rozanov peers closer. “Surgeon did a good job.” His hand flutters in Shane’s peripheral vision, like he’s going to touch his face. Shane can’t flinch fast enough, his body’s reactions all snarled, but Rozanov thinks the better of it. Shane’s nose and zygomatic arch are held together with tiny screws.

“You should have asked for facelift to go with it.”

“Fuck off.”

HIs surgeon said routine is good for him right now, rhythms of sleeping and taking his drugs to help his brain heal. So Shane lets himself have a second of it, familiar soothing syllables doled out like opioids.

But it wears off fast. In the shadowbox of his kitchen, they’re wind up toys after their mechanisms have broken. Shane rubs his fingers over the precise marble edge of the countertop. His designer had liked the pattern; now, Shane finds the uneven splotches make his eyes hurt.

“Why are you here?” He is so, so unbelievably tired.

“I had time.” One game suspension, Coach had told him. It answers nothing; he has a job, they’ll be expecting him at practice. And yet here he is, in Shane’s apartment. The flight from Boston to Montreal is only an hour and a half. There is no apology anywhere in Rozanov’s face. Shane would never think to look for it, but he can see its absence.

“You shouldn’t have come, I could have–you know, someone here.”

“Taking care of you?” Ilya’s lip curls. “Your mommy or girlfriend bringing you soup, fluffing your pillow? Sure.”

Rose is shooting in LA; she calls daily. But Shane sleeps a lot, so he misses her calls sometimes. A lot. His mom comes by often to check on him. She keeps touching his face to check his stitches. Shane holds still; he can make himself hold still.

“Don’t be stupid,” he says. “I’m going to be out for the playoffs.” He leans against the fridge. The cold stainless feels good on the back of his arms.

Rozanov slouches against the island, one hip cocked. Shane knows what he looks like when he’s actually relaxed, so the pose just looks funny. “Metros are choking without you. Kinda funny, kinda sad.”

“But Boston’s fine without you.”

A muscle twitches in Rozanov’s face. “I raised them well, they can survive a game without me.”

Shane wants to cry. He observes the reaction like it’s happening somewhere else. Emotional volatility is a symptom. Everything is a fucking symptom these days.

He sways; Rozanov catches his elbow. He was not there and then he is, sudden always.

“You should lie down before you hurt yourself.”

“I don’t think you get to say that to me.”

“I am the only one here.”

In another voice, that would be a come on. His dick doesn’t know that it isn’t. The rest of him doesn’t know what it is.

Rozanov leads him back to bed. They stumble again into each other, but Rozanov steers him around the furniture. His head hits the pillow, crashing impact gone soft and melting. He sleeps.

*

The first time, Rozanov asks “Is it hurting?”

The blunt head of his cock stretches, stretches, stretches, renders Shane’s body strange and gasping.

Shane says, “Don’t stop.”

*

Waking again, startled by the fracture of the day. His phone ringing Rose’s name. He silences it. He comes out of the downstairs bedroom into the strips of daylight on the floor faded to red. The silenced TV is a bright wall of pain before it abruptly shuts off. Rozanov turns around.

“Why are you still here?” Shane asks.

“My flight is later.”

“Oh.” He comes to sit on the couch. Acres of cushion separate them. “How are they doing without you?”

“Bad. Obviously.”

“A suspension seems a little harsh,” he says to the black screen.

“You cannot even open your eyes fully, Hollander.”

“That’s the game though, right?” He shrugs. “We’re all gonna get hit in the head eventually. Guess you were my first.”

Breath leaves Rozanov in a rush. He’d been holding it, Shane realizes.

“Here’s what I don’t understand, Hollander. You are very skilled hockey player. You have been checked before. I have checked you before.” Rozanov swallows; Shane waits, but it seems like the end of the sentence has died.

Shane picks at the knee of his sweatpants. “Maybe you just play dirty.”

Rozanov looks away, a silhouette in the dim light. Indistinct. “I have hurt people many times. I broke Layton’s collarbone what, last month?”

“I remember that.” It was always strange to watch Ilya bear another man to the ground, to feel, just for a moment, the other guy’s breathlessness in his own chest.

“But I am not stupid, Hollander. I am not that reckless.”

Rozanov is here, in his living room: flagrantly, outrageously reckless. “Yeah you are,” he says. “We both are.”

