Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Categories:

F/M, M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types, Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander/Original Male Character(s), Hayden Pike/Jackie Pike, Shane Hollander & Hayden Pike, Shane Hollander & Montreal Voyageurs | Montreal Metros Team Ensemble, David Hollander & Shane Hollander & Yuna Hollander, Shane Hollander & Jackie Pike, Shane Hollander & Hayden Pike's Children

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Hayden Pike, Hayden Pike's Children, Jackie Pike, Jean-Jacques Boiziau | J. J. Dagenais, Coach Thériault (Game Changers), Montreal Voyageurs | Montreal Metros Team Ensemble (Game Changers), Montreal Voyageurs | Montreal Metros WAGs Ensemble (Game Changers), Original Characters, David Hollander, Yuna Hollander

Additional Tags:

Social Media, Confident Shane Hollander, BAMF Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Stands Up for Self, Buddhist Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Speaks French, Shane Hollander Has an Eating Disorder, Shane Hollander Needs a Hug, Supportive Montreal Voyageurs | Montreal Metros, Consequences, Racism, Homophobia, Religious Discussion, Good Friend Hayden Pike, Protective Hayden Pike, POV Hayden Pike, Shane Hollander & Hayden Pike Friendship, Supportive Hayden Pike, Shane Hollander & Jackie Pike Friendship, Shane Hollander is So Done, Shane Hollander is Good With Children, Godfather Shane Hollander, Momager Yuna Hollander, Sexism, locker room culture, 2014 MLH Awards in Las Vegas (Game Changers), Angry Shane Hollander, Second Chances, Forgiveness, Japanese Culture, Buddhism, Buddhist Character, References to Buddhist and Shinto Religion & Lore, Buddhist Themes, Buddhist Imagery & Symbolism, Endgame Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Sassy Shane Hollander, Hockey Player Shane Hollander, Hockey Player Ilya Rozanov, Montreal Voyageurs | Montreal Metros Player Shane Hollander, Jealous Ilya Rozanov, Possessive Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander Has a Competence Kink

Language:

English

Series:

Part 9 of Hollanov Lulu-verse

Stats:

Published: 2026-09-02 Updated: 2026-09-18 Words: 40,865 Chapters: 6/13

The Turning Wheel

Summary

He stopped three feet short of Theriault, skipping any kind of greeting. "You're fired."

Theriault blinked, his mouth dropping open, but before he could muster a single word, Marius raised his right arm. He pointed an index finger across the blue line painted on the carpet, zeroing in on two specific stalls near the back bench.

"Cameau. Drapeau. You two are traded. Get your personal stuff out of your lockers and leave the team gear right there."

Notes

This is probably going to be one of my first genuinely supportive Montreal Voyagers stories, because I have to admit: I have never liked the Voyagers. 😂

Obviously, I’m here for Hayden. I know some people don’t really like him, but I just find his friendship with Shane so incredibly wholesome. Shane being the godfather to Hayden’s kids, Hayden being this kind of sanctuary for Shane — I love the idea of those two having these very normal, family-oriented outings together. Going to the aquarium, spending time with the kids, doing things that have absolutely nothing to do with hockey bro culture, partying, or whatever else the guys are usually getting up to. It’s a space where Shane can just be comfortable and feel like himself.

So… yeah. I like it. 😂

Anyway, I genuinely have no idea how this story started. It just came to me one day, refused to leave me alone, and eventually I had no choice but to start writing it down. Please do not kill me.

I think this is going to be one of my very few supportive Voyagers stories. Normally, I am absolutely obsessed with finding increasingly ridiculous ways to get Shane back to Boston, but after writing an entire story from Ilya’s perspective with Homerun To You, I became really interested in exploring the other side of Shane’s story — specifically, his healing journey.

There will probably be one or two chapters that focus more heavily on Ilya, but for the most part, this story is going to be about Shane and the Voyagers, and the relationships and experiences that help him heal.

And, because apparently I cannot write a Shane story without getting deeply invested in his Japanese heritage, we’re going there too. 😂 I normally focus a lot on Shane’s Japanese culture, but this time I want to explore it through a slightly different lens, especially his Buddhist roots.

Yes, I am aware that I am participating in the Heated Rivalry fandom conspiracy of slowly making Shane Hollander progressively more Japanese.

And now I’m making him religious too.

At this point, I have accepted that there is no stopping me.

Chapter 1: WHO IS THIS MAN?

@icelevelobserver

Guys, did nobody else notice that Shane Hollander is fucking EVERYWHERE lately???

Like.

I know the Montreal Voyagers are on an absolute tear right now, and obviously Shane is having a ridiculous season, but when does this man actually sleep?

He basically disappeared into the Ottawa wilderness over the summer after the 2014 season and then came back looking like someone had plugged him into a wall socket.

He's everywhere.

• Voyagers games.
• Post-game press conferences where he suddenly seems to have discovered that he has a personality.
• Galas and social events.
• Rolex ambassador.
• Jeep commercials.
• Reebok.
• Calvin Klein.
• Speedo.
• Magazine covers.
• Random charity appearances.
• Somehow still finding time to be captain of a team that's currently on a fucking streak.

And the press conferences???

WHO IS THIS MAN?

I don't remember Shane Hollander being this openly sarcastic before.

He's always been confident, obviously, but lately he's been giving reporters these little looks like he's personally offended that they had the audacity to ask him a question.

Yesterday someone asked him about the Raiders being ahead of Montreal in the standings and he just went: “It's November. If you're celebrating the standings in November, I'm happy for you.”

???????????

SIR.

And then he smiled.

He smiled.

The reporter looked like he wanted to fight him.

I genuinely think something changed over the summer.

And honestly, I've seen people saying it's because of Rozanov.

Because let's be real: Ilya Rozanov becoming the first one of the two to lift the Stanley Cup, while Shane's Voyagers didn't is probably not something Shane Hollander would ever forgot.

Maybe his ass is on fire.

Maybe he's spent the entire summer thinking I will not let that happen again.

Which would explain why he's apparently trying to personally conquer every aspect of professional sports simultaneously.

Anyway.

Can someone please explain why Shane Hollander is suddenly everywhere?

Comments:

@puckbunny87

Montreal fan here.

He doesn't need to prove anything.

He's our captain.

The best hockey player ever.

And we love him.

We're getting the Cup this season.

That's all.

 

@blue_line_bastard

Boston fan here.

Not happening.

We are getting the Cup this season.

 

@blackandgold81

ROZANOV TWO-PEAT INCOMING.

You people are getting very confident because your team won a bunch of games in October.

 

@puckbunny87

We're in November.         

 

@blackandgold81

That somehow makes this worse.

 

@MTLredwhiteblue

The funniest thing about this entire thread is that you brought up Shane Hollander and somehow Boston fans managed to make it about Rozanov within four comments.

 

@blackandgold81

Because Rozanov is relevant.

 

@MTLredwhiteblue

Nobody asked.

 

@blackandgold81

Nobody has to ask.

 

@oldtimehockey

This is what happens when you put Montreal and Boston fans in the same thread.

 

@neutralzone

Weren't we talking about why Shane Hollander is suddenly everywhere?

Why are we back to the Montreal–Boston rivalry?

 

@oldtimehockey

You must be new.

 

@neutralzone

???

 

@oldtimehockey

This isn't a rivalry that started last season.

This is old history.

Original six franchises with old grudges and decades of playoff heartbreak.

They are different cities, with distinctive hockey cultures and fan bases.

Montreal and Boston fans could be discussing parking regulations and somehow end up arguing about who deserves the Stanley Cup.

 

@neutralzone

Okay but I literally asked about a hockey player's advertising schedule.

 

@oldtimehockey

And now you're learning about your ancestors.

 

@neutralzone

What does that mean?

 

@oldtimehockey

Welcome to hockey.

 

@ottawaskater

Also, can we talk about the Ottawa wilderness thing?

Because he genuinely disappeared.

Barely any sightings.

Just pics on his Insta, somewhere in Ontario looking like he was personally communing with nature while he does his yoga.

Then he came back and immediately started doing Rolex shoots.

 

@RolexPleaseSponsorMe

The man went into the woods and came back with a five-year plan.

 

@CalvinKleinDefender

He went into the woods and came back hotter.

 

@mod_team

Please keep discussion hockey-related.

 

@CalvinKleinDefender

This IS hockey-related.

 

@mod_team

No.

 

@jeepwatcher

The Jeep commercials are what get me.

Because he's so fucking serious in them.

He's standing next to a Jeep in the middle of nowhere looking like he's about to conquer the desert.

Meanwhile his actual interviews are becoming increasingly unhinged.

 

@goalcrease

The contrast is incredible.

Commercial Shane: stares intensely into middle distance

Press conference Shane: “That's an interesting question. Unfortunately, I don't respect it.”

 

@goalcrease

I NEED SOMEONE TO FIND THE CLIP.

 

@voyagersfan

He didn't say he didn't respect it 😭

 

@goalcrease

He said, “I don't think that's worth answering.”

Which is somehow worse.

 

@hat_trick_hero

I think people are underestimating what last season did to him.

Shane is competitive as hell.

And Rozanov, becoming the youngest captain in the Raiders' history to win the Cup is a massive thing.

You don't have to believe Shane is sitting at home making a revenge board with photographs of Rozanov.

But I absolutely believe he looked at that Cup and thought: Not again.

 

@MTLforever

THANK YOU.

This is exactly what I'm saying.

It's not that he needs to prove he's good enough.

He knows he's good enough.

It's that he wants the fucking Cup.

There's a difference.

 

@blackandgold81

And he's going to have to go through Boston to get it.

 

@MTLforever

We know.

 

@blackandgold81

Good.

 

@MTLforever

We are not scared.

 

@blackandgold81

You should be.

 

@MTLforever

You should be scared of Shane Hollander.

 

@blackandgold81

We aren't.

 

@MTLforever

That's adorable.

 

@stick_tap

Honestly, the most interesting part isn't even the sponsorships.

It's the press.

Something has changed.

He seems way more comfortable letting people see that he's funny.

