Shane had once convinced himself that marriage to Ilya Rozanov would be the final piece of his life’s puzzle. He imagined a future where his confidence bloomed, fuelled by the unwavering support of a man who truly saw him. They were supposed to be the powerhouse duo of Ottawa, playing side by side on their new hockey team and living just a short drive away from Shane’s parents. The memories of their wedding day remained etched in his mind as the pinnacle of his existence, a secret sanctuary built after the chaos of the airplane accident where Ilya had nearly lost his life.

No one knew. Not their teammates, not the media, not even Shane’s own parents who lived just minutes away. The truth of it existed in a fragile, carefully guarded space, tucked out of sight from a world that would not understand. There had been no celebration, no announcements, no photographs to mark the moment as real in anyone else’s eyes. Just the two of them, standing in a quiet, almost empty chapel, hands trembling as they promised each other something that was never meant to be seen.

Only the priest who married them had witnessed it, his voice soft and steady as he guided them through vows that felt too big for the smallness of that room. Even now, Shane sometimes wondered if it had truly happened, or if it had been something fragile and dreamlike that might disappear if he tried to hold onto it too tightly.

It had been theirs. Only theirs. And maybe that had been the first crack.

But the sanctuary was beginning to crumble.

The shift was subtle at first. Ilya began going out more, his laughter echoing in rooms Shane wasn’t invited to, spilling into spaces where Shane did not exist. The word “boring” started to slip from Ilya’s lips with a frequency that felt like a slow bloodletting, each repetition carving something quieter and smaller out of Shane. It wasn’t the playful teasing Shane was used to. This “boring” landed differently, with a weight that lingered long after the word itself had faded.

The tension finally snapped one evening in their living room. It had been an ordinary night, the kind Shane used to find comfort in. The lights were low, the air faintly warm, dinner left half-finished on the table as it slowly went cold. Shane had been waiting, though he would never admit it out loud, listening for the sound of the door, for the familiar rhythm of Ilya coming home.

When it finally came, it did not bring relief.

Ilya stepped inside with a sharp exhale, like he was already carrying the weight of something that had nothing to do with Shane. His expression was tight, his shoulders tense, and when his eyes landed on Shane, something in them hardened instead of softening.

“Since when are we going to stop hiding, Shane?” Ilya said.

The words cut through the quiet, abrupt and unforgiving.

Ilya turned on him fully, his eyes burning with a mixture of exhaustion and resentment, something raw and uncontained flickering just beneath the surface.

“Ilya, please,” Shane whispered, reaching out, only for Ilya to flinch away like the touch would burn him. “You know how much I love you. It’s just… if I do this, I could lose everything. The career, the team, my parents’ peace of mind. I’m scared.”

“You’re scared of losing a world that doesn't even know the real you,” Ilya countered, his voice dropping into something quieter, sharper, far more dangerous. “But you aren't scared of losing me.”

The words did not sound like anger. They sounded like something worse. Something tired. Something that had already started giving up.

“That’s not true,” Shane said immediately. “Don’t say that. You know that’s not true.”

“Do I?” Ilya asked.

Shane stepped forward, slower this time, like approaching something fragile instead of something volatile.

“I chose you,” he said. “I married you. Doesn’t that mean anything?”

Ilya laughed. It was hollow, sharp around the edges.

“Married me?” Ilya said. “To who, Shane?”

“To me,” Shane said. “To us. You were there. You said the vows too.”

“In an empty chapel,” Ilya said. “With no one there. No family, no friends, no teammates. No proof. No life. Just us pretending that was enough.”

“It was enough,” Shane said. “It was supposed to be enough.”

“For you,” Ilya said.

Silence fell.

“For you, it was enough,” he continued. “Because you got everything you wanted. You got me, but you didn’t have to give anything back. You didn’t have to risk anything. You didn’t have to stand next to me when it mattered.”

“That’s not fair,” Shane said. “You know it’s not that simple.”

“It is that simple,” Ilya said. “I am your husband, Shane. Your husband. And I have to listen to people talk about who I should date. I have to watch them look at me like I’m available, like I’m alone, like I don’t belong to anyone.”

His voice broke slightly.

“Like I don’t belong to you.”

“You do,” Shane said quickly. “You do belong to me. I belong to you. That hasn’t changed.”

“Then why does it feel like I’m the only one who knows it?” Ilya asked.

Shane had no answer.

“I stand next to you on the ice,” Ilya said after a moment. “I fight for you. I trust you. Everyone can see that. They see how we play, how we look at each other. They joke about it, they speculate, they get close to the truth without ever touching it.”

He swallowed.

“And then I go out there alone. Every time. Because you won’t stand next to me when it actually counts.”

“I am standing next to you,” Shane said.

“Not where it matters,” Ilya said.

“I’m trying,” Shane said. “I just need more time.”

“I almost died,” Ilya said.

Shane froze.

“I almost died, and the only thing I could think about was you. Not hockey. Not my career. Not what people would say. Just you. I thought if I survived, I wouldn’t waste another second hiding. I wouldn’t live half a life.”

His eyes stayed locked on Shane.

“But that’s exactly what this is. A half-life. And I’m tired of it.”

“So, what are you saying?” Shane asked.

“I’m saying I can’t keep doing this,” Ilya replied.

“I can’t keep loving you like this, in the dark, like I’m something you’re ashamed to bring into the light.”

“I’m not ashamed,” Shane said.

“Then prove it,” Ilya said.

Shane went still.

“Come with me,” Ilya said. “Next time. Anywhere. Let people see. Let them know. Just once.”

Shane didn’t answer.

The silence stretched.

Then something in Ilya’s expression changed. It closed.

“Yeah,” Ilya said quietly.

The same word as before.

But this time it meant there would not be another one.

The following morning felt like a funeral. The apartment was too quiet, the kind of quiet that pressed against Shane’s ears until it hurt. The bed had been too big without Ilya in it, the empty space beside him cold and untouched, like it had already forgotten what it was meant to hold. Shane had barely slept, drifting in and out of shallow, restless thoughts, every version of the same conversation looping endlessly in his head. He had tried to rewrite it, tried to fix it. In some versions, he said the right thing immediately. In others, Ilya softened just enough for Shane to reach him, enough to stay. By the time morning came, his chest felt raw from it, like he had been holding his breath all night.

He found Ilya in the kitchen. For a moment, everything felt painfully normal. The soft light filtering through the window, the quiet hum of the fridge, the familiar shape of Ilya standing at the counter. It almost tricked Shane into believing nothing had changed. Ilya’s movements were precise, methodical, like he had stripped every ounce of emotion out of them just to get through this.

“Ilya, we can talk about this,” Shane said, his voice trembling despite how carefully he tried to steady it.

Ilya didn’t look up.

“I want a divorce.”

The words did not sound loud, but they hit like something violent, something that knocked the air clean out of Shane’s lungs. For a second, he could not breathe, could not think, like his body had not caught up to what he had just heard.

“What?” Shane’s voice came out strangled, barely there. “No, Ilya, we can’t do that. Ilya, please look at me.”

He crossed the space between them too quickly, like if he did not close the distance immediately, Ilya might disappear entirely.

“I can fix it,” Shane rushed out, panic breaking through every word. “I can fix us. I will come out. I’ll do it, Ilya. I promise.”

The promise hung there, fragile and desperate. It was everything Ilya had asked for, and Shane could feel even as he said it that it did not land the way it should have. It sounded like bargaining, like something offered only when there was nothing else left. Tears blurred his vision, but he blinked hard, refusing to let them fall. Not yet. Not when this still felt salvageable.

Ilya stopped moving. For a moment, hope surged so sharply in Shane’s chest it almost hurt. But Ilya didn’t turn. He just stood there, shoulders slightly slumped, like something inside him had finally given out. Then he shook his head, a small movement that still managed to shatter everything.

“We can’t, Shane,” Ilya said quietly. “It’s too late to offer pieces of yourself when the whole foundation is gone.”

The words settled heavy between them, final in a way that made Shane’s stomach drop.

“Ilya, please,” Shane choked out, stepping closer, his hands hovering like he did not know where he was allowed to touch anymore. “We can make it work. I’ll tell the team today. I’ll call a press conference. Anything. I’ll do anything you want.”

He meant it. If Ilya asked him to stand in front of the entire world and tear himself open just to prove this was real, he would.

“I’m going to start moving my things out this afternoon,” Ilya said.

His voice was empty, and that made it unbearable.

“I’ll have the documents sent to you by the end of the week.”

“Ilya!” Shane’s voice cracked as the tears finally spilled over. “Ilya, please!”

He followed him toward the door, each step more unsteady than the last, like the ground beneath him was shifting.