A twitch in Rozanov’s mouth, a loosening across the shoulders. Shane, without meaning to, has given him the answer to a question he never quite asked. “How reckless are you, Shane Hollander?”

He looms to his feet, dark shape in a dark room. Shane realizes he’s parted his knees a little. His body, floating and distant to him these days, arrives to him in a rush, shaped already how Roanov wants it.

Ilya leans down, bracing his hands on the back of the couch. “I think you are very reckless. Perhaps even reckless enough not to protect your head when you saw a hit coming.”

Caught. Shane’s heart like a fish on a hook, flopping uselessly. It had not been a decision, not the way he made every other decision in his life. He’d seen the brilliant streak of Rozanov headed right for him, meteor-bright. He had made of himself a perfect plane, an eager surface. He’d turned his head, and taken it like a man.

Rozanov leans down to kiss him and Shane thinks, this is gonna hurt.

The kiss lands with the barest expression of breath. From anyone else, Shane might call it tentative; from Rozanov, it’s merely careful.

Shane is so tired of being careful.

He surges up into it; his head throbs. His blood throbs. His body announces itself to him in a series of aches that are hard to distinguish from pleasure. He’s already half-hard. Rozanov cups his face, his thumb rubbing just at the edge of the bruise on Shane’s cheekbone.

Shane turns his face into the touch. His stitches are tender when he brushes them against Rozanov’s thumb.

Ilya makes a noise in the back of his throat. Vulnerable. His thumb presses in at the edge of the swelling.

Shane gasps, swallows the gasp. Flinches, stills the flinch.

Rozanov digs in harder. Pain a sunburst in his face, radiating up into his temple and down into his cheek. He can feel it in his teeth. Swallows around it, his throat working like it’s too big for him and he’s going to puke.

Ilya moves his thumb. Right on the sutures, not tentative now, rubbing the texture of what might eventually be a scar before pressing in harder. “Give it up,” he says softly. “Give it to me.”

Shane jerks in his hand. His jaw throbs from clenching. Static in the corners of his eyes, the echo of his own blood in his ears.

“This is mine, Shane, isn’t it?” His breath is hot on Shane’s face. “This is for me. So show me.”

The surgeon said she had put two screws in his face; up until this point, it had been purely academic. Now, under Ilya’s thumb, Shane can feel them, metal briefly ennervated by pain. He can feel it all, his bruised ribs and his two dental implants, the inflamed tendon in his elbow, and the ghost of the clavicle fracture from his teens. Every old wound is up out of its grave, converging on the white-hot pressure of Ilya’s thumb on his face. He has never felt pain like this; he has always felt pain like this.

Ilya’s forefinger brushes away wetness and Shane realizes he’s broken. It did not announce itself in a crash; he just overflowed. Whatever he’s holding can’t hold back anymore, running out of his face and down over Ilya’s fingers. And so he lets it, unleashing a great sob out of the echo of his chest, bending forward to grind his face harder into Ilya’s hand as the pain surges up and through and out of him.

Ilya pushes two fingers into his mouth. Shane sucks as best he can around the heave of his sobs. Ilya’s face above him a lip-parted reverence, unrelenting and tender.

He takes his hand away from Shane’s face, and Shane whimpers at the loss. It is not usually a sound he allows himself; it feels good coming out of his throat. He does it again, around the fingers still in his mouth.

A grunt above him, and Ilya fumbles his sweats down, his hard cock springing out. He wraps the hand wet with Shane’s tears around himself, head tipping back with a low groan. Shane leans forward, mouthing at his balls, chasing the attar of his sweat. He presses the suture and its bruises to Ilya’s cock as he jerks himself, the fingers of his other hand in Shane’s mouth, fingering those two implants as Shane drools. Pain, sweet with the skin contact of Ilya’s body, sings in his face.

“Shane, fuck,” he whispers. He pulls Shane back by the hook in his mouth. His hand moves fast, hard and tight at the tip the way Shane knows he likes it. Ilya’s lower lip is caught between his teeth; his ribs heave like something is trying to get out of him. He rubs the wet tip of his cock once, twice over Shane’s sutured cheek, and comes with a bitten-off moan, spraying hot and salty over Shane’s face, over the healing scar. Closing his eyes against it feels like losing something.