Not “media-trained charming.”

Actually funny.

He's also clearly gotten much more comfortable pushing back on reporters.

 

@pressboxrat

I think he's finally figured out that he doesn't have to be polite just because there's a microphone in front of him.

 

@icelevelobserver

THIS.

That's exactly what I meant.

He used to answer questions like a diplomat.

Now he answers questions like a man who has been awake for four hours and has decided your question is stupid.

 

@pressboxrat

Yesterday's one was my favorite.

Reporter: “Do you think Montreal's recent success puts additional pressure on you as captain?”

Shane: “No.”

Reporter: “Why not?”

Shane: “Because we're winning.”

Then he just moved on.

 

@puckbunny87

KING.

 

@blackandgold81

Annoying.

 

@puckbunny87

You misspelled king.

 

@blackandgold81

No, I didn't.

 

@habsandhistory

The funniest thing about Montreal–Boston arguments is that neither side ever actually answers the question.

Someone: “Why is Shane Hollander playing so well?”

Montreal: BECAUSE HE'S THE BEST.

Boston: ROZANOV HAS A CUP.

Montreal: SHANE WILL GET ONE.

Boston: TWO-PEAT.

Montreal: YOUR CAPTAIN ISN'T BETTER.

Boston: HE HAS THE CUP.

Montreal: SHANE HAS A SILVER MEDAL.

Boston: STANLEY CUP.

Montreal: SHANE.

Boston: ROZANOV.

And somehow this conversation has existed for approximately 900 years.

 

@oldtimehockey

This is the correct historical record.

 

@neutralzone

I regret asking.

 

@oldtimehockey

No, you don’t.

You’re one of us now.

---

The Montreal Gazette

Shane Hollander and the Rebirth of the Montreal Voyagers

There was a time when the Montreal Voyagers seemed to be drifting toward irrelevance. The franchise remained one of the league's original institutions, but its history had begun to feel more like an inheritance than a living identity.

Seasons passed without the kind of sustained success expected from a team with Montreal's pedigree, while younger and better-organized teams gradually reshaped the league around them. The Voyagers were not without talent, but talent alone could not disguise a team that had become increasingly disconnected in the way it played, recruited and developed.

Shane Hollander changed that trajectory.

The transformation did not arrive with the usual theatrics. Hollander was selected second overall in his draft, the consensus elite prospect behind the generation's top selection, and arrived in Montreal carrying expectations that would have overwhelmed a less composed player. Instead, he won the Calder Trophy, established himself as one of the league's most complete young players and, remarkably early in his career, was entrusted with the captaincy.

By the end of the 2014 season, he had helped take the Voyagers to the Eastern Conference Final, giving a franchise that had spent years searching for its next identity, a player around whom an entirely new one could be constructed.

What makes the current season particularly significant is that Hollander's influence can no longer be separated from the broader development of the organization. Montreal is not simply winning more games; it is playing with a level of technical cohesion that had been absent for years.

The Voyagers move the puck with purpose, maintain their structure under pressure and appear increasingly comfortable changing pace without losing their shape. Their offensive sequences are less dependent on individual improvisation, their defensive transitions are cleaner, and their players seem to anticipate one another rather than merely react. The result is a team that looks connected from one end of the ice to the other.

Hollander is at the center of that process without needing to dominate it visibly.

His leadership has never depended upon volume. He does not need to be the loudest player in a locker room to establish its standards, nor does he appear particularly interested in turning every successful game into personal glory.

His greatest contribution is often found in the details: arriving first to a difficult situation, making the correct defensive read when a more spectacular play is available, settling his teammates after a mistake and maintaining the same level of concentration whether Montreal is protecting a lead or trying to recover from one. Those habits have become increasingly influential as the roster around him has matured.

That approach is particularly striking given the hostility Hollander has encountered throughout his career. His visibility has made him an easy target, and opponents and spectators have repeatedly attempted to provoke him with xenophobic slurs, racist abuse and personal attacks directed at both his background and his public image. There have been moments when the attention surrounding him has threatened to become larger than the hockey itself.

Hollander's response, however, has been remarkably consistent: he plays.

There is nothing passive about that decision. Hollander does not answer prejudice by pretending it does not exist; he answers it by refusing to allow other people's contempt to determine the boundaries of his career. He has continued to perform, continued to lead and continued to occupy a position that critics once suggested he had not earned.

His record offers the most effective rebuttal. The Calder Trophy, the captaincy, the Eastern Conference Final appearance and his repeated recognition for sportsmanship have established a career that cannot be dismissed as the product of publicity or personality.

His history with the NHL's Lady Byng Memorial Trophy is particularly revealing.

In a league where physicality, confrontation and the ritual of the chirp are often treated as essential components of competitive identity, Hollander has repeatedly demonstrated that discipline does not make a player less fierce. He can compete at an elite level without turning every disagreement into a spectacle. The distinction matters because his restraint has sometimes been mistaken for softness, only for opponents to discover that a player can remain composed while still controlling the game.

That control is becoming increasingly evident in Montreal's present style. Hollander's influence extends beyond his own statistics because he appears to understand what the team needs before it becomes obvious. His value is therefore difficult to capture through a single category on the scoresheet. He makes the players around him easier to integrate into the system, and the system itself has become more reliable because of it.

The significance of that development extends beyond one season. Montreal has spent years attempting to recover the stature associated with its original franchise identity while the league's established powers gradually lost ground to better-run organizations. The Voyagers' revival has therefore been more than a conventional rebuild. It has been an effort to restore a style of hockey and a level of institutional confidence that supporters had begun to associate with the past rather than the present.

Hollander's arrival gave that project a foundation. His early success provided credibility; his captaincy supplied continuity; his subsequent development has given the organization an example of what its rebuilt culture should look like. The players joining Montreal now are entering an environment in which expectations are no longer abstract. They can see the standard in the way their captain prepares, competes and carries himself after both victories and defeats.

That may ultimately be Hollander's most important contribution to the Voyagers. He has not merely become the face of their return to prominence. He has helped establish the conditions under which that prominence can last.

There is still a considerable distance between an excellent regular season and a championship. Montreal knows that better than most organizations. The 2014 Eastern Conference Final demonstrated that the Voyagers were capable of competing with the league's strongest teams; the current season is beginning to suggest that they may now possess the structure, depth and confidence required to remain among them. The difference is visible in the precision of their play, but it is equally apparent in the manner with which they handle adversity.

And at the center of it remains the same player who arrived in Montreal as the second draft of his generation, won the Calder Trophy and became a captain before most players have learned how to carry the expectations attached to an NHL career.

Shane Hollander has never needed to announce that he belongs.

Montreal's resurgence is increasingly difficult to argue without acknowledging that he has already proven it.

Comments:

@rinkrat1998

People outside Montreal always joke that we call this city the cradle of hockey as if it's just another piece of mythology.

But then you watch the Voyagers play now and you understand why people here care so much about the sport.

 

@MapleLeafOnIce

You can be aggressive without being an asshole.

You can win battles without turning every shift into a street fight.

That distinction is something our captain seems to understand instinctively.

And yes, I am aware this sounds like a Montreal fan being ridiculously sentimental about our captain.

I don't care.

 

@hockeyfan24

The funniest thing about Shane is that I genuinely don't know whether I became a Voyagers fan because I loved the team or whether I became a Voyagers fan because I loved Shane and eventually developed an emotional attachment to the entire organization.

At this point I'm not sure there is a difference.

 

@canadianicedaily

There absolutely isn't.

My husband has been a Voyagers supporter since he was a child.

His father supported them, his grandfather supported them, and apparently supporting Montreal is now an inherited medical condition in their family.

I started watching because I saw one of Shane's Calvin Klein shoots online.

I am now emotionally invested in the third defensive pairing.

This was not the plan.

 

@rinksidejules

Same, except mine was the Speedo campaign.

I had never watched hockey before, I thought the whole thing looked terrifying.

Everyone was constantly yelling, people were bleeding, the rules seemed unnecessarily complicated, and the culture around the sport seemed designed to intimidate anyone who wasn't already part of it.

Then I saw Shane.

I looked him up.

Then I watched an interview.

Then I watched a game.

Then another.

Now I know what a neutral-zone trap is and have strong opinions about defensive structure.

So, congratulations, Shane Hollander. You accidentally recruited me into hockey.

 

@coldcoffeeandchaos

This is actually how I got into it too.

I saw a photograph from one of his gala appearances and thought, Who is that?

Then I found out he was a hockey player.

Then I watched him play and realized hockey wasn't nearly as inaccessible as I had assumed.

The violence was honestly the biggest barrier for me.

Watching Shane compete without making violence the center of his identity made the sport feel completely different.

 

@sportsmedia101

This is why I think his influence is bigger than people realize.

He's not trying to turn hockey into something it isn't.

He's simply demonstrating that toughness doesn't have to mean cruelty or throwing punches around.

There is a difference between being physically competitive and believing that the best way to establish yourself is by hurting someone.

 

@CanadiensNation

And this is where the Montreal thing matters.

People love saying we're obsessed with our history, but that's because history matters here.

Hockey isn't just entertainment in Montreal; it's part of the city's identity.

So, when a player comes along who can represent the tradition without reproducing all of the worst parts of hockey culture, people are going to attach themselves to him.

Hollander is doing that.

 

@bruinsguy77

Boston fan here.

I hate the Voyagers.

I hate losing against Montreal.

I hate when Hollander scores against us.

I hate when he smiles afterward.

I hate when the Bell Center crowd starts chanting his name.

But I can't pretend I don't understand why everyone loves him.

The guy plays the game the right way.

 

@goalieproblems

This is the part where every fan base pretends they don't secretly like him.

 

@bruinsguy77

I didn't say I liked him.

 

@goalieproblems

You just wrote three paragraphs explaining why you respect him.

 

@bruinsguy77

Respect is not liking.

 

@goalieproblems

This is hockey fan language for “I like him, but I need to maintain plausible deniability.”

 

@bruinsguy77

Delete this.

 

@PuckTalkDaily

Raiders fan here.

Unfortunately, she's correct.

 

@catboyshane

There's something unusual happening with Hollander that I don't think we've really acknowledged.

Most hockey fans have a hierarchy of loyalty.

You support a team first, then maybe a player, or sometimes you follow a particular franchise because of its history.

There are people who are loyal to dynasties, and people who only care about their city.

Shane is one of the very few players I've seen who can make people completely reverse that order.

If the Voyagers announced tomorrow that they were trading him, I would stop supporting the Voyagers.

Not because I'd suddenly hate Montreal.

I'd just follow Shane wherever he went.

 

@edgequeen

Same.

And I'm not embarrassed about it.

If the GM woke up tomorrow and decided to trade the most important player this franchise has had in years, I'm not going to sit there and say, “Well, I'm a loyal Voyagers fan.”

No.

I'm a Shane Hollander fan.

The Voyagers are simply fortunate that he's currently ours.

 

@MapleLeafOnIce

This is sacrilege in Montreal.

I completely agree.

 

@edgequeen

I know.

That's how serious I am.

 

@CanadiensNation

My father would rather admit that he was wrong about something than admit that he would follow Shane to another team.

So naturally, I asked him.

He said, “If Montreal trades him, I will support Montreal. But I will also watch every game Shane plays.”

Dad.

That's not what I asked.

 

@catboyshane

He's negotiating with himself.

 

@CanadiensNation

He has been doing this for three days.

 

@HabsHistorian

The interesting thing is that Shane has managed to become beloved without cultivating the traditional hockey-star persona.

And yet nobody watching him play would mistake him for anything other than an extremely competitive athlete.

That might be why the appeal is so broad.

 

@edgeelements

Exactly.

Shane is passionate.

You can see it every time he steps onto the ice.

 

@NeutralFan

As a neutral fan, that's why I appreciate him.

I just want to watch people compete at an absurdly high level.

I don't particularly care whether they spend the entire game threatening each other.

Hollander seems to have figured out how to make hockey itself the spectacle.

 

@rinkrat27

Can we also acknowledge how many people discovered him through fashion?

Because I know at least five people who started following hockey because they saw one of his campaigns.

 

@vogueobsessed

🙋‍♀️

Rolex advertisement.

I thought he was a model.

Found out he was a hockey player.

Stayed for the hockey.

 

@puckprincess

Same.

 

@vogueobsessed

Then I discovered he was captain.

Then I discovered the Montreal–Boston rivalry.

Then I discovered that apparently everyone in this sport hates everyone.

 

@BostonBorn

Correct.

 

@puckprincess

Except Shane.

 

@BostonBorn

Unfortunately, yes.

 

@IceAndViolence

Raiders supporter here, and I'll say something that will probably get me banned from my own family's group chat: I think Shane Hollander is good for hockey.

Hollander demonstrates that you can command enormous respect without behaving like the most violent person on the ice.

He's competitive, disciplined, visibly intelligent, and he doesn't seem interested in proving his masculinity every five minutes.

That's valuable.

I don't support Montreal and I certainly don't want them winning the Cup, but I want more players like him in the league.

 

@bruinsburner91

You can say you want him on your team.

Nobody will judge you.

 

@IceAndViolence

I absolutely do not want him on my team.

 

@bruinsburner91

Coward.

 

@IceAndViolence

I want him on my team very much.

 

@oldschoolhockey

I think the biggest compliment you can give Shane is that Montreal fans don't just defend him because he's ours.

They defend him because he's Shane.

We've spent decades being incredibly territorial about our players.

We boo everyone else, complain about everyone else's stars, and find increasingly creative reasons why the opposing team is terrible.

But when somebody targets Hollander with racist garbage, suddenly the usual tribalism disappears.

You can hate Montreal.

You can hate the Voyagers.

You can hate every player wearing that jersey.

But leave Shane alone.

That's basically the unofficial rule.

 

@edgequeen

Not unofficial.

I have seen Boston fans defend him.

 

@hockeyguy1995

Boston fans defend nobody.

 

@edgequeen

They defended Shane.

 

@hockeyguy1995

Then clearly they have temporarily lost their minds.

 

@IceAndViolence

Can confirm.

We don't know what happened.

 

@HockeyMom44

My son started playing because of Shane.

That's all I wanted to say.

He watched one game, came downstairs and announced that he wanted to play hockey.

Six months later he's in a youth league and I'm learning the rules alongside him.

Whatever anyone thinks about the Voyagers, that's a pretty remarkable thing for one player to accomplish.

 

@BostonBruins1898

I came here prepared to disagree with everyone.

I still hate Montreal.

I still think the Raiders are winning the Cup.

I still think Shane is going to have a miserable time the next time he comes to Boston.

But there is one thing I won't argue with: The league is better when Shane Hollander is playing.

 

@MTLforever

That's the nicest thing a Boston fan has ever said.

 

@BostonBruins1898

Don't make me take it back.

 

@MTLforever

Too late.

We're framing it.

---

@montrealhockeyarchive

[Photo]

— The photograph shows Shane Hollander sitting behind a press-conference desk following a Montreal Voyagers game. A microphone is positioned directly in front of him, with the Voyagers branding visible on the backdrop behind the desk. He is wearing glasses and a dark tailored suit with a light-colored dress shirt underneath. His hair is neatly styled, and he is looking slightly to the side rather than directly toward the camera. Around his neck is a gold necklace with a circular wheel-shaped pendant resembling the Dharmachakra, associated with Buddhism. The pendant is visible above the collar of his shirt.

Caption:

I am Japanese-Canadian, and my parents immigrated from Hokkaido. I was born and raised here in Montreal, so this city has always been home to me. But seeing someone represented in a sport that is still predominantly white, a sport that many of us have grown to love, means a lot.

Especially lately, when Shane has been speaking more openly about his heritage and his culture. We've seen him incorporating more of those parts of himself into his public life, whether it's speaking Japanese, talking about his family, or wearing the Dharmachakra necklace.

You don't always notice how meaningful representation can be until you see someone who looks like you, comes from a background like yours, and is standing at the center of something you grew up watching.

We're very proud of him.

Comments:

@habsfan1987

I think this is one of those things you don't really notice when you're white.

You grow up watching hockey and you learn the teams, the players, the rivalries, the statistics.

You recognize yourself in the sport automatically, so representation isn't something you have to think about.

Then you see someone like Shane, or JJ, and suddenly you realize how unusual it actually is to have players from different backgrounds constantly visible in the sport.

 

@puckbunny87

This.

I never thought about it growing up because there were always players who looked like me.

Seeing people talk about what Shane's presence means to them has made me reconsider how much I took that for granted.

 

@MTLredwhiteblue

And having both JJ and Shane around the Voyagers has been especially noticeable.

That's a pretty powerful thing for kids watching.

 

@kyotogirl

As an Asian Canadian fan, I've been noticing Shane speaking Japanese more often too.

Not just in interviews.

I've seen people posting videos of him on the phone around Montreal and he'll just switch into Japanese without making a big deal about it.

I think it's really cute that he's been more comfortable doing that lately.

And his accent 😭

He has such a Kyoto-like way of speaking sometimes.

@sakura_on_ice

YES.

I noticed that too and thought I was imagining it.

 

@kyotogirl

You're not.

His grandparents are from Kyoto, right?

 

@sakura_on_ice

His mother is from there too.

 

@kyotogirl

Then that explains a lot.

 

@NeutralFan

Wait, people from different parts of Japan have different accents?

 

@kyotogirl

Are you serious?

 

@NeutralFan

I genuinely didn't know if regional differences were that noticeable.

 

@OsakaIce

My brother in Christ.

People have regional accents everywhere.

 

@NeutralFan

I know Americans do.

Southern accent, Midwestern accent, New York, etc.

I just never thought about Japan having the same thing.

 

@OsakaIce

Why would Japan be exempt from geography?

 

@TokyoSkates

Yeah, people from rural areas aren't going to necessarily sound the same as someone from Tokyo.

There are regional dialects all over the country.

 

@kyotogirl

Exactly.

Kyoto speech has its own characteristics, and if Shane grew up hearing it from his mother and grandparents, it's not surprising that some of it stayed with him.

 

@hockeyandramen

This is actually one of the things I love about hearing him speak Japanese.

He doesn't sound like someone who learned the language from a textbook.

You can hear that it's part of his family life.

 

@MapleLeafsSufferer

I'm not Japanese, but I think it's interesting how much more openly Shane seems to be talking about his heritage this year.

He's always been Japanese-Canadian.

But there's a difference between something being publicly known and someone actually bringing it into their public identity.

 

@CanuckSkates

I think the necklace is a good example.

Nobody looking at a gold pendant has to know what it means.

But he's wearing it during a press conference where thousands of people are going to see him.

It's a very small thing, but it's visible.

 

@MTLforever

And he wears glasses now too, apparently.

The man's press-conference wardrobe has become an entire cultural studies course.

Did someone else discover a glasses kink?

No one? It must have been only me.

 

@CanuckSkates

Leave the man alone.

 

@MTLforever

I will not be kink-shamed!

 

@AsianHockeyFan

Representation hits differently when you're watching a sport where you rarely see people who look like you.

I remember being a kid and knowing every player on the Voyagers but almost never seeing anyone Asian in the league who was treated as a major star.

Now there's Shane, and he's not some side character.

He's the captain.

That's huge.               

 

@blackicewhiteice

Same experience from a Black fan.

JJ being with Montreal matters for the same reason.

You don't necessarily think about it while watching the game, but eventually you realize that the players you're following are changing what you imagine a hockey player can look like.

 

@habsfan1987

This is why I think the “hockey is changing” conversation can sometimes feel abstract.

Then you walk into an arena and look at the kids wearing jerseys.

That's when you actually see it.

 

@rolexwatch

Also, can we talk about how this man apparently has no problem going from a Rolex campaign to sitting behind a microphone wearing a Buddhist pendant and glasses?

His range is ridiculous.

 

@CalvinKleinDefender

He has the most bizarre combination of public personas.

Fashion campaign Shane.

Captain Shane.

Japanese-speaking Shane.

Post-game sarcastic Shane.

Quietly wearing family-cultural-symbols Shane.

They're all the same person, which somehow makes it more interesting.

 

@rolexwatch

Exactly.

It's not like he's suddenly reinventing himself.

He's just showing more of himself.

 

@oldtimehockey

The accent discussion is my favorite part of this thread because people are discovering regional dialects like they just arrived on Earth.

 

@NeutralFan

I apologized.

 

@oldtimehockey

You did.

I respect your growth.

 

@TokyoSkates

For what it's worth, Kyoto dialect is also associated with particular speech patterns and vocabulary, and there are differences between people who grew up in Kyoto itself and people from surrounding areas.

So “he sounds a little Kyoto” isn't necessarily meaningless just because he's Canadian.

 

@kyotogirl

And that's probably why Japanese fans notice it more than English-speaking fans.

If you don't speak Japanese, you're just hearing Japanese.

If you grew up hearing different regional varieties, you can pick up little things.

 

@OsakaIce

Same as someone from Boston hearing another American and immediately going, “You're from the South.”

Meanwhile everyone else is like, “They are speaking English.”

 

@bruinsguy77

As a Boston fan, I can confirm we can identify each other's accents from approximately three words.

 

@MTLforever

You people can identify each other by insulting the same sports teams.

 

@bruinsguy77

Also true.

---

The Athletic

The Rivalry That Refuses to Let Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov Stand Still

There are rivalries built on geography, others on history, and many on genuine hatred. The rivalry between Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov is something different. Montreal and Boston provide the setting, their franchises provide the history, and the intensity of their meetings has certainly supplied enough hostility to sustain the comparison. But the rivalry itself began before either player had an NHL jersey.

Hollander and Rozanov were the two defining prospects of their generation before either had established himself professionally. Rozanov was selected first overall, while Hollander went second. In most drafts, that order would become the permanent shorthand for the careers that followed. Instead, it quickly became the first chapter of a competition that has never really ended.

Hollander answered the draft order by winning the Calder Trophy as the league's best rookie.

That distinction mattered because it established something that has remained consistent throughout their careers: being selected ahead of Hollander has never meant being better than him. Rozanov entered the NHL with the greater draft pedigree, but Hollander immediately demonstrated that the distance between first and second overall was considerably smaller than the draft night suggested.

Their careers have continued in much the same way, with one accomplishment frequently followed by an answer from the other.

At the Olympics, Hollander reached the finals with Canada and ultimately took silver. Meanwhile, Rozanov and Russia failed to reach the podium. It was one of the first occasions when Hollander could claim an achievement that Rozanov could not match.

Then Rozanov returned to the NHL and won the Stanley Cup.

He became the youngest captain in Boston Raiders history to lift the Cup, transforming what had been an international disappointment into one of the defining achievements of his professional career. Hollander could not answer that accomplishment immediately. Montreal reached the Eastern Conference Final in 2014 under Hollander's captaincy, but the Voyagers did not finish the season as champions.

Now the balance has shifted again.

Montreal has opened this season with the appearance of a team determined to go further, and Hollander has been at the center of that progression. The Voyagers are playing with greater cohesion, greater control and a level of confidence that suggests last season's Eastern Conference Final was not the culmination of their rebuild but the beginning of something larger.

Hollander is not merely producing individually; he is directing a team that increasingly resembles the kind of championship contender Montreal has spent years attempting to reconstruct.

That makes the coming months another installment in the same argument.

The temptation with prodigies is to assume that talent eventually creates its own ceiling. A player arrives ahead of his peers, dominates early, collects awards and discovers that there are fewer and fewer external challenges capable of forcing him to improve. Without someone capable of matching him, excellence can become routine. And routine can become complacency.

Neither Hollander nor Rozanov has had that luxury.

Each has spent his professional life knowing that somewhere else in the league there is another player of his age capable of doing something extraordinary. More importantly, each has repeatedly been confronted with the knowledge that the other has accomplished something he has not.

That distinction is what makes this rivalry unusual.

They are not simply competing for the same trophies. They are continually redefining what the other has to overcome.

When Hollander won the Calder, Rozanov had to establish himself beyond the distinction of being the first overall pick. When Hollander reached an Olympic final, Rozanov had to respond to an international disappointment. When Rozanov lifted the Stanley Cup as captain, Hollander was left with a considerably more consequential challenge than another individual award: he had to take Montreal beyond the point it had already reached.

The pressure works in both directions.

That is visible in the numbers, but it is even more apparent in the games between Montreal and Boston. Their individual statistics against one another have become a recurring point of interest because both players consistently produce some of their strongest performances when the Voyagers face the Raiders. Their preparation appears sharper, their decision-making more aggressive and their willingness to assume responsibility more pronounced.

It would be easy to attribute that entirely to the history between the franchises. Montreal and Boston already had one of the league's deepest rivalries before Hollander and Rozanov arrived. Both organizations carry the weight of being original franchises, and their supporters have spent generations treating victories over the other as something larger than two points in the standings.

But Hollander and Rozanov have given that rivalry a new center of gravity.

The old rivalry was institutional. This one is personal without necessarily being intimate. Neither player needs to manufacture hatred for the other because the competition itself provides enough motivation. Every meeting offers another opportunity to establish superiority, and every victory becomes evidence in an argument that neither career has managed to settle.

That is particularly important for two players whose abilities extend beyond conventional definitions of their positions and responsibilities.

Rozanov has developed into the kind of captain whose presence can alter the emotional temperature of an entire game. Hollander's influence is quieter but no less significant, expressed through his control of Montreal's structure, his ability to make teammates better and his increasingly sophisticated understanding of how to manage games rather than simply participate in them. Both have developed into players whose value cannot be reduced to goals, assists or individual awards.

They have also developed in response to one another.

That may be the most consequential part of their rivalry.

The existence of a peer at the same level forces each player to examine the parts of his game that remain incomplete. A spectacular offensive performance from one creates pressure on the other. A championship creates a new standard. A major international achievement becomes another benchmark. Even the less obvious improvements become competitive currency because neither can assume that yesterday's level of excellence will remain sufficient tomorrow.

For Montreal, that competition has become particularly valuable. Hollander's arrival coincided with the organization's reconstruction, but his rivalry with Rozanov has helped give that rebuilding process urgency. The Voyagers are no longer simply trying to become relevant again. They are attempting to compete with a Boston team led by the player who currently possesses the accomplishment Hollander wants most.

The Stanley Cup.

Rozanov has one.

Hollander does not.

That simple fact may be enough to define the current season.

It would be a mistake, however, to reduce Hollander's motivation to revenge. His career has never suggested that he needs an opponent to tell him what he wants. What Rozanov provides is something more useful: a constant point of comparison. Hollander knows exactly what level he is chasing because he has watched someone from his own generation reach it.

Rozanov has the same problem.

There is no opportunity for either player to become the unquestioned star of his generation while the other remains active. Their careers are being written simultaneously, and every major accomplishment changes the context of the next one.

Perhaps that is why their meetings have become appointment television.

Comments:

@neutralzone

I'm sorry but I think both of them are overrated.

There. I said it.

They're very good players, obviously, but people talk about Hollander and Rozanov like they're the second coming of the great dynasties.

They've had a few great seasons.

Let's see what the rest of their careers look like before we start calling them generational talents.

 

@puckstats

A few great seasons?

Rozanov has already won a Stanley Cup as captain and Hollander won the Calder and took Canada to an Olympic final.

They're not prospects anymore.

 

@neutralzone

I'm not saying they're bad.

I'm saying the media has turned them into something larger than they are.

 

@oldschoolhockey

They're the best two players this league has produced in the same generation since the great dynasties of the 1980s.

You don't have to like either of them to recognize that.

 

@neutralzone

That's an insane thing to say.

 

@oldschoolhockey

Watch them play.

 

@thirdperiodchaos

I actually agree that they're overrated, but for different reasons.

Rozanov is an incredible player, but he's also an absolute asshole.

The arrogance is exhausting.

Every interview feels like he's doing everyone a favor by speaking to them.

 

@blackice

That's part of what makes him good.

 

@thirdperiodchaos

No, that's part of what makes him unbearable.

 

@rinkrat92

You can separate the player from the personality.

 

@thirdperiodchaos

I can.

The player is fantastic.

The personality is still unbearable.

 

@crosscheck

Hollander is the one I don't understand.

Everyone keeps calling him one of the toughest players in hockey, but he barely fights.

He doesn't throw himself into every scrum.

At some point you have to ask whether he's actually too soft for this league.

 

@hockeypurist

Thank you.

I've been saying this for years.

Rozanov actually plays hockey the way hockey is supposed to be played.

 Physical, aggressive, intimidating.

Hollander is incredibly talented, but he's too clean.

 

@icelevelobserver

“Too clean” is a weird criticism when he's won the Lady Byng.

 

@hockeypurist

Exactly my point.

He gets rewarded for not playing hard.

 

@icelevelobserver

That's not what the Lady Byng is.

 

@hockeypurist

You know what I mean.

 

@icelevelobserver

I really don't.

 

@fivehole

The idea that Hollander isn't competitive because he doesn't fight is probably one of the dumbest hockey takes I've seen this week.

Have you watched him play?

He's constantly battling for position, taking contact, forcing turnovers and driving play.

He just doesn't need to turn every physical confrontation into a personal feud.

 

@hockeypurist

That's not the same thing.

 

@fivehole

It's literally hockey.

 

@NeutralObserver

I think people are missing the actual point of the article.

They're not saying Rozanov and Hollander are the only good players in the NHL.

They're saying they've become each other's benchmark.

That's completely different.

 

@thirdperiodchaos

And I'm saying Rozanov would still be elite without Hollander.

 

@NeutralObserver

Obviously.

So would Hollander.

That's why it's a rivalry.

 

@CalgaryNorth

As someone whose team has absolutely nothing to do with either of them, I find the whole thing fascinating.

Every time I watch Montreal–Boston, both of them seem to raise their level.

 

@puckstats

I've tracked their games against each other for the last two seasons.

Their individual numbers against each other are ridiculous compared with their normal averages.

 

@CalgaryNorth

That's what makes me think the rivalry is real.

You can't manufacture that.

 

@EdmontonOil

I still think Rozanov is better.

 

@MonarchsFan

I still think Hollander is better.

 

@EdmontonOil

Rozanov has the Cup.

 

@MonarchsFan

Hollander has the Calder and the Olympic silver.

 

@EdmontonOil

Stanley Cup.

 

@MonarchsFan

Calder Trophy.

 

@EdmontonOil

Captain of a championship team.

 

@MonarchsFan

Captain of a team that reached an Olympic Final.

 

@EdmontonOil

We're going to be doing this all day, aren't we?

 

@MonarchsFan

Probably.

 

@just_here_for_hockey

The funniest thing about these debates is that neither fan base seems particularly interested in hating the individual player.

It's always everyone else doing it.

 

@neutralzone

What do you mean?

 

@just_here_for_hockey

Go into a Montreal thread and you'll find people saying they hate Boston.

Go into a Boston thread and you'll find people saying they hate Montreal.

But ask a Montreal fan if they hate Rozanov and half of them will say, “No, he's just the Boston captain.”

Ask a Boston fan if they hate Hollander and you'll get basically the same answer.

The rivalry is between the franchises.

The individual hatred seems to come mostly from people who support neither.

 

@MTLredwhiteblue

As a Montreal fan, this is exactly right.

I don't like Rozanov.

He's Boston's captain. Obviously, I don't want him winning anything.

But I don't hate him.

He's an incredible hockey player and I respect what he's done.

If he scores against us, I'll be furious.

If he wins a Cup against us, I'll be miserable.

But I don't need to pretend he's a terrible person because he plays for Boston.

 

@blackandgold81

Boston fan.

Same.

I don't like seeing Hollander in a Montreal jersey, but I don't hate the guy.

He's one of the best players in the league.

If he scores against us, I'll complain about it for three days, but that's because he's good enough to hurt us.

 

@MTLredwhiteblue

Exactly.

 

@RidersNation

Honestly, Boston fans don't hate Shane.

We hate the Voyageurs.

There is a difference.

 

@BostonBorn

Thank you.

People outside these two fan bases seem to think every Montreal fan spends their morning thinking about how much they hate Rozanov.

No.

We wake up, check the standings, complain about Montreal, complain about Boston, and then go to work.

 

@RaidersNation

You mean we wake up, check the standings, complain about Montreal, complain about the referees, and then go to work.

 

@BostonBorn

Fair.

 

@HabsFanSinceForever

And honestly, Shane himself is probably the reason Montreal fans don't turn this into individual hatred.

His entire leadership style is basically: play the game, compete, answer for what happens on the ice and then go home.

Why would we suddenly start obsessing over Rozanov personally?

Shane doesn't.

He respects the competition and moves on.

We follow our captain's example.

 

@MTLforever

This is what people miss.

Montreal fans absolutely want Boston to lose.

We absolutely want Rozanov to have a terrible night when he plays us.

But that's sports.

The moment the game ends, I'm not spending my evening inventing reasons why Rozanov is evil.

 

@RozzyHater

He's still an asshole.

 

@MTLforever

That's your business.

 

@oldtimehockey

The Lady Byng argument is particularly funny because Hollander has basically spent his career proving that sportsmanship and competitiveness aren't opposites.

He can beat you and then shake your hand.

He can get hit without starting a fight.

He can be chirped without losing his concentration.

And he can still make you look ridiculous on the scoreboard.

That's probably why even opposing fans struggle to genuinely dislike him.

 

@neutralzone

I dislike him.

 

@oldtimehockey

Do you support a team that plays Montreal?

 

@neutralzone

Yes.

 

@oldtimehockey

There you go.

 

@CanucksNorth

I think the article is right about one thing above everything else.

Neither of these guys would be as good without the other pushing them.

Not because they need competition to function, but because they have someone their own age who can constantly make their previous standard feel insufficient.

Most players don't have that.

These two do.

 

@puckstats

And we've basically watched it happen in real time.

First overall pick versus second overall pick.

Calder versus draft pedigree.

Olympic silver versus no podium.

Stanley Cup versus Eastern Conference Final.

Now Montreal trying to take the Cup from Boston.

It's been going on for years.

 

@CanucksNorth

At some point it's not a rivalry anymore.

It's a career-long measurement system.

 

@MTLforever

Anyway, I hope Rozanov has a terrible game the next time we play Boston.

 

@RaidersNation

I hope Hollander has a terrible game.

 

@MTLforever

Fair.

 

@RaidersNation

See? We can be civilized.

 

@MTLforever

Don't push it.

 

@RaidersNation

Wouldn't dream of it.

---

@LuluLives reposted The Athletic

The Athletic: The Rivalry That Refuses to Let Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov Stand Still

“They play the best hockey against each other because neither can afford to become complacent.”

Okay.

Sure.

That's what we're calling it.

Guys.

I have a theory.

And before anyone starts: NO, I will not be taking questions.

They play the best hockey against each other because hockey is foreplay for them.

There. I said it.

Think about it.

Every time they play each other, suddenly they're both playing like they're trying to personally ruin the other's life.

The chirping.

The staring.

The little smiles after absolutely disgusting plays.

The way neither of them can stand losing to the other.

The way they somehow always seem to know exactly where the other one is on the ice.

The fact that they apparently become ten times more competitive, the second the other guy is within fifty feet of them.

And then one of them wins.

And suddenly the other one is furious.

That isn't just rivalry.

That is a secret hate-love relationship with a scoreboard.

I am telling you right now there is an entire private game happening here that the rest of us are simply not intelligent enough to understand. My theory is that whoever wins gets to decide what happens next.

Anyway, The Athletic can keep writing essays about “competitive excellence” and “mutual motivation.”

I know what I'm seeing.

They are not trying to destroy each other.

They are trying to see who can make the other one crack first.

Thank you for coming to my TED Talk.

I will be taking no further questions because I am already correct.

#Hollander #Rozanov #Hollanov #Montreal #Boston #NHL #IHaveATheory

Comments:

@MTLforever
Lulu.

Girl.

Not again.

 

@RaidersNation
Every time these two have a good game against each other Lulu emerges from the walls with this theory.

 

@icelevelobserver
“They play the best hockey against each other”
Lulu: SEX

 

@oldschoolhockey
They are rivals.

They have been rivals since they entered the league.

This is called competition.

 

@blackandgold81
I cannot believe I have to say this again, but Boston’s captain does not secretly have a relationship with Montreal’s, just because Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander play hockey very well against each other.

 

@edgequeen
Lulu, please stop trying to make hockey gay.

 

@LuluLives
I am not “trying to make hockey gay.”

I am observing the evidence.

 

@edgequeen

THE EVIDENCE IS TWO HOCKEY PLAYERS BEING COMPETITIVE.

 

@puckstats
The “whoever wins decides what happens to the other” part is especially insane because what actually happens is they shake hands after the game and go home.

 

@LuluLives:
That is what they want you to think.

 

@thirdperiodchaos
Oh my god.

 

@neutralzone
Lulu has constructed an entire clandestine relationship based on faceoff statistics.

 

@softcheck
Honestly, the funniest part is that Shane has spent his entire career being extremely disciplined and respectful and Lulu is over here like “secret erotic power struggle.”

 

@MTLforever
Shane literally gets nominated for the Lady Byng every year.

Please leave this man alone.

 

@RaidersNatio
And Ilya's entire personality on the ice is “I am going to chirp this boring Canadian to death.”

That is not romance.

That is Russian competitive pathology.

 

@BostonBorn

Lulu, please seek help.

 

@LuluLives
Interesting that nobody has actually disproven my theory.

 

@oldtimehockey
You cannot disprove a conspiracy theory because you have designed it so that literally every possible piece of evidence confirms it.

 

@LuluLives
THANK YOU.

 

@oldtimehockey
That was not agreement.

 

@NeutralObserver
I need everyone to appreciate that The Athletic wrote a serious article about two generational players pushing each other to improve and Lulu read it and somehow arrived at “they're fucking.”

 

@EdmontonOil
This is why I don't read comments anymore.

 

@CanucksNorth
No, keep reading.

This is the best thing I've seen all week.

 

@MonarchsFan
I'm genuinely fascinated by the mechanics of this theory.

 

@puckstats
There is an actual, extremely well-documented hockey explanation for why they elevate their games against each other: they're the two best players of their generation and each one is the hardest possible benchmark for the other.

 

@LuluLives
And you don't think that's hot?

 

@puckstats
I think it's hockey.

 

@thirdperiodchaos
Lulu challenge: go 24 hours without sexualizing the Montreal-Boston rivalry.

 

@LuluLives
No.

 

@thirdperiodchaos
Worth a try.

 

@MTLforever
The fact that Montreal and Boston fans are united in asking Lulu to stop is honestly beautiful.

 

@RaidersNation
For once, we can agree.

 

@MTLforever
Fuck Boston.

 

@RaidersNation
Fuck Montreal.

 

@MTLforever
But Lulu is out of line.

 

@RaidersNation
Absolutely.

 

@LuluLives
You people are afraid of the truth.

 

@HockeyMom24
No, sweetheart.

We're afraid of whatever you're going to post next.

Chapter 2: You're fired

Shane Hollander walked through the double doors leading into the Montreal Voyagers locker room, his gear bag slung casually over one shoulder. The energy inside felt off the second they stepped through the entrance. Right beside him was Marius Stefani, the team's general manager. Marius usually had a laid-back, approachable vibe for a front-office guy, but right now his jaw was locked tight and his posture looked rigid enough to snap a hockey stick in half.

Marius didn't bother looking at the strategy boards, or pausing to see who was sitting where. He bypassed the center island entirely as he locked his gaze onto Coach Theriault, who was standing near the far bench with a clipboard.

The chatter in the room ground to an instant halt. Guys who had been cracking jokes near the water cooler fell dead silent. Up and down the row of stalls, players froze mid-action. Hayden paused while unlacing his boots, JJ stopped with his jersey half-hoisted over his head, Mathieu sat with his arms resting on his knees staring blankly, and Mitty just froze holding a roll of tape in his hands.

Marius didn't waste time with pleasantries. He stopped three feet short of Theriault, skipping any kind of greeting. "You're fired."

Theriault blinked, his mouth dropping open, but before he could muster a single word, Marius raised his right arm. He pointed an index finger across the blue line painted on the carpet, zeroing in on two specific stalls near the back bench.

"Cameau. Drapeau. You two are traded. Get your personal stuff out of your lockers and leave the team gear right there."

A beat went by while the news processed in everyone's brain. Right on cue, two tall guys in dark suits—arena security—stepped through the open main doorway right behind Shane. They didn't stand around waiting for orders; they walked straight over to where Cameau and Drapeau were sitting. The security team stood over them with folded arms until both players slowly pushed themselves up from their benches, completely bewildered, and began dumping their street clothes and shoes into duffel bags.

The rest of the roster sat glued to their stalls, staring. Nobody moved an inch, as their eyes darted back and forth between Marius, Theriault, and Shane, trying to figure out if this was some kind of elaborate prank. Shane stayed positioned near the main entrance, his jaw set firm, deliberately avoiding making eye contact with anyone in the room.

Theriault finally snapped out of his trance. His neck turned a dark shade of red as he took an aggressive step toward the GM.

"Are you out of your mind? You can't do this!" Theriault shouted, his voice cracking slightly. "We have a contract, Marius! A guaranteed contract! We made it all the way to the finals of the Eastern Conference last year! We put this franchise back on the map! Why the hell would you kick me out?"

Marius stood his ground, not flinching as Theriault got up in his space. He kept his hands casually tucked into the pockets of his slacks.

"I have a list of reasons long enough to fill a binder, Theriault," Marius drawled, maintaining a conversational tone that made the delivery ten times more lethal. "But you aren't just getting kicked out. No, buddy. You are blacklisted. You will never hold a clipboard, stand on a bench, or touch a front-office job in professional hockey ever again."

Theriault sputtered, his hands waving around wildly. "For what? For pushing guys to win?"

"Hockey culture has its issues, and everybody in this room knows it," Marius continued smoothly, looking Theriault straight in the eyes. "People turn a blind eye to a lot of garbage they shouldn't. They ignore the xenophobic slurs, they pretend not to hear the homophobia, they let guys throw equipment around like angry toddlers. But you managed to go somewhere even this league won't cover up. You went straight into religious discrimination. You crossed a line that makes you an absolute liability legally and humanly."

Theriault's eyes bulged right out of his head. He blinked rapidly, looking like someone had just delivered an open-ice hit to his chest. The locker room was so still you could hear the steady dripping of a faucet in the athletic trainer's office down the hall.

Theriault slowly turned his head away from the GM and focused all his attention on Shane. All the shock in the coach's expression melted away, replaced by pure, unfiltered venom. "This is your fault, you fucking fag," he spat, taking a step toward the captain.

Shane didn't back up an inch. He just stood his ground, glaring straight through his former head coach with eyes like ice blocks.

Before Theriault could get any closer, the two security officers stepped in. One reached out and snagged Theriault firmly by the upper arm, steering him right toward the exit hallway. The second guard finished escorting Cameau and Drapeau, who were carrying their personal bags like two defeated recruits. The heavy entrance door clicked shut behind the three of them, leaving a dead silent locker room.

Marius looked around the remaining roster before he walked over to Shane, clapped a palm against his shoulder, and gave him a single, meaningful nod. "All yours, Captain.”

He turned around and walked out, letting the door latch shut behind him.

For five straight seconds, nobody in the room dared to breathe. Shane stood by his locker, unzipping his bag and letting it drop to the floor mats with a dull thud.

Hayden leaned forward off his bench, resting his elbows on his knees, his eyes darting around the room before finally stopping on Shane. Right beside him, JJ was staring at the doorway with his mouth half-open. Across the room, Mathieu had his head tilted back against his stall in total disbelief, while Mitty had dropped the tape roll from shock.

Hayden finally broke the spell, his voice echoing in the open space. "Shane... what the fuck just happened?"

Shane took off his jacket, hung it up carefully inside his stall, and turned around to face his team. Every single pair of eyes was glued to him, waiting for an explanation. "What happened," he said, tone steady as a rock, "is that we just cleared out the trash. Grab your gear. We've got work to do."

But nobody moved. The silence hung over the stall benches like thick smoke, heavy and suffocating.

JJ cleared his throat, taking a cautious step forward, his brow furrowed. "Cap… we need more than that. What the fuck just happened?"

Shane’s posture shifted, his shoulders setting like steel beams, his expression smoothed out into a detached mask, while his eyes turned ice cold. Every single player in that locker room felt the air drop five degrees.

"I am the captain," Shane said, his voice dropping into a flat, deadly register. "What I say goes. Do you understand that? It means I will not tolerate any more back talk, or any more joking or teasing around."

He scanned the faces staring back at him—Hayden, JJ, Mathieu, Mitty—none of them daring to make a sound.

"You want to know what happened? I'll tell you what happened," Shane continued, his tone devoid of warmth. "I am done with bullshit. I am done with everyone walking all over me because I have to hold myself to a higher standard than most people in this league. Because unlike most of the players here, I am not white. I am half Japanese."

He paused, letting the words sink into the rubber floor mats.

"And those slurs you throw around—saying fag, fairy, or whatever else comes out of your mouths—well, you can use them with me now. Because they're not really slurs to you, are they? They’re just the truth. And when you say it, say it to my face. Do it with a smile that I will happily knock straight out of your mouth. Because I might not throw my gloves off on the ice, but I know how to punch someone."

A short, sudden laugh burst out of Shane's chest. It sounded sharp, slightly hysterical, vibrating with a maniacal edge that sent a shiver down everyone’s spine. Up and down the stalls, the team didn't look at him with disgust or horror; their eyes were wide with pure, mounting worry. They had never seen their captain unhinge like this.

"But if you truly want to know what happened, JJ," Shane’s laugh cut off as abruptly as it started. "I’ll be more than happy to explain it. Because it seems that after so many concussions, hockey players are pretty dumb. So, I’ll break it down step-by-step for you."

He took a slow step toward the center of the room.

"Hockey culture and locker room mentality, it’s toxic. The words you throw around on the ice hurt people. Do you understand? Sitting back, saying nothing, allowing jokes, and letting guys like Cameau and Drapeau get away with their bullshit would have turned this entire team into absolute garbage. Those two were the worst players on our roster, yet they were sitting on the first line. Why do you think that was? Because they sucked up to the coach and shared his disgusting mentality. That ends today."

Shane pointed a stern finger around the circle of stalls.

"If you want to use xenophobic slurs, do it. You know why? Because I'm half Japanese. If you want to call me a fag, go right ahead, because I am gay. But there are lines you do not cross. None of you are allowed to tease me about yoga or meditation ever again. Those are part of my religion because—surprise, surprise, you North American idiots—Christianity and Judaism aren't the only religions out there. Buddhism exists, and I am Buddhist."

He picked up his gloves from his stall, gripping them tightly in one hand.

"From now on, I am done taking bullshit. If I answer my phone saying moshi moshi or speaking in Japanese, I’ll do it. You say something about it? You get back-skates. And if I hear any of you using slurs on the ice, you will be fined—fined directly by the GM. You can say it to me all you want, because I don't care anymore. All of you just lost my trust."

Shane turned his icy gaze toward the veterans on the squad.

"You guys hate Ilya Rozanov. You've got such deep hatred for him that I honestly don't even know where it comes from. Sure, he's our rival and he's a bear on the ice, but that's it. Yet with all his chirping, have you ever heard him use a slur? Any kind of slur? No. When he chirps, he hurts you because he just states how bad of a player you are. And let's be honest—you are all just okay players. You could be so much better if you actually worked for it. But do you? No, you don't."

He paced down the line of lockers, calling out the elephant in the room.

"Because Montreal is a hockey city. People here worship us, and all of you bought into that bullshit. You started thinking you're above everyone else just because you wear this jersey and the city adores you. You only show up to practice when you're forced to. If you don't actually like hockey, why are you here? You want the money? Fine. Go sit on the second or third line and let others do the real work, because I am done letting you breeze through."

He stopped right in the middle of the room, looking each player dead in the eye.

"I will work every single one of you to the bone. When we go to Las Vegas for the NHL awards, it will be with the Stanley Cup, and every single player in this room will be nominated for at least one trophy. But from now on, I am Captain Hollander. I am not Hollzy, I am not Shane, I am not your buddy. You lost my trust when you all sat there in silence while the coach called me a pagan whore because I'm Buddhist, and you just let it happen. I don't even trust you to block hits for me on the ice."

He leaned close to the group.                                

"Maybe you can earn it back. Work hard and prove to me you're better than that. But let's be clear: you are no longer my friends. And if any of you cross the line, you're the next ones getting traded."

The training session after that stretched on for hours, turning into a relentless ordeal for every single player on the roster. Shane had demanded perfection, and he enforced that standard without offering a single breath of leniency. Nobody on the roster had ever been pushed harder in their entire lives. They ran drills until their legs burned, skated laps until their lungs felt like fire, and repeated simple passing routes over and over until the execution was flawless.

When the whistles finally stopped, Shane stood at center ice while the rest of the team leaned over their sticks, gasping for air. He went down the line, addressing every player individually. He pointed out exactly what each guy had done well, dissected what they had done wrong, and gave them precise, clear instructions on how to fix it for tomorrow. He was, by every technical measure, acting like the ultimate leader.

Yet not a single player could raise their head to look him in the face. Their eyes stayed glued to the black skate marks on the white ice. A deep, gnawing shame was eating them alive from the inside out, heavier than the physical exhaustion in their muscles. The realization of how badly they had failed him as teammates, as friends, and as men hung over the rink like a dark fog.

Eventually, the group shuffled off the ice and began peeling off their gear in the locker room. Most of the team headed straight for the showers, desperate to wash off the sweat and escape the suffocating tension lingering in the air.

Only Hayden and Shane remained near their stalls. Hayden stood by his locker, his jersey hanging loosely from his hands, watching Shane pack his bag with methodical precision. Hayden cleared his throat, opening his mouth to try and bridge the massive chasm between them, to offer some kind of apology or explanation.

Shane didn't even let him start. He turned his head, locking his ice-cold glare onto Hayden, cutting off the words before they could leave his throat. Then, Shane's expression softened into a sweet, pleasant smile that didn't reach his eyes at all.

"Just a heads up, Pike," Shane’s tone was dripping with artificial warmth. "This coming weekend, you won't be staying at home. You will have to make other arrangements."

Hayden froze, his knuckles turning white around his jersey.

"Don't worry about Jackie or the twins, though," Shane continued smoothly, zipping up his bag with a crisp slide of the runner. "I'm going to take them out for a nice lunch on Saturday. Maybe we'll head over to the zoo afterward. The kids have been wanting to see the new elephant habitat anyway. We're all going to have a wonderful time together without you."

A visible flinch went through Hayden's entire body. The sentence hit him like an open-ice body check, stripping away whatever defense he thought he had left. He opened his mouth to protest, to beg for forgiveness, to say anything at all, but the absolute distance in Shane's posture shut him down completely.

Unable to utter a single word, Hayden simply gave a small, defeated nod. He lowered his gaze back to the rubber mats, turned around on unsteady legs, and walked toward the showers to join the rest of the team in silence.

Shane made his way up the carpeted stairs toward the general manager’s office, pushing the door open to find Marius sitting behind his massive mahogany desk. Marius was grinning like a cat that had just swallowed a canary, his expression full of absolute manic glee.

The hockey player tilted his head, staring at the GM in complete disbelief, wondering what the hell had just happened. For months, Shane had been desperate to fix the toxicity in the locker room, desperate to handle Theriault, Cameau, and Drapeau, but he had never possessed the backing from management to pull off a total coup. Then today, Marius had simply walked in, cleared out the rot, and handed Shane complete free rein over the Voyagers, telling him to rain hell down on anyone who stepped out of line.

Before Shane could even open his mouth to ask his burning questions, Marius reached across the polished wood and slipped a thin yellow folder over the desk.

"Drapeau has been traded to Ottawa," Marius said, leaning back in his leather chair with his hands laced behind his head. "And Cameau was traded to Buffalo."

Shane’s eyebrows shot straight up toward his hairline. A second later, a loud, uncontrollable laugh burst out of his chest. Ottawa and Buffalo were easily the two worst teams in the division. Marius hadn't just removed those two from the roster; he had effectively exiled them to hockey purgatory.

"You really fucked them over," Shane chuckled, shaking his head as he flipped the folder open. "Wait... were you actually able to rescue two decent players from those franchises in exchange?"

Shane’s eyes scanned the trade sheets, zeroing in on the official paperwork.

"Zane Boodram and Ryan Price," Shane read aloud, a genuine smile finally touching his lips. "Oh yeah. These are great pickups. Ryan is so underused over there. He’s been bounce-passed from team to team his whole career, which means he brings incredible adaptability and he’s going to know every single locker room secret from around the league. And Zane..."

Shane paused for a beat. He might be angry at Hayden, hurt by him not having his back. But he still loved his friend. Shane had been his best man in the wedding and is the twin’s godfather for a reason. So, even thinking about Boodram being a better alternate than Hayden, felt like a betrayal for Shane.

Luckily, he did not have to be the one to say it out loud.

Marius grinned, a wicked glint in his eyes. "Boodram is a great player who had a shitty hand played against him when Ottawa drafted him. I want to make him the new alternate captain in Pike’s place."

Shane sighed, leaning back against his chair. "I thought so too... I just wasn't going to say it out loud."

The manic glee on Marius’s face softened slightly, his expression growing gentler as he looked across the mahogany desk at his captain. "Because even after everything, Pike is still your best friend, and you wouldn't fuck him over like that."

Marius reached out, taking the folder back and closing it with a crisp snap. "Do not worry," he added with a nod. "I'll do it myself."

Shane grew serious, leaning forward, resting his forearms on the wood as he locked his gaze onto the general manager.

"What happened, sir?" Shane asked, his tone devoid of the edge from earlier. "Why the sudden change? Throughout the years, you've asked my opinions about some of the players and the coach because you knew I’d answer you honestly. Most of the time, you’d correct a few small things here and there, but you always seemed interested in keeping the status quo."

Marius winced, a visible grimace pulling at his features as the manic energy drained right out of him. He looked down at his folded hands, taking a long, deliberate breath before looking back up at Shane.

"What happened," Marius said softly, "is that my daughter is a lesbian."

Shane remained silent, letting him speak.

"Over the summer, she tried to end her life," Marius continued, his voice tight with raw emotion. "She did it because she thought I would hate her. She thought that because I kept the status quo. Because I sat by and allowed people to throw around homophobic slurs, make vile comments, and run their mouths. I invited those exact same bigots into my home for end-of-season parties because that’s how you stay at the top of the NHL. That’s how you become the GM of an Original Six franchise—you keep the old boys' club happy and never make waves."

Marius swallowed hard, staring past Shane at the window overlooking the city.

"Looking at my daughter’s unconscious body while my wife hugged her and sobbed over her... while I was frantically dialing 9-1-1... something in me snapped. I realized I don't give a damn about any of that anymore. I want to prove to my daughter that people can change. That I can change. That I can do better for her, and that I love her more than this job."

He looked directly into Shane’s eyes, his expression completely resolute.

"If allowing you to rain hell on every single one of them and turning this into the queerest team in the entire league is how we make that happen, then do it. Burn it all down." Marius allowed a faint, dry smirk to touch the corner of his lips. "By the way, this year, we’re having Pride Night in June."

Shane sat back in his chair, staring at Marius in total shock. A beat passed, and then a sudden, genuine burst of laughter exploded from Shane's chest—a clean, bright sound that shattered the lingering tension in the office.

Marius grew serious once more, the slight smirk fading from his lips as his posture shifted. He reached down, unlocked the top drawer of his mahogany desk, and pulled out a small, velvet-lined jewelry box. Without saying a word, he slid it across the polished surface toward his captain.

Shane looked at the box, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion. He reached out, flicked the latch open, and felt his breath hitch slightly. Resting on the dark velvet cushion was a gold necklace featuring a finely detailed Dharmachakra—the eight-spoke Buddhist wheel.

Shane looked up, the surprise written plain across his face.

Marius held his gaze, his tone solemn. "I owe you an apology, Shane. It doesn't matter what I thought about keeping the status quo, or the few times I managed to help you behind the scenes over the years. I should have stood up behind you a long time ago."

Shane started to open his mouth, but Marius raised a hand to stop him.

"It is about more than just you being gay, or the fact that only a handful of us in management knew about it and helped you protect your privacy," Marius continued, the regret heavy in his words. "You are the future of this franchise. But even if you weren't the star player or the captain, you are a human being. There's no excuse I can give you for my inactivity. No justification that makes up for staying silent while you carried all of that on your shoulders. I'm sorry."

Shane stared down at the golden wheel catching the dim overhead lighting of the office.

In his heart, Shane knew he could forgive the man sitting across from him. It didn't mean forgetting the past, nor did it erase years of silent complicity, but Shane held onto a fundamental belief that people were capable of growth. It was the exact same reason he had given Ilya Rozanov so many chances over the years. It was the same reason he had stood in front of a room full of shell-shocked teammates an hour ago and told them that if they worked hard, they could earn his trust back one day.

Shane had to believe that people could change. Because if he stopped believing that the world became a terrifyingly bleak place for someone like him.

"You're forgiven, Marius," Shane told him softly.

He closed the velvet box with a quiet snap, slipped it safely into his jacket pocket, and picked up his bag from the floor. He offered his GM a firm nod before turning and stepping out into the quiet hallway.

Shane made his way out of the arena into the cool evening air, unlocking his Jeep. He threw his bag into the back seat, climbed in, and fired up the engine. As he pulled out of the garage and drove through the illuminated streets of Montreal toward his apartment, the gold necklace in his pocket felt less like a gift and more like the very first step toward something real.

The hum of the highway slowly faded into the quiet rhythm of his neighborhood, the familiar streetlights casting soft, fleeting shadows across the dashboard. He carefully pulled into his underground parking space and turned off the ignition, then he grabbed his bag from the back seat, rode the elevator up in contemplation, and let himself into his residence.

The front door of his apartment clicked shut, sealing out the damp Montreal night air and leaving him in complete solitude.

He unslung his heavy leather bag, letting it fall onto the hardwood floor with a dull thud that echoed softly down the entrance hallway. He kicked off his sneakers, leaving them untidily by the door—a rare lapse in his usually meticulous routine—and walked barefoot across the cold floor toward the living room.

The apartment was spotless, minimalist, and cold. Shane didn't turn on the overhead lights. He walked in the dark, guided only by the ambient glow of the city skyline filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows, and sank onto the plush cushions of his sofa.

He sat there in the shadows for a long moment, listening to the hum of the refrigerator and the distant rumble of late-night traffic coming through the windows. Everything inside him felt overwrought and raw, like a guitar string tuned so tight it was on the verge of snapping.

Slowly, Shane reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the velvet jewelry box Marius had given him.

He flipped the metal latch. The tiny lid opened, and the soft city light caught the dull gleam of precious metal resting against dark fabric. Shane reached in with two fingers, lifting the delicate golden chain into the air.

He rested the pendant on his palm, tracing the outline of the eight-spoke wheel with the pad of his thumb. It was gold, exquisitely crafted, and delicate without feeling feminine—simple, understated, and timeless.

As his thumb traced the metallic edges, an aching memory rose in his chest, making him draw a shuddering breath.

It reminded him far too much of Ilya’s Orthodox cross.

Ilya Rozanov wore that cross everywhere—hidden beneath his chest protector during games, glinting against his collarbone in hotel rooms, resting against his skin during the quiet hours nobody else was allowed to see. Seeing this tiny piece of religious jewelry, so similar in its personal significance, only made Shane feel sadder. A deep, hollow ache opened up in his ribs, pulling him down into the sheer weight of everything that had happened over the past year.

Ilya had spent two full years chasing after him. Two years of insufferable chirping on the ice, smirking in press conferences, midnight phone calls, deliberate brushes in hotel corridors, and relentless, agonizing persistence. And then, finally, Ilya had gotten him. He had taken Shane's virginity, cracked open the shell Shane had built around himself, and made Shane believe—even for just a fleeting second—that there was something real, something beautiful, pulling them together.

And then Ilya had destroyed it.

He had looked Shane in the eyes and told him they were nothing.

In a cold, logical corner of his brain, Shane could see why. Shane understood how Ilya could say it. Ilya had never explicitly promised him anything beyond good sex and secret fun. He could get that. He could even rationalize Ilya’s panicked, cold reaction later on, once Shane did his research and learned about the terrifying new anti-queer laws passing in Russia. Shane knew how dangerous those laws were for anyone, let alone famous athletes in the country. He understood why Ilya had panicked, why he had slammed the door shut, and why he had tried to protect himself.

Shane could even forgive the six agonizing months of radio silence, where Ilya became an absolute ghost to him. Shane had spent hours reading, researching, and trying to comprehend the sheer pressure Russian athletes lived under. It was a suffocating, toxic system—far worse than anything in Canada or the NHL.

On top of that, Ilya had lost on home ice at the Sochi Olympics. The national shame, the media circus, the state pressure... Shane knew Ilya had been crushed under the weight of it all. Ilya hadn't gone out partying. He hadn't been photographed in a single club or nightspot for six straight months. It had just been brutal, obsessive training, isolation, and survival. Shane understood all of that. He really did.

What Shane could not understand—what he could not forgive—was the sheer, callous way Ilya had treated him in Las Vegas.

The encounter during the awards week had been hot, wild, and desperate, but it had lacked a soul. Ilya had been distant, cold, and transactional. He hadn't kissed Shane once. It was a fast, brutal bottoming experience that had left Shane lying on crisp hotel sheets, feeling hollow, dirty, and used long after Ilya had all but kicked him out.

Shane had spent the entire summer brooding over it. He had nursed that wound in silence, letting the hurt curdle into something far more dangerous.

When he returned to Montreal for pre-season training, he was already carrying a reservoir of dark, toxic energy. And then, during a team meeting, Coach Theriault had looked him in the face and called him a pagan whore for practicing his faith, while his own teammates—his friends, guys he had bled for on the ice—sat in absolute silence and let it happen.

That was the moment Shane had snapped.

The rage that had been building up inside him since Las Vegas had finally exploded. It was the reason he had just spent the last three hours being an absolute monster to his team. It was the reason he had turned his face to stone, cut Hayden down without a second thought, and treated his locker room like an enemy camp. It was the exact reason he had pulled out his phone earlier that week, blocked Ilya Rozanov's number, and deleted every single trace of him from his life.

Shane sat alone on his couch, his chest heaving as the memories washed over him. The boiling rage was still there, churning in his stomach, hot and acidic.

He looked down at the gold wheel in his hand.

Marius’s tearful apology echoed in his mind. The GM had looked at him with genuine remorse, admitting his mistakes, choosing to break the cycle of hate, and asking for forgiveness. And Shane had given it to him.

What am I doing? Shane thought, his throat tightening. What am I holding onto this anger and hurt for?

He had spent weeks nursing elaborate, bitter fantasies about the next time he would see Ilya. He had envisioned confronting him, throwing Las Vegas back in his face, screaming at him, tearing him down, and making him feel as small and broken as Shane had felt on that hotel bed.

But sitting here in the dark, Shane realized the terrifying truth: holding onto this rage was changing him. If he stayed this angry, if he kept letting this toxicity poison his blood, he would turn into the very things he hated. He would become like Theriault. He would become like Cameau and Drapeau—bitter, cruel, callous, and blind to the humanity of the people around him.

He didn't have that kind of cruelty in him. And more importantly, he refused to let the world force it into him.

Shane lifted the golden chain, unclasping it with steady fingers. He reached behind his neck and fastened the clasp, letting the delicate Dharmachakra settle against the center of his chest, resting right over his heart. The metal was cool against his skin for a fraction of a second before taking in his body heat.

He shifted his position on the sofa, pulling his legs up and crossing them into a full lotus position. He rested his hands lightly on his knees, palms facing upward, and closed his eyes.

He took a deep, deliberate breath in through his nose, expanding his lungs, holding the air for three long seconds.

Inhale peace. Acknowledge the pain.

He exhaled slowly through his mouth, letting his shoulders drop an inch away from his ears.

Exhale the dark. Let go of the poison.

With every cycle of breath, Shane focused on the weight of the gold wheel resting on his chest. In Buddhist teaching, the wheel represented the noble path, the continuous cycle of life, and the conscious effort to overcome suffering through right thought, right action, and mindfulness.

He visualized the dark, boiling rage inside his chest—the anger at Theriault, the betrayal by Hayden and the team, the lingering, jagged pain of Ilya’s abandonment. He didn't push the feelings away or pretend they didn't exist. Instead, he acknowledged them, held them in the light of his awareness, and slowly released his grip on them. He allowed the negative energy to drain out through his limbs, down into the floor, leaving his body piece by piece.

He had no idea what was going on in Ilya Rozanov's life right now. He didn't know what kind of nightmare Ilya was navigating with his family, his government, or his own head. Ilya was living in a world of complex, terrifying shadows that Shane couldn't fix or control.

But Shane couldn't carry Ilya's shadows anymore. He couldn't carry his team's moral failings, and he couldn't carry his former coach's bigotry.

Right now, Shane had to focus on himself. He had to be the leader his team actually needed—not a dictator ruling through fear and spite, but a captain who stood firm in his integrity, unshakeable and whole.

Shane kept breathing, sitting in the stillness of his dark living room until his heart rate slowed to a calm, steady rhythm. The rage was gone, replaced by a solid resolve. He opened his eyes, looking out over Montreal, ready for whatever tomorrow would bring.

Chapter 3: Perfect timing

Chapter Notes

So, this story should have started with a social media chapter. I totally forgot, so I have already corrected this issue. Please go back to chapter 1 to read the new first chapter.

Shane adjusted the cuffs of his tailored charcoal suit jacket as he stepped through the glass doors of the glass-walled venue overlooking downtown Montreal. The ambient bass from the live jazz quartet vibrated softly through the floorboards, mingling with the low hum of laughter, clinking crystal, and the distinct, crisp fizz of soda cans being cracked open.

He was attending a City Seltzer gala, one of Shane’s major corporate partners. In the middle of the room, an expansive, open-concept bar was buzzing with mixologists creating bespoke, colorful cocktails utilizing various seltzer flavors. Opposite the bar, a line of top-tier local chefs worked live culinary stations, flames leaping into the air as they seared prime cuts of meat and plated intricate canapés right in front of the guests.

Years ago—back when Shane was a fresh-faced rookie terrified of making a single mistake on or off the ice—he would have loathed every second of an event like this. Early in his career, Shane’s mindset had been pure, narrow-minded obsession: he just wanted to put his head down, practice, eat plain chicken breasts, play the game he loved so deeply, and ignore everything else. He used to view sponsorships and high-society galas as tedious, exhausting distractions from hockey.

Time and experience, however, had stripped away that naive worldview. Shane had grown up. He had come to realize that at the highest level of professional sports, you couldn't just play the game in a vacuum. Everything was interconnected, politicized, and fueled by massive financial structures. If you wanted the leverage to effect real change—if you wanted to survive in a league that could swallow you whole—you needed power. And power required the backing of influential people, both inside management and beyond the arena walls.

Knowing he had Marius’s unwavering support as the General Manager of the Montreal Voyagers was a massive win, but Shane knew he couldn't stop there. He needed a fortress around him.

The process had started a few weeks ago, right after Shane took the terrifying step of coming out to his parents. Their reaction had been an overwhelming wave of love. His mother, in particular, had instantly gone into full momager mode. She had immediately looped in Farrah, Shane's long-time agent, and the two of them had essentially formed a defensive war cabinet.

Together, Farrah and Shane's mother had begun probing Shane's major corporate sponsors to gauge where they would stand if Shane ever officially stepped out of the closet as the first active, openly gay star in the NHL.

To Shane's relief, the corporate landscape had shifted significantly in recent years. Driven by modern brand strategies and a wider cultural focus on inclusion, most of these multi-million-dollar brands didn't particularly care about the personal or sexual identity of the athletes representing them. What they did care about was performance, marketability, and stability. They wanted to know that their star athlete had the full, concrete backing of his franchise so that any potential public move wouldn't degenerate into a messy PR disaster.

Once Farrah confirmed to the executives that the General Manager of the Montreal Voyagers was entirely in Shane’s corner, the green lights started flashing. Reebok, Rolex, Calvin Klein, Speedo, and City Seltzer had all given tentative, reassuring nods. They were ready to stand by their marquee athlete, recognizing that an openly queer hockey captain backed by an Original Six team was not just a historic moment, but an exceptionally marketable one.

Yet, Shane knew that a tentative nod from a corporate legal team in a private email wasn't the same as real, ironclad security. He couldn't just sit back and hope for the best. He needed to build genuine, personal relationships with the actual human beings who ran these companies. He needed them to know him, respect him, and like him.

Which was precisely why he was here tonight, working the room with hard-earned grace.

Officially, Shane was still in the closet to the general public. Only a very select, highly vetted group of high-level executives, brand reps, and event organizers in this room were privy to his true reality. To everyone else, he was simply Shane Hollander: the pristine, impeccably dressed captain of the Voyagers, dutifully appearing at his sponsor's showcase.

"Shane! Fantastic to see you, man," called out