“Yes, we can,” Shane insisted, the words tumbling out, frantic and uneven. “Please, Ilya, look at me. Just once. Just look at me.”

He needed it, needed something to hold onto, some sign that this was not already over.

But Ilya did not turn.

By the time Shane reached him, his legs gave out beneath him, the strength draining all at once. He barely registered the impact as his knees hit the floor.

“Ilya, please,” he sobbed, the sound raw and breaking. “Don’t do this. Don’t leave me. Please.”

The words went unanswered. Ilya’s hand rested on the doorknob for a second longer than necessary. For one fragile moment, Shane thought he might turn back.

But then the door opened.

And then it closed.

The sound was soft, but final, echoing through the apartment like something irreversible. Shane stayed where he was, collapsed on the floor, his chest heaving with a grief too big for him to hold. The silence that followed was unbearable.

It did not rush in all at once. It crept, slow and suffocating. The echo of the door lingered in his bones as he remained on his knees, his hands still half-reached toward something that was no longer there.

“Ilya,” he tried again, his voice breaking, too quiet to reach anything beyond the empty space.

There was no answer.

His hands fell slowly to his sides, fingers curling into the fabric of his jeans as if trying to anchor himself to something real. Everything felt distant, like he was watching his own life from the outside.

This was not how it was supposed to go. They were supposed to fight, to say things they did not mean, to slam doors and cool off and come back. Ilya was supposed to come back. He always came back.

Shane dragged in a sharp breath, his gaze flickering toward the door, half-expecting it to open again.

It didn’t.

Eventually, the stillness became unbearable. Shane pushed himself up, unsteady, shaking his head like he could undo everything by refusing to accept it.

“No,” he whispered. “No, no, no…”

He grabbed his phone with trembling hands, fumbling as he unlocked it. Ilya’s name was still there, familiar, constant.

Shane pressed call.

It rang.

Once.

Twice.

Then silence.

The call ended.

“Pick up,” Shane murmured, already dialling again. “Ilya, come on, just pick up. We just need to talk. That’s all. We didn’t finish. You can’t just leave like that.”

Voicemail.

“Ilya,” Shane said quickly, words rushing out before the tone cut him off. “I didn’t mean it. I mean, I did, but not like that, not the way you think. I was scared. I am scared. But I’ll do it. I will. You want me to tell people? Fine. I’ll tell them. I’ll tell everyone. I don’t care. I just… come back. Please. We can fix this. We always fix it.”

The line went dead.

Shane lowered the phone slowly, his hand trembling. The apartment felt wrong, too quiet, too still. His eyes drifted to the small things that suddenly felt unbearable to look at. Ilya’s jacket over the chair. His skates by the door. A mug on the counter, still faintly marked from where his lips had touched it.

“I’m going to start moving my things out this afternoon.”

The words echoed again.

“No,” Shane whispered, louder now, his voice cracking. “No, he won’t. He didn’t mean that. He was just upset.”

But he knew.

Ilya had not looked at him. Not once.

Shane stumbled back until his shoulders hit the wall, his chest too tight, his breathing uneven. He had offered, too late maybe, but he had offered.

“I’ll come out. I’ll do it. I promise.”

The words replayed in his head, twisting into something painful. Why had that not been enough?

A broken sound left him as he dragged a hand through his hair, pacing now, restless and frantic.

“Okay,” he said to the empty room. “Okay, I can fix this. I just need to do it properly.”

His gaze snapped to his phone again. The team. The press. If that was what it took, then fine. He would do it. He would burn everything down if it meant Ilya came back.

Shane scrolled through his contacts, his thumb hovering over a name that suddenly felt heavier than anything else. This was the line he had never been able to cross, the life he had built so carefully, so quietly.

For Ilya.

Only for Ilya.

His hand trembled before he finally pressed call.

The phone rang.

And as he stood there, shaking, waiting for someone to answer and change everything, the apartment around him no longer felt like a home. It felt like a shell, something that had once held something precious and had not been enough to keep it.

The locker room of the Centaurs used to be filled with the rhythmic sound of Ilya’s boisterous laughter and the sharp, effortless banter that flowed between him and Shane like a perfectly timed play. They had been the centre of it all, something bright and alive that pulled the rest of the team in, a connection so natural it never needed to be explained. There had always been an ease between them, a quiet understanding built in glances and half-smiles, something no one could quite name but everyone could feel. Now, the silence between them had weight, something heavy and suffocating that followed them everywhere, pressing into every moment until even the scrape of blades against ice felt too loud, too sharp, like it was cutting through something already broken.

During morning practice, the tension settled over the rink like a storm no one could see but everyone could sense. There had been a time when Ilya would have gone out of his way to disrupt Shane, hooking his ankle just to watch him stumble, grinning when Shane shoved him back with mock irritation. It had been their rhythm, their language, something that made them sharper, better, more in sync. Now, Ilya skated past him like he wasn’t there. No glance, no hesitation, not even the smallest flicker of acknowledgment. When the puck came his way, Ilya redirected it without thinking, passing cleanly to someone else, anyone else, like Shane existed just outside the edges of his awareness. It wasn’t accidental, and that was what made it unbearable. It was deliberate, controlled, something chosen again and again with quiet precision. Shane felt it every time, each missed pass, each avoided glance carving the distance deeper between them.

“Hey, Hollander, you’re trailing on the transition,” Hayes called out, his voice cutting through the fog in Shane’s head.

Shane blinked, the world snapping back into focus too quickly, too harshly, the rink suddenly too bright under the lights. “Sorry. I’ve got it,” he said, but the words felt hollow even as he spoke them. His body lagged behind the game, reacting a second too slow, like everything inside him was out of sync. He missed passes he would have caught without thinking weeks ago, lost edges he should have held, his movements stiff and uncertain in a way that didn’t belong to him. The rhythm that had once come so naturally now felt foreign, something he had to force instead of something he could feel.

After practice, the locker room filled with noise again, laughter echoing off the walls, voices overlapping in easy familiarity as the team slipped back into something that resembled normal. Shane sat on the bench, unmoving, his elbows resting on his knees, his gaze fixed somewhere near his skates but not really seeing them. His gear felt heavier than usual, like it was dragging him down instead of something he wore without thought. Beside him, his post-workout meal sat untouched, the container still sealed, condensation clinging faintly to the lid. Usually, he would have opened it immediately, every bite measured, every calorie accounted for with the same discipline he applied to everything else in his life. Now, it just sat there, cold and unappealing, as if it no longer served a purpose.

“You going to eat that, Shane?” Troy Barret asked, his voice lighter than the concern underneath it.

Shane didn’t look up. “Not hungry. Just tired,” he murmured, the excuse automatic, worn thin from repetition. Barret lingered, leaning against the lockers, studying him in a way that made the silence stretch uncomfortably.

“You look like you’re fading into the wall, man,” he said after a moment, and Shane let out a quiet breath that might have been a laugh if it had any life in it.

“I’m fine,” Shane replied, though nothing about him made that believable.

“We’re all going to that new steakhouse tonight, celebrate the win against Toronto. You should come. You haven’t been out with us in weeks.”

“I can’t. I’m going to bed early. I need the rest.”

“You said that on Tuesday. And Friday.” Barret glanced across the room before lowering his voice. “Is everything okay with you and Rozanov?.”

That was what made Shane finally look up. The movement was slow, like it cost him something, and the sight of him was enough to make the concern on Barret’s face sharpen. His eyes were bloodshot, rimmed red, dark circles carved deep beneath them in a way no amount of bright arena lighting could hide.

“We’re fine,” Shane said, the lie sitting heavy between them. “Just focused on the game.”

He stood before Barret could press further, his legs stiff and unsteady, grabbing his bag like the motion alone could get him out of the conversation. Across the room, Ilya laughed, bright and effortless, the same sound Shane knew by heart. For a split second, Shane turned toward it on instinct, his chest tightening painfully at how familiar it felt, and how little it belonged to him now.

The fans were starting to notice. Clips circulated online, small moments Shane didn’t even remember, him staring blankly from the bench, missing passes that used to be instinct, moving like his body was there but everything else had fallen behind. The comments were worse, filled with speculation and concern, people picking apart the visible cracks. During post-game autograph sessions, Shane forced a weak smile, his hand moving automatically as he signed whatever was put in front of him, barely speaking, barely looking at anyone. He left as quickly as he could, avoiding cameras, avoiding questions, avoiding anything that might require him to hold himself together for longer than he could manage.

As he headed down the narrow hallway toward the exit, his thoughts heavy and unfocused, he nearly collided with Ilya. They both stopped short, the space between them suddenly too small, too fragile. For a brief, impossible moment, hope surged so sharply in Shane’s chest it almost hurt.

“Ilya,” he said, his voice cracking under the weight of it. “I started the paperwork for the public announcement. I’m going to tell the PR team tomorrow. We can stop the divorce. Please.”

The words tumbled out too quickly, desperate and unsteady, like if he didn’t say them now, he would lose the chance entirely. Ilya went still, but he didn’t turn around. He adjusted the strap of his gear bag on his shoulder instead, his posture rigid, controlled in a way that made the distance feel intentional.

“The PR team doesn’t matter anymore, Shane,” he said, his voice flat and cold, each word landing with quiet precision. “You’re doing it because you’re losing your life, not because you finally realized I was worth the risk. There’s a difference.”

Shane felt something inside his chest collapse under the weight of it.

“I’m starving for you, Ilya,” he said, the words slipping out raw and unfiltered as he gestured weakly to himself, to the way his body had thinned, to the quiet evidence of everything falling apart. “I can’t eat, I can’t sleep. I’m dying without us.”

For a moment, there was nothing. Then Ilya turned, and the expression on his face wasn’t anger. That would have been easier. It was something quieter, something controlled but still painfully present, flickering in his eyes before settling into something firm and unyielding.

“Then you should probably eat something, Shane,” he said softly. “Because us doesn’t exist anymore. Get some sleep. You’re playing like a man who’s already given up.”

Then he walked away, his footsteps echoing down the corridor, steady and unhurried, each one widening the distance between them. Shane didn’t follow. He couldn’t. He just stood there, unmoving, the walls suddenly feeling too close, the space too tight, like it was closing in around him. For the first time, it wasn’t just the fear of losing Ilya that hollowed him out. It was the quiet, unbearable realization that he already had.

The dynamic on the ice had changed so gradually that Shane almost hadn’t noticed it at first. What used to feel instinctive between them now felt rehearsed, forced, and painfully distant. Their movements no longer mirrored each other. Passes that once landed perfectly now missed by inches. Even their eye contact had disappeared. It was no longer a partnership. It was two players sharing the same rink, bound by obligation instead of trust. The cold professionalism between them cut sharper than any skate blade ever could.

With the captain’s “C” stitched firmly onto Ilya’s jersey, the imbalance became impossible to ignore. Ilya was not just his husband anymore. He was his captain. His authority extended beyond their home, beyond their relationship, and into every second Shane spent on the ice. And the silence that came from that leadership role was suffocating. Ilya spoke to everyone else. He corrected, encouraged, commanded. But when it came to Shane, there was nothing. No acknowledgment. No softness. No trace of what they used to be.

The locker room reflected that shift. It used to be alive with noise, laughter, and Ilya’s booming voice filling every corner. He had always been the centre of gravity, pulling the team together with effortless charisma. Shane used to sit closest to him, drawn in like everyone else but for reasons no one else understood. Now the air felt tight, brittle, like something could crack at any moment.

Ilya stood at the whiteboard, marker in hand, his posture rigid and controlled. His voice carried clearly across the room, but there was no warmth in it.

“Power play units, listen up.”

The sharp tap of the marker against the board punctuated his words.

“We run the same setup, but faster. Move the puck immediately. No hesitation. If you are not ready to play at full intensity, stay on the bench.”

His gaze swept across the room, landing briefly on each player. It skipped over Shane completely, as if he were invisible.

Shane felt the words hit him anyway. They settled heavy in his chest, tightening his lungs. He sat hunched forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor between his skates. His jersey hung loosely on him now, the fabric no longer stretched over the strong, disciplined frame he used to maintain. The careful routines that once defined him had fallen apart. Meals skipped. Workouts half-finished. Sleep fractured and restless.

Inside his locker, his pre-game meal sat untouched. A small stack of plain crackers and a protein shake stared back at him like a quiet accusation. He had forced himself to take a sip earlier, but it had sat in his stomach like something foreign. Hunger didn’t feel like hunger anymore. It felt like absence. Like something essential had been hollowed out.

“Shane.”

The sound of his name cut through everything.

He looked up slowly. His eyes were sunken, rimmed with dark shadows that made him look older, worn down in a way that had nothing to do with the game. For a brief moment, his gaze met Ilya’s.

“You’re on the second line tonight.”

Ilya’s expression did not change.

“Don’t slow them down.”

There was no room for interpretation. No encouragement hidden beneath it. Just a warning, clean and precise.

Shane swallowed hard and gave a small nod, though he wasn’t sure if Ilya even saw it.

The game itself blurred together. Skates carving into ice, sticks clashing, the dull roar of the crowd rising and falling. Shane was there, but not fully present. He missed passes he would normally anticipate. He hesitated where he used to act instantly. Every movement felt delayed, like he was a fraction of a second behind the entire world.

They won, but it was narrow and messy. The kind of win that felt more like survival than success.

Back in the locker room, the mood shifted quickly. Relief turned into celebration. Laughter bounced off the walls, gear clattered, voices overlapped. At the centre of it all was Ilya again, louder than anyone, his energy almost exaggerated.

“Come on, boys! First round is on me.”

He tossed his bag into his locker with a heavy thud. A chorus of cheers answered him.

For a moment, the team’s attention drifted toward Shane.

He was still sitting, bent over his skates, fingers working slowly at the laces. They trembled slightly, making the simple task take longer than it should have.

“You coming, Shane?” one of the rookies asked, his tone cautious. “Ilya’s buying.”

Shane didn’t look up. His voice came out quiet and strained.

“I can’t. I’m going to bed early. I need… I just need to sleep.”

The rookie hesitated, then frowned.

“You look like a ghost, man.”

His eyes flicked toward Ilya, as if expecting him to step in, to say something, to do something.

Ilya didn’t.

He zipped his bag with a sharp, final sound.

“Leave him be. If he wants to sleep, let him sleep. We have a flight tomorrow.”

That was it. No concern. No second glance.

The room emptied quickly after that. The noise faded, replaced by the low hum of the fluorescent lights. Shane sat there a moment longer, letting the silence settle over him. His chest rose and fell unevenly before he finally stood, his legs unsteady beneath him.

The hallway outside was colder, quieter. Each step echoed faintly against the walls. He adjusted the strap of his bag on his shoulder, his grip tightening as he moved toward the exit.

He almost didn’t see Ilya at first.

He was standing near the staff door, leaning slightly against the wall, checking his watch. His posture was composed, controlled, as if he had all the time in the world.

“Ilya.”

The word came out rough, barely above a whisper.

Ilya looked up.

Shane took a step closer, his breath uneven, his hands shaking at his sides.

“Please.”

He swallowed hard, forcing the words out.

“I’m doing it. I’m calling my parents tonight. I’ll tell them everything. I’ll come out publicly. Tomorrow. I’ll tell the world. I’ll do whatever you want.”

His voice broke.

“Just don’t leave the house. Don’t… don’t do the divorce.”

For a moment, there was nothing. Just the quiet hum of the building and the distance between them.

Then Ilya’s expression shifted. Not to anger. Not to frustration.

To something worse.

Pity.

“Look at yourself, Shane.”

His voice was softer now, but it carried more weight than anything he had said before.

“You’re shaking. You haven’t eaten properly in days. You can barely stand.”

He took a small step forward, his gaze steady, almost painfully so.

“You’re not doing this for us.”

Shane’s breath hitched.

“You’re doing this because you’re scared. Because you don’t want to be alone.”

“I love you,” Shane said, the words breaking apart as they left him. Tears blurred his vision, spilling over before he could stop them. “I’m choosing you. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

Ilya’s jaw tightened, and for the first time, his composure cracked. His voice wavered, just slightly.

“I wanted you to choose me when it was easy.”

The words hung between them.

“I wanted a partner who stood beside me because he was proud. Not someone who only finds the courage when everything is already falling apart.”

Shane’s shoulders sagged, the fight draining out of him.

“You’re the captain of your own life, Shane.”

Ilya’s voice steadied again, but the emotion behind it didn’t disappear.

“Start acting like it.”

He turned before Shane could respond.

The door opened, letting in a rush of cold night air from outside. For a brief second, the world beyond seemed louder, freer, untouched by everything inside these walls.

Then Ilya stepped through and was gone.

The door shut behind him with a quiet click.

Shane stood there under the harsh fluorescent lights, completely still. The hallway felt too bright, too empty. His chest tightened, but no sound came out this time.

He had finally found the courage to speak.

And it had come too late.

Over the following days, Hayden noticed first in small ways that something was off, the kind of details most people would miss unless they were already looking for them. Shane’s replies were slower, his presence quieter, not in the usual focused, locked-in way of a playoff run, but in a way that felt distant, as if part of him had drifted somewhere no one else could reach.

At first, Hayden tried to brush it off.

Playoffs were brutal. Everyone got tired. Everyone got a little in their head.

But then the calls started.

Shane’s phone would ring, Hayden’s name flashing across the screen, and more often than not it would go unanswered. Texts followed after that, short at first, then more frequent, more concerned, as the silence stretched longer than it should have.

you good?

call me when you see this

seriously, answer me

No response ever came in real time. Only the occasional delayed “I’m fine” that felt more automatic each time it appeared, less like reassurance and more like habit.

The shift became harder to ignore during the game between Montreal and Ottawa.

It was supposed to be another hard, physical matchup, the kind of game built on rivalry, speed, and bad blood that never really cooled between the two teams. From the first period, it turned into something messier than expected, faster, heavier, with hits coming late and words exchanged after whistles. By the second period, it was no longer just hockey.

It was a fight waiting for an excuse.

And when it finally broke, it spilled across the ice in a blur of jerseys and chaos, benches reacting instantly, the crowd rising as gloves dropped and players shoved and grappled along the boards.

Hayden saw it clearly in the middle of it, the way Shane moved.

Not worse.

Just off.

Like he was there physically, but not fully inside it in the way he used to be. His timing was still sharp, his instincts still intact, but there was a distance behind his eyes that did not belong in someone playing at this level, especially not in a game like this.

After the final buzzer, in the tunnel between the ice and the locker rooms, Hayden finally caught him.

“Shane.”

Shane slowed, turning slightly, sweat still in his hair, his expression already settling back into something controlled, something practiced.

“You good?” Hayden asked, studying him closely.

“Yeah,” Shane said quickly. Too quickly. “I’m fine.”

It was automatic. A reflex more than an answer.

Hayden did not look convinced.

“You sure? You looked different out there.”

Shane gave a small shrug, already starting to move again. “Just tired. It’s nothing.”

But it was not nothing.

Hayden stepped in front of him this time, forcing him to pause. “We should hang out tomorrow. Just get out of here for a bit. Clear your head.”

For a second, something flickered across Shane’s face. Not quite hesitation, not quite emotion, something smaller and harder to name, like a reflex he did not let fully surface before burying it again.

Then he shook his head.

“Can’t,” he said. “Busy.”

“With what?” Hayden asked, more quietly now.

Shane did not look at him this time.

“Stuff,” he replied, and walked past him.

And Hayden stood there a moment longer than he should have, watching him disappear down the corridor toward Ottawa’s side of the arena, the feeling settling in that whatever was happening, it was not just fatigue, and it was not just hockey either.

October had arrived without mercy. The cold in Ottawa was sharp and invasive, the kind that slipped through layers and settled deep into bone. It lingered in the walls of the house, in the empty spaces between furniture, in the quiet rooms that no longer felt like a home. For Shane, it felt like the outside world had simply caught up to what had already been growing inside him for weeks.

He was trying. That was the part that made it worse.

Every morning began the same way. He would stand in front of the bathroom mirror, gripping the edge of the sink, forcing himself to look. The reflection staring back at him felt like a stranger wearing his face. His cheeks had hollowed out, his jawline sharper than it used to be. The shadows under his eyes lingered no matter how much he slept, like bruises that refused to fade.

“I look fine,” he would mutter under his breath, though even he didn’t believe it.

He started going to bed early, almost obsessively. Nine o’clock, every night, no exceptions. It became a routine he clung to, as if sleep alone could undo everything that was unravelling inside him. The extra hours softened the dark circles slightly, made him look less alarming under arena lights, less like something fragile that might break under scrutiny.

But sleep never stayed.

He would wake at four in the morning, every time, like his body was programmed to punish him. His heart would be racing before he was even fully conscious, his chest tight, his breath shallow. And every time, without thinking, his hand would reach across the bed.

The sheets were always cold.

“Not there,” he whispered into the darkness, his voice barely audible. “He’s not there.”

The words didn’t hurt any less no matter how many times he said them.

Eventually, the bedroom became unbearable. It wasn’t just the emptiness. It was the traces Ilya had left behind. The faint scent of his cologne still clung to the curtains, to the pillows, to the fabric of a life that no longer existed. It was everywhere and nowhere at the same time.

So, Shane stopped sleeping there. He moved into the guest room without ceremony. The space was smaller, colder, stripped of anything personal. He didn’t bother making it comfortable. A single thin blanket, a pillow that never quite felt right, and the ceiling above him that he would stare at for hours.

Some nights, he didn’t even try to sleep. He just lay there, counting the seconds until the first light of morning crept through the blinds.

Food became another battle he was quietly losing.

He knew what his body needed. Years of discipline had drilled that into him. Calories, protein, balance. Fuel for performance. He tried to hold onto that structure, weighing portions carefully, measuring rice and fish down to the gram like it still mattered.

But eating felt wrong now.

The act of chewing felt slow and heavy, like his body didn’t recognize it anymore.

“Just three more bites, Shane,” he would say to himself, sitting alone at the kitchen counter. The house was always silent, the kind of silence that pressed in from all sides. “Just three.”

Sometimes he managed it.

Most times, he didn’t.

His phone would buzz. A team notification. A reminder about practice. A media clip. And sometimes, without warning, a photo of Ilya would appear. Smiling at some charity event. Standing tall, composed, untouchable.

Perfect.

And just like that, whatever small thread of hunger he had managed to gather would disappear. Forgetting to eat stopped feeling like a mistake. It became a habit. Something automatic. Something his mind quietly justified as discipline, as focus, as control.

At the rink, nothing improved.

The locker room had turned into something he dreaded. Conversations softened when he walked in. Teammates avoided looking at him for too long, as if they didn’t want to acknowledge what was happening right in front of them. And through it all, Ilya remained exactly the same.

Professional. Sharp. Distant.

During a mid-October practice, the team ran a simple transition drill. It was routine, something Shane could do in his sleep.

Except he didn’t.

The puck slipped off his stick, bouncing awkwardly toward the boards.

“Focus, Shane!”

Ilya’s voice cut across the ice, loud and unforgiving. The whistle around his neck swung slightly as he stood at centre ice.

“If your head isn’t in the game, get off my ice!”

The words echoed.

Shane didn’t argue. He just turned and skated toward the bench, his legs heavier than they should have been. His breathing was uneven, his chest rising and falling too quickly for the pace of the drill.

Hayes skated up beside him, lowering his voice.

“Hey. You’re shaking.”

Shane kept his eyes forward.

“When was the last time you actually ate something? A real meal?”

“I’m doing my macros, Hayes. I’m fine.”

The lie came easily, but it sounded hollow even to him.

Hayes frowned, studying him.

“You’re gray, Shane. You aren’t fine. The fans are bringing ‘Get Well’ signs now. It’s getting… weird.”

Shane didn’t respond. He just tightened his grip on his stick until his knuckles turned white. His gaze drifted upward, landing on the digital clock mounted high above the ice.

November

He wasn’t even thinking about the present anymore. He was counting time like it was something to survive. Game by game. Day by day. Later, after practice, the locker room emptied out.

The noise faded. The echoes disappeared. What remained was silence and the faint hum of the building.

Shane sat for a moment, staring at the floor, before finally standing. Across the room, Ilya was packing his things with precise, efficient movements. Every motion looked controlled, deliberate, like he had already moved on to something better.

“I managed to eat two thousand calories today, Ilya.”

The words slipped out before Shane could stop them.

They sounded small in the empty room. Almost childish.

Ilya paused with his hand on the zipper of his garment bag. For a second, he didn’t move.

“Is that what you think this is about?”

He didn’t turn around right away.

“Calories and sleep schedules?”

“I’m trying to be who you wanted!”

The frustration broke through all at once. Shane’s voice echoed off the walls, louder than he intended.

“I’m staying in shape. I’m showing up. I’m hiding the mess. I’m doing the work!”

Ilya turned then.

His expression didn’t soften.

“You’re performing, Shane.”

The words landed harder than any shout could have.

“You’re a ghost wearing a hockey jersey.”

Shane felt something in his chest twist.

“You think fixing your eyebags brings him back?”

Ilya’s gaze held his, unflinching.

“He’s not here.”

The silence stretched between them.

“That guy used to laugh at my stupid jokes,” Ilya continued, quieter now. “He used to fight for me. Not just follow orders.”

Shane’s shoulders dropped.

“I don’t know how to be him without you.”

The admission barely made it out.

Ilya’s expression flickered, something almost breaking through before it disappeared again.

“Then you’ve got a lot of months left to figure it out.”

His voice hardened.

“Because I can’t be the reason you decide to live.”

He walked out without another word.

The door closed softly behind him, but the sound felt final.

December came, but it didn’t feel like a new chapter. It felt heavier, more suffocating. The playoff race tightened, the pressure building with every game, every point, every mistake. The team pushed forward, but Shane felt frozen in place, like he was stuck beneath layers of ice he couldn’t break through.

When his parents arrived, he wasn’t ready.

He hadn’t warned them. He hadn’t prepared himself.

They were just there, standing in the kitchen when he walked in after practice. The house felt even smaller with them in it, the silence replaced by something tense and fragile.

David stood up immediately when he saw him. The movement was quick, almost alarmed.

Yuna followed, her hand flying to her mouth as she took him in.

“Shane…”

Her voice was soft, but it carried shock.

She stepped closer, reaching up to cup his face. Her hands were warm, but her touch made him flinch slightly. Her thumbs brushed over his cheekbones, lingering there.

“My god. Look at you.”

Her voice trembled.

“You’re vanishing. Are you sick?”

“I’m fine, Ma.”

The words came out flat. Automatic.

He gently pulled away, setting his bag down before placing a small container on the counter. Plain rice. Measured. Controlled.

“I’m just training hard. The intensity is higher this year.”

“Don’t lie to us.”

David’s voice cut in, sharp and strained.

“We watch the games, Shane. We see you on that bench. You aren’t eating. You aren’t… there.”

He stepped closer, his expression tight with worry.

“Is it pressure? The team?”

“It’s not the team!”

The outburst surprised even Shane. The words came louder than he expected, raw and unfiltered.

He gripped the edge of the counter, his hands shaking.

“It’s me. I’m the problem.”

The admission hung heavy in the air.

“I’m trying to be someone I’m not. And I’m failing at it.”

“Then talk to us.”

Yuna’s voice softened, pleading.

“Whatever it is, we can help. Is there someone else? A girl? Something with your contract?”

Shane looked at them, really looked this time.

They were worried. Scared. Still reaching for him.

And for a moment, he wanted to tell them everything.

“I… I need to tell you something.”

His voice caught. His throat tightened. The words pressed against the back of his mouth, heavy and sharp.

He could feel it. One word. One truth.

Gay.

It sat there, waiting.

“What is it, son?” David asked, stepping closer.

Shane opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

The fear hit all at once. Not just of losing them, but of everything that would follow. The media. The fans. The league. The image he had built his entire life around.

The silence stretched too long.

“I… I just need to sleep.”

The words fell apart as he said them.

“I’m really tired. Please… just let me sleep.”

He didn’t wait for a response.

He turned and walked down the hallway, each step heavier than the last.

Behind him, the kitchen remained filled with everything he couldn’t say.

The shift into playoff intensity did not feel like a fresh start. For Shane, it felt like the inevitable impact of something that had been spiralling out of control for months. Every practice was harder, every hit lingered longer, and every quiet moment felt heavier than the last. By mid-December, his body no longer felt like something he controlled. It felt like something he was dragging along behind him, fragile and unreliable.

He had managed to make himself look slightly better on the surface. The dark circles under his eyes had faded just enough to avoid constant questions. Eight hours in bed, every night, no matter what. Even if he spent most of it staring at the ceiling. Even if sleep never really came.

But nothing touched the emptiness.

That stayed, settled deep in his chest like a hollow space that kept expanding no matter how much he tried to fill it.

One Friday night, after a practice that left his muscles aching and his lungs burning, Shane sat in the locker room slowly peeling off his gear. His movements were sluggish, like everything required twice the effort it used to.

“Shane, come on.”

Luca’s voice cut through the quiet.

The rookie defenseman dropped onto the bench beside him, full of restless energy. At nineteen, Luca still carried a kind of brightness that hadn’t been worn down yet. His excitement filled the space in a way that felt almost foreign to Shane now.

“The whole team’s going to The Blue Line,” Luca continued, nudging his shoulder lightly. “Even the Captain. You can’t go back to that big empty house again. Just one drink. I’ll even get you a ginger ale if you’re worried about your macros.”

Shane let out a faint breath, his fingers tightening slightly around the edge of the bench. He glanced up without meaning to.

Across the room, Ilya stood surrounded by a few veteran players. He was laughing, relaxed, completely at ease. The sound carried easily, familiar and distant all at once.

He didn’t look over.

Not even once.

The absence hit harder than any direct rejection ever could.

Shane looked back down at his hands. They were trembling again, faint but constant. He curled them into fists, trying to steady them.

“Okay,” he said quietly. “I’ll go.”

The Blue Line was packed by the time they arrived. The air inside was thick with heat, with the sharp scent of expensive liquor and damp coats from the cold outside. Music pulsed through the floor, heavy bass vibrating up through Shane’s shoes as he followed the team toward a cluster of booths.

He slid into a corner seat, instinctively choosing the edge, the place where he could disappear the easiest. Someone pressed a drink into his hand, but he swapped it for water without comment. The glass sat untouched in front of him, condensation gathering along the sides.

Around him, everything felt too loud. Too bright. Too alive.

And he felt none of it.

Then he saw her.

It happened without warning, his attention drawn to the centre of the room where Ilya sat. A woman had approached the table, her presence immediately noticeable. She wore a silk dress that caught the light with every movement, her confidence effortless. She leaned in as she spoke, laughing easily at something Ilya said.

Her hand rested on his forearm. Naturally. Comfortably. Like it belonged there.

Shane’s breath caught.

Ilya didn’t pull away. Instead, he leaned closer, his posture open, engaged. And then he smiled. Not the polite, controlled expression he wore in interviews. Not the distant version Shane had grown used to. A real smile. The one that used to belong to quiet mornings and late-night conversations. The one Shane had not seen directed at him in months.

“Check out the Cap,” one of the wingers said with a low chuckle, nudging Luca.

“About time he got back out there.”

Another player leaned in, grinning. “She’s a local reporter. Ilya deserves someone who actually shows up for him.”

The words blurred together, but the meaning landed with brutal clarity. Shane felt the air leave his lungs in a slow, steady drain. His fingers tightened around the glass of water until his knuckles turned white.

It was one thing to be ignored, to be shut out in quiet, controlled ways. This was something else entirely. This was watching the person he loved step fully into a life that did not include him.

Across the room, Ilya’s attention never wavered. The woman leaned closer, her laughter bright and effortless. At one point, Ilya reached up to adjust his jacket, his hand brushing against hers. He didn’t move away.

“Look at him,” Luca murmured beside Shane, completely unaware of what he was witnessing. “He’s finally moving on. I heard he’s been down lately, but… I mean, she’s incredible. They look right together, don’t they?”

Shane swallowed hard, his throat tight and dry. “Yeah,” he managed. “Right together.”

The words tasted like nothing.

For a moment, Ilya’s gaze lifted. It crossed the room and landed on Shane.

Time seemed to stall.

But there was nothing there. No hesitation, no guilt, no hidden message. Just recognition without connection, like looking at someone he used to know.

Then he looked away.

Shane didn’t realize how still he had gone until the noise around him surged back all at once. Laughter, glasses clinking, someone shouting over the music. He couldn’t move.

Every instinct screamed at him to leave, to stand up, to walk out, to put as much distance as possible between himself and what he was seeing. But he stayed. Because leaving meant questions. It meant attention. It meant Ilya might notice.

And the thought of being seen like this felt worse than anything else.

“You okay?” Troy’s voice cut through, quieter, more grounded.

Shane forced his expression into something neutral. “Just cold,” he said. “AC’s high.”

Troy didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t push.

Across the room, Ilya stood, reaching for the woman’s coat. He helped her into it with an ease that felt practiced, natural. His hand lingered briefly at her back as he guided her toward the exit.

For a split second, he looked toward Shane again.

The same emptiness. The same absence.

“We’re heading to the next spot,” Ilya called out, his voice carrying easily above the noise. “Anyone coming?”

The group stirred immediately, energy shifting as people grabbed their things, laughing and calling out to each other. Chairs scraped. Conversations overlapped. Life moved forward.

Shane stayed exactly where he was.

He watched as Ilya walked out, the woman close beside him, her hand resting lightly against him as if she had always belonged there.

“You coming?” Luca asked, hovering nearby.

“I’ll catch up,” Shane said. “Just need a minute.”

Luca hesitated, then nodded before following the others.

The bar emptied quickly after that, at least of anyone Shane knew. The noise remained, but it felt distant now, like something happening behind a wall.

Shane leaned back against the booth, the leather cold against his shoulders. The glass of water was still in his hand, untouched.

For a moment, he let his eyes close.

The pressure built behind them, sharp and immediate. Tears threatened, pushing forward, but he held them back with stubborn force. He refused to break here, not in a place where Ilya had just looked so alive without him.

When he opened his eyes again, everything felt heavier.

The house waited for him. Quiet. Empty.

And on the mahogany dining table, the papers were still there, three days untouched, the line waiting for his signature.

He had been telling himself there was still time, that later meant something real, that as long as he didn’t sign, something could still change.

But tonight, had stripped that illusion down to nothing.

He sat there for a long time, staring at nothing, the noise of the bar fading further into the background.

He knew what was waiting for him.

He just didn’t know if he had the strength to face it, or the courage to finally choose something.

After that night at the bar, something in Shane didn’t just crack. It went quiet.

Not the kind of quiet that brings peace, but the kind that follows after everything inside has burned itself out. The last flicker of resistance, of hope, of wanting anything at all, simply disappeared. He stopped trying to belong, because belonging required effort, and effort required something he no longer had.

He withdrew from everything that wasn’t strictly necessary.

Team dinners went ignored without explanation. Luca’s messages, once a small thread keeping him tethered to something normal, sat unread. Even at the rink, Shane became efficient in his absence. He arrived, practiced, and left with mechanical precision. No lingering. No conversation. No trace of the person who used to exist there.

On the ice, he still performed.

Technically, he was sharp. Clean passes. Correct positioning. Disciplined movement.

But there was no instinct left in it. No spark. No creativity.

He looked like a player following instructions perfectly.

Not like someone who loved the game.

The house became something else entirely.

It wasn’t just empty anymore. It felt like it held him there. The walls closed in, the silence thick and suffocating. Every room carried echoes of a life that no longer existed, and instead of confronting it, Shane avoided it by exhausting himself.

When he wasn’t at the rink, he was at the gym, pushing his body past reasonable limits. Long runs in freezing rain, his lungs burning, his legs threatening to give out. It didn’t matter. Pain made things simpler. Pain was something he could understand.

And when even that wasn’t enough, he would end up back in his room, lying on the bed with one arm thrown over his stomach, staring out the window at the endless stretch of grey sky that never seemed to change, as if the world itself had settled into the same dull, unmoving weight that pressed down inside his chest.

His thoughts never stopped; they circled endlessly, restless and unforgiving, picking apart every insecurity he had ever tried to bury and drag them back into the light where they felt sharper, uglier, harder to ignore. He could hear the echoes of old comments about him being different, about how he never quite fit into any mold people tried to put him in, could still feel the sting of those quiet, passing remarks that were never meant to linger but somehow always did. The whispers about his personal life followed closely behind, tangled with speculation he had spent years carefully avoiding, building walls against, only for them to slip through anyway. And then there were the articles, dissecting his performance piece by piece, questioning his place in the league with a kind of detached cruelty that made it seem as though he was already a failure waiting to be confirmed.

Each thought did not come alone; they overlapped, collided, and piled on top of one another until they became something indistinguishable, a constant, suffocating pressure that felt less like thinking and more like being struck over and over again with no space to recover.

One morning in February, it became too much.

The noise did not rise slowly that day or give him any chance to brace against it; it was already there the moment he woke up, loud and relentless, pressing in from every direction until even the simple act of breathing felt like work. By the time he found himself standing in front of the bathroom mirror with a razor in his hand, his reflection barely registered as something real, as if he were looking at a stranger he did not recognize but was somehow expected to understand.

His breathing came uneven and shallow, his chest rising too quickly, never quite filling enough.

Coward.

The word surfaced without warning, cutting cleanly through everything else.

Failure.

Another followed, heavier this time, settling deeper, harder to shake.

Not good enough.

Not for Ilya. Not for anyone.

His hand trembled as he dragged the razor carefully along his face, trying to anchor himself in the familiar, controlled motion, focusing on the small details of it, the angle, the pressure, the steady path it was supposed to follow. But even that felt unstable, like something fundamental was slipping, like he was losing control over something as basic and routine as shaving.

His gaze dropped to the blade, lingering there longer than it should have.

For a moment, everything else seemed to blur around the edges, the noise dimming just enough to leave space for something else to take its place.

He knew it was a bad idea; he knew, in some distant and rational part of his mind, that it was not a solution, that it would not fix anything waiting for him outside that room. But logic felt far away, disconnected and unimportant compared to the overwhelming, desperate need for silence, for anything that would make the noise stop even for a second.

He sat down slowly on the edge of the bathtub, the cold porcelain seeping through the thin fabric of his clothes, grounding him just enough to move, to act instead of just standing there trapped in his own head.

The razor hovered in his hand for a brief moment, suspended in hesitation, before he pressed it lightly against his thigh.

A shallow line, quick and controlled, more instinct than decision.

The sting came immediately, sharp and undeniable, cutting through him with a clarity that everything else had been lacking.

And just like that, everything else stopped.

The noise vanished as if it had never been there.

The chaos in his head, the constant barrage of thoughts, the crushing weight that had been pressing down on him from the moment he woke up, all of it disappeared in an instant, replaced by something cold and quiet, a silence so complete it almost felt unreal.

For the first time in months, he could breathe without it catching halfway, without feeling like something was lodged in his chest.

He stared at the thin line on his skin, watching as small beads of red began to form and gather, his focus narrowing until that was the only thing that existed in the room. It did not feel frightening in that moment, did not carry the weight of consequence or fear that it should have.

If anything, it felt like control.

Like something that finally belonged to him, untouched by expectations, by pressure, by anyone else’s perception of who he was supposed to be.

Just him, and the quiet.

At practice the next day, he moved carefully, adjusting without making it obvious, compensating in small, controlled ways that would not draw attention but still protected what he needed to hide. The bandages were thick beneath his hockey socks, wrapped tight and secure, layered enough that no one would see, no one would ask, no one would know.

Or at least, that was what he told himself.

“Shane, you’re skating stiff.”

Troy’s voice came from beside him as they headed off the ice, casual at first but edged with just enough concern to make it linger.

“You take a puck to the leg or something?”

“It’s nothing,” Shane replied quietly, keeping his tone even as he reached for his helmet strap, avoiding eye contact. “Just a bruise.”

Barret exhaled sharply, the sound carrying a flicker of frustration as he shook his head. “You’re always fine, and somehow you’re always disappearing at the same time.”

Shane didn’t answer, because there was nothing, he could say that would not unravel everything he was trying to hold together.

Back in the locker room, he sat in his stall, his elbows resting loosely on his knees as he stared down at the floor, his focus slipping without him noticing as the world around him gradually dulled at the edges. Conversations blurred into indistinct noise, voices blending together until they lost meaning, and then even that faded, leaving behind a hollow kind of quiet.

Time passed, but he did not feel it in any real sense; he did not register the showers shutting off one by one, did not notice the shift as the room emptied, players filtering out until the space that had once been loud and crowded became still.

He was somewhere else entirely, caught in the repetition of a single image, the thin red line, the silence that had followed, the way everything had finally stopped.

“Shane.”

The voice cut through everything with sharp clarity, immediate and impossible to ignore.

Shane blinked, his vision slowly coming back into focus as the present reassembled itself around him. The locker room was empty now, the lights dimmed slightly, casting long shadows across the floor. Only one person remained.

Ilya stood near the door, already dressed, his coat on, his posture straight and composed as he watched him.

“You’ve been sitting there for twenty minutes,” Ilya said, his voice steady but carrying an edge that made it clear he had been waiting. “Just staring at nothing.”

Shane moved quickly, almost too quickly, reaching for his sweatpants and pulling them on with hands that were not as steady as he wanted them to be. “I was just thinking about the power play drills,” he said, the words coming out thinner than intended.

Even to him, the excuse sounded weak.

Ilya did not react to it, did not acknowledge it at all. “I didn’t stay back to talk about hockey.”

His tone remained flat, controlled, the kind of control that felt deliberate rather than natural.

“I checked with my lawyer,” Ilya said, his voice steady but cold. “You still haven’t signed the papers or sent them back.”

Shane froze at that, his grip tightening unconsciously around the fabric in his hands as the words settled in.

“I told you I’ll get to it,” he said, forcing the response out, trying to keep it steady. “I’ve been busy with the playoffs—”

“Sign them.”

The interruption came immediately, cutting him off before he could finish, leaving no space for explanation or delay.

“I want this done fast.”

Ilya’s voice lowered slightly, but the intensity behind it only sharpened, pressing harder with each word. “I’m moving on, and I’m tired of looking at you in this room and seeing someone who’s already given up on himself. I can’t have you dragging me down with you.”

“I’m not—” Shane’s voice cracked before he could stop it, the sound breaking through his control. “I’m not a ghost.”

Ilya took a step closer, closing some of the distance between them, though it still felt impossibly far.

“Are you sure?” he asked, the question quiet but cutting in a way that made it land harder than anything louder could have.

“You don’t eat, you don’t talk, and half the time it feels like you’re not even here,” he continued, his gaze fixed, unyielding. “You barely exist.”

He stopped a few feet away, the space between them charged with everything neither of them was saying.

“If you won’t live for yourself, then at least let me live my life.”

Shane felt his chest tighten at that, the words pressing in until it became difficult to draw a full breath.

“Sign the papers tomorrow,” Ilya added, his tone returning to something firm and final. “I want this finished by Monday.”

He turned toward the door, the conversation already closed in his mind.

“Is that all I am to you now?” Shane asked, the words slipping out before he could stop them, raw and unguarded. “A deadline?”

Ilya paused at the door.

For a moment, his shoulders dropped slightly, a crack in the composure he had been holding so tightly.

“You were everything to me,” he said, his voice softening just enough to make it feel real.

“But I can’t love a secret.”

The words lingered between them, heavy with everything they carried.

“And I won’t stay with someone who’s already gone.”

The door closed behind him, the sound echoing through the empty locker room in a way that made the silence that followed feel even heavier.

Shane sat back down slowly, the weight of it settling over him all at once. His hand moved almost without thought, pressing against the bandage on his thigh, seeking out the one thing that had cut through the noise before.

He pushed harder than necessary, the pressure deliberates this time.

The sharp sting followed, immediate and grounding.

And for a brief moment, it was the only thing that felt real.

Two days later, the papers were signed.

There was no ceremony to mark it, no pause for reflection or second thoughts, only the quiet, almost mechanical motion of pen meeting paper as Shane wrote his name in a hand that remained steady despite the collapse happening somewhere far deeper, somewhere no one else could see. The signature itself looked clean, controlled, indistinguishable from any other time he had signed his name, and yet it carried the weight of something final, something irreversible that settled heavily in the space around him.

By Monday morning, the documents were on Ilya’s desk.

There was no note attached, no message left behind to soften the edges of what they meant, no attempt to explain or justify or even acknowledge what had just been ended. There was only the stack of papers, neatly placed, as impersonal as possible, as if reducing it to a simple transaction might somehow make it easier to bear.

And then, almost immediately, something shifted.

It did not happen gradually or in small, uncertain steps that might have raised concern. Instead, the change was abrupt, almost jarring in its intensity, as though a switch had been flipped somewhere inside Shane, replacing the quiet, hollow version of him with something else entirely. The heaviness that had clung to him for months seemed to vanish overnight, leaving behind something brighter, louder, and far more visible.

He laughed again, not the small, polite sounds he used to offer out of obligation, but full, unrestrained laughter that carried across the locker room and drew attention in a way it hadn’t in a long time. It was the kind of laughter that made people turn, that made them smile without thinking, that filled the space with a sense of ease that had been missing.

He started showing up to team dinners, no longer lingering at the edges or finding excuses to leave early. More than that, he began suggesting them, pulling the team together with an energy that felt new, almost contagious.

At one steakhouse, he ordered a full meal without hesitation and finished every bite, leaning back in his chair afterward with a satisfied grin that looked so natural it was easy to forget there had ever been a time when he could barely bring himself to eat at all.

“See?” Luca said, beaming as he nudged the others, his voice full of relief. “I told you he just needed to find his groove.”

Shane smiled easily in response, nodding as if the explanation made perfect sense. “Guess you were right.”

Across the table, Hayes and Barret exchanged a look that lingered just a second too long, something unspoken passing between them, though even they seemed unwilling to disrupt the moment by questioning it out loud. It was easier this way, easier to accept what they were seeing rather than risk pulling at something they might not be ready to understand.

Harris, sitting a little further down beside Troy, glanced at Shane more than once without saying anything. There was a subtle shift in his expression each time, like he was noticing the difference too, the brightness, the ease, the way Shane was laughing again like it came too effortlessly now. Something about it did not sit entirely right with him, but he chose not to linger on it. Whatever it was, Shane seemed happy. And in a season like this, that was enough reason to leave it alone.

Beside him, Troy leaned back comfortably, completely at ease in the kind of quiet closeness he shared with Harris, their shoulders occasionally brushing in a way that did not need explanation anymore. It was familiar, settled, unspoken in the way long-standing feelings often were once they were finally allowed to exist in the open. Harris watched it for a second longer than he meant to, then looked away, as if deciding it was better not to think too deeply about anything that complicated.

Shane noticed anyway.

He always did.

It was small, the way Harris looked at Troy, the way Troy’s hand found Harris’s without hesitation under the table, the kind of comfort that came from being known without having to perform for it. Shane’s grip around his glass tightened just slightly before he set it down again, forcing his expression to stay light, his smile to stay in place.

No one at the table knew. Not really.

To them, Shane was straight, or at least that was the assumption no one had ever thought to question closely enough to challenge. He had never been the type to draw attention to his personal life, and so it simply stayed unexamined, neatly filed away as something private and uncomplicated in everyone else’s minds

Ilya was openly bisexual. People said it like it was part of him, just another fact folded into everything else they already knew.

Shane, on the other hand, had always been careful.

Too careful.

And now, sitting here watching something as simple and easy as Harris and Troy, something warm and unguarded, he felt it in a way he did not want to name. Not quite envy, not quite pain, but something quieter and sharper underneath it.

He lifted his glass again and took a sip, smiling when someone spoke to him, playing his part so naturally that no one thought to look closer.

Not even when it lingered a second too long.

His parents noticed it too.

During a quiet dinner before the finals, David leaned slightly closer, his voice soft with something that sounded dangerously close to relief. “You’re back, Shane.”

There was emotion in it, gratitude mixed with something heavier, something that hinted at how close they had come to losing him in a way none of them had fully spoken about.

“We were worried.”

Shane met his gaze without hesitation, his own eyes bright, almost shining under the light. “I’m fine, Dad,” he said, his smile widening in a way that felt convincing, almost radiant. “Better than fine.”

There was an energy to him now that hadn’t been there before, something sharp and almost electric that hummed just beneath the surface of every movement, every word. “I finally feel… light.”

And for the first time in months, no one questioned it.

No one stopped to consider the difference between healing and unravelling.

The Finals arrived with a brutality that left no room for anything but survival. From the very first puck drops, every game felt like a war of attrition, a relentless clash of bodies and willpower where every shift demanded more than anyone had left to give. By the time it came down to Game 7, there was nothing left in reserve, no energy carefully held back for later, only instinct and adrenaline and whatever fragments of strength the players could still force out of themselves.

And somehow, Shane was everywhere.

He moved across the ice with a precision that felt almost unnatural, faster than anyone expected and sharper than anyone could anticipate. Every pass he made found its target as if guided by something beyond intention, every read unfolding perfectly before the play had even fully formed. He cut through the chaos with an ease that made it seem as though he had stepped outside of it entirely, operating on a level no one else could reach.

It was not just skill.

It was something else.

Something that bordered on unreal.

By the final minutes, the arena itself seemed to tremble under the weight of it all, the noise building into something overwhelming as the clock ticked down.

Five seconds.

Four.

Three.

When the buzzer finally sounded, it did not simply end the game; it broke something open, releasing everything that had been building with explosive force.

Ottawa had won.

The ice erupted instantly, sticks clattering to the surface, gloves thrown into the air as players surged forward, vaulting over the boards in a rush of movement and noise. Shane was among the first onto the ice, his skates barely finding the surface before he was swallowed by the celebration, grabbing the nearest teammate and pulling him into a tight embrace as laughter and shouting spilled out of him all at once.

He did not stop there.

He moved from one player to the next, hugging, yelling, celebrating with an intensity that made it seem as though the energy inside him had no limit. His face was flushed, his eyes bright and alive in a way no one had seen in months, every movement fuelled by something that felt endless.

And then he reached Ilya.

For a single, suspended moment, everything seemed to slow.

Shane did not hesitate. He stepped forward and wrapped his arms around him, pulling him in close with a force that caught Ilya completely off guard.

Ilya froze, his body going rigid as his heart slammed hard against his ribs, the sudden contact knocking the breath from him in a way he could not immediately process.

“Shane?”

“We did it, Cap!”

Shane pulled back just enough to look at him, his grin wide and unguarded, his expression open in a way that felt almost unfamiliar.

“We actually did it.”

Before Ilya could respond, before he could make sense of what had just happened, Shane was already moving again, slipping away into the crowd of bodies and voices, carried forward by the momentum of the celebration.

Ilya remained where he was for a moment longer than he should have, the echo of that brief embrace lingering in a way that did not make sense, something unsettled and uneasy taking root beneath the surface.

After the ceremony, after the trophy had been lifted and passed from hand to hand, the chaos gradually softened into something more contained, the energy shifting as families made their way onto the ice, voices blending together in congratulations and relief.

David found Shane near the boards, his expression lit with pride that was impossible to hide. “Celebrate with us, son?” he asked, his tone hopeful. “We’ve got a table booked.”

Shane leaned in easily, pressing a quick kiss to his mother’s cheek, his smile effortless, as if everything in the world had finally fallen into place.

“Tomorrow, Dad,” he said lightly. “Tonight belongs to the boys.”

He stepped back before they could respond, already being pulled away again, caught in the current of the team’s excitement.

“I’m taking the rookies out,” he added over his shoulder. “I told Luca and Troy we’re hitting The Obsidian.”

Yuna hesitated, her gaze lingering on him as if searching for something just beneath the surface, but Shane had already turned away, disappearing back into the crowd before she could say anything more.

At the club, the energy was electric, pulsing through the space in waves of sound and light. Music thundered through the room, bass vibrating through the floor as flashing lights cut through the darkness, illuminating the team in brief, shifting bursts. They took over an entire section without effort, loud and unstoppable, drawing attention simply by existing.

And Shane stood at the centre of it all.

He did not retreat to the edges or fade into the background this time. He moved easily among them, laughing, shouting over the music, fully present in a way that felt almost overwhelming compared to the version of him they had grown used to.

When someone handed him a shot, he did not hesitate or pass it off. He tipped it back in one smooth motion, the burn of whiskey sharp against his throat, barely reacting before reaching for a beer.

He was not out of control.

But he was undeniably different.

Looser, brighter, almost untouchable in the way he carried himself, as though nothing could reach him anymore.

“Look at you!” Luca shouted over the music, grinning widely. “This is what I’m talking about!”

Shane laughed, clapping him on the shoulder with easy familiarity. “Told you I’d show up.”

The hours blurred together, stretching on in a haze of celebration, the team feeding off the high of their win and each other’s energy. But sometime around midnight, Shane stepped back, creating space between himself and the chaos.

“I’m heading out early, boys!” he called out, raising his voice just enough to be heard.

Troy groaned immediately. “Already? The night’s young!”

Shane lifted his hands in mock surrender, his smile still firmly in place. “Got a big sleep to catch up on.”

He waved once more before turning, slipping through the crowd with that same fixed brightness, and then he was gone, swallowed by the cold night outside.

The air hit him immediately, sharp and quiet in contrast to the overwhelming noise he had just left behind.

And then he disappeared.

About an hour later, the mood inside the club began to shift in a way no one could quite explain at first.

The music was still loud, the bass heavy enough to vibrate through the floor, when the shift began, subtle at first and easy to miss if no one was paying attention. It started with a phone lighting up in someone’s hand near the edge of their section, the glow catching briefly in the dim light as a notification appeared across the screen.

“Wait,” one of the younger players said, frowning as he looked down. “Why is Shane trending?”

At first, no one reacted. It sounded like nothing, like one of those random spikes that happened after a big win. But then another phone lit up. And another.

“Yo, what?” someone else muttered, already pulling his out. “Why is everyone posting him?”

The noise did not stop all at once, but it began to fracture. Conversations broke mid-sentence, attention drifting away from the music and the drinks and the celebration that had filled the room just minutes ago. Screens replaced eye contact, the glow of them reflecting in confused expressions and furrowed brows.

“Guys,” Luca said, his voice cutting through with a tension that had not been there before. “You need to see this.”

A small crowd formed around him, shoulders pressing closer as he turned his phone outward, the video already playing. Others followed, pulling it up on their own devices, the same image appearing again and again across different screens.

Shane.

He was sitting somewhere quiet, the background plain and unremarkable, dressed simply. His posture was relaxed in a way that felt almost too composed for what he was about to say. There was a softness to his expression, a calm that did not quite match the weight of the moment.

And he was smiling.

Not the loud, bright version from earlier that night, but something gentler. Quieter. Real in a way that made it harder to look away.

“I’m Shane,” his voice said, steady and clear despite the noise still lingering in the room. “And I’m gay.”

The effect was immediate. Conversations stopped mid-sentence, drinks hovered forgotten in hands, and every pair of eyes locked onto the screens.

“I’ve spent my life being scared,” Shane continued, his tone even, almost reflective. “Scared of my parents. Scared of my team. Scared of the man I loved.”

Confused glances were exchanged, unease spreading through the group as the meaning settled in.

“What the hell,” someone whispered under his breath.

“Is this real?” another asked, though no one answered.

“But I’m not scared anymore,” Shane said, that same soft smile still there, unwavering.

There was something about it that felt wrong.

Too calm.

Too final.

The video ended.

For a moment, no one moved.

Then the noise returned, but it was different now. Uneven, scattered, filled with overlapping questions and disbelief as people tried to process what they had just seen.

“What does he mean the man he loved?”

“Does anyone know where he is?”

“Did he say anything before he left?”

Phones stayed raised, the video replaying again and again as if repetition might make it easier to understand.

Ilya had not moved.

He stood a few steps back from the group, his expression unreadable, his mind still trying to catch up to what everyone else had already seen.

“Cap.”

The voice came from beside him, urgent now.

Ilya did not respond.

“Cap, look at this.”

A hand caught his arm, firm enough to pull his attention, and before he could brush it off, a phone was pushed into his line of sight.

“Just watch.”

The video started again.

Shane appeared on the screen, calm, composed, smiling in that same quiet way.

“I’m Shane. And I’m gay.”

Something in Ilya’s chest tightened instantly, sharp and unfamiliar.

“I’ve spent my life being scared, scared of my parents, scared of my team,” Shane continued, his voice steady.

Ilya’s breath caught.

“Scared of the man I loved.”

The words landed differently this time, heavier, sharper, impossible to ignore.

“But I’m not scared anymore.”

Ilya felt it then, the shift, the wrongness settling deep in his chest.

The video ended again.

This time, the silence around Ilya felt absolute.

Because suddenly, none of this felt like celebration anymore.

It felt like something else entirely.

And before anyone could stop him, before anyone could even speak, he was already moving, pushing past the crowd, his heartbeat pounding too fast as one thought forced its way through everything else.

Where is he.

Ilya did not wait.

He was already moving, pushing past people without explanation, forcing his way toward the exit as his heart pounded violently against his ribs, his thoughts racing too fast to follow.

Why now?

Why like this?

The drive blurred into something indistinct, the city lights streaking past as he gripped the steering wheel too tightly, his knuckles pale. The papers sitting in his glove compartment felt heavier than anything else in the car, their presence suddenly unbearable.

When he reached the house, he did not slow down.

The front door slammed open with a force that echoed through the empty space.

“Shane!”

His voice cut through the silence, too loud, too sharp.

“I saw it! I’m here!”

There was no response.

The house felt wrong, too still, too quiet in a way that immediately set something off in his chest.

Then he saw it.

A thin line of light beneath the bathroom door.

And he heard it.

Water running.

Steady.

Too steady.

“Shane?”

He moved quickly, his pulse spiking as dread began to take shape.

His hand slammed against the door, the impact loud in the silence.

“Shane!”

He pushed the door.

It was not locked.

It swung open.

The sound that left him did not feel human.

Shane was in the tub.

Still dressed, his hoodie soaked and heavy, clinging to him as the water continued to run, spilling over the edge and onto the floor in slow, spreading waves tinged with red.

The metallic scent filled the air, thick and unmistakable.

“No… no, no, no…”

Ilya stumbled forward, slipping as his knees hit the soaked floor, his hands plunging into the cold water as he grabbed Shane, pulling him up and into his arms, cradling him against his chest with frantic urgency.

“Shane!”

His voice broke apart completely.

“Wake up! Look at me!”

There was no response.

Shane’s skin was pale, his body still in a way that made everything inside Ilya’s chest seize.

“Just wake up,” he begged. “Please, Shane, just…just open your eyes.”

He shook him, desperate, but nothing changed. No movement, no breath, nothing to hold onto.

And then it hit him all at once.

The sudden brightness, the laughter, the energy that had seemed so impossible just days ago.

It had not been healing.

It had been goodbye.

“Help!”

His hands fumbled for his phone, slipping as he tried to unlock it, barely managing to dial as his vision blurred.

“Please… my husband… he’s not breathing… there’s so much blood… please hurry…”

The words collapsed into sobs, barely coherent, his voice shaking so badly it was almost unrecognizable.

“You can hate me,” he whispered, the words collapsing into each other as he pressed his forehead against Shane’s, his entire body trembling. “You can hate me for the rest of your life, I don’t care, just don’t…don’t leave like this. Please.”

The room felt unbearably quiet despite the sound of the running water.

On the edge of the sink, his phone buzzed softly, the sound small and insignificant in the chaos. A message lit up the screen from Luca.

“So proud of you, man. See you tomorrow.”

But for Shane, tomorrow had already stopped coming.