Ilya’s fingers tremble minutely against his cheek as he wipes it away; on pure needful instinct, Shane turns his head and sucks Ilya’s bitter fingers into his mouth. Ilya makes a choked off noise and falls to his knees like his strings have been cut. He crowds Shane against the couch, brushing his lips over the apex of the bruising. Shane turns his head to chase his mouth, but Ilya takes him by the jaw and holds him still. His tongue drags soft and wet over Shane’s cheek, flicking along the sutures as he licks the cum off him.

“Please,” Shane breathes.

Ilya pulls back just far enough to spit in his mouth. It tastes like relief.

Shane swallows, surges forward, kisses him, a single clear line of motion. Ilya makes a surprised noise, jerks at the impact, like a hit he wasn’t expecting.

And here’s Shane like he always is, his demanding mouth, his frenetic starvation. Nearly ten years of going and coming back and going again, always the door in the corner of his eye, even as they kiss. Ilya can tolerate his neediness because he can leave it behind. Shane’s stuck with himself.

Still. “Kiss me,” Shane says. Pleads, really. His face hurts; his head hurts. Somewhere in his chest, some forgotten muscle clenches tight. He is a professional athlete; he can account for every muscle and tendon and work it to exquisite exhaustion. But something inside him has escaped him now, and now it hurts in a way he doesn’t recognize.

Rozanov sinks to his knees between Shane’s legs. His shoulders are so stiff, like his neck is misarticulated and his head perched badly atop it. The chain of his cross gleams at his throat. The metal will be warm from his skin, salty with sweat. He rubs his hands slowly up Shane’s legs. They clench and release on his quads.

“You want me to? Really?”

His cheeks burn. He feels nauseous. Probably the concussion. “Yeah, asshole, that’s why I asked. But not if you’re going to be a dick about it.”

“Even after–?” He touches Shane’s cheek lightly. Shane hisses through his teeth. At this angle, the touch is different.

“Yeah.”

Ilya cups his chin, runs his thumb over Shane’s lips.

Shane doesn’t mean to do it, he doesn’t, but his thumb is right there and he opens on instinct, sucks it into his mouth. Ilya makes a startled noise, like he’s never felt the inside of Shane’s mouth before even though his fingers are still wet from it. Ilya jerks him forward by the lower teeth and kisses him, a real kiss, open mouthed and too much pressure on his healing face.

Ilya bites at his lower lip as he pulls back; Shane whines at the pressure on his lip, but the pressure in his chest eases.

“You,” Ilya breathes. A silver flicker in the dim as his eyes search Shane’s face. Shane doesn’t know what he’s looking for, or what he finds. “You.”

He could live in that look. In the hours nested secretly into these long years, he has. The knowledge arrives in him at the end of a long arc, coming lightly to rest.

“You came a long way,” says Shane.

“Yes.” Ilya's face shutters, like Shane has accused him of something, which he has.

“Good.”

Ilya fidgets with his hands before tucking them under his legs. “I should go soon. I have flight to catch.” He doesn’t move.

“Yeah. Okay.” He swallows hard. Braces. “But you should come back.”

Even in the low light, Shane can see the flinch. “You would want that?” Ilya can’t quite keep the disbelief out of his voice.

Shane reaches out and touches his shoulder. He’s been this close the whole time. “Yeah.”

“Okay. Then I will.”

He unfolds himself to his full height, looming over Shane on the couch. He should be a good host and walk Ilya out. But before he can even try to stand, Ilya presses a firm hand to his shoulder.

“Do not. Stay there.”

Shane lets the pressure of his hand sink him further into the couch. It’s nice. Ilya leans over him and kisses him once more. Sweetly, tenderly. Then he presses his thumb to Shane’s cheek. “Heal this well for me.”

“I will. Promise.”

Ilya squeezes his hand once before he goes. Shane turns to watch him, the sway of his back, the blare of light on the wall as the door opens. His profile, angelic, as he turns back, the looking made painful the way sudden beauty is painful. By what it reveals.

whatimages @ tumblr

content notes: Shane and Ilya are doing high-risk completely unnegotiated sadomasochism using preexisting hockey injuries, at one point while Shane is actively concussed. they are not doing SSC, they are not doing RACK, they are rawdogging it on impulse and a dream. they're both obviously into it, but if good consent practices in fiction are important to you, you might want to skip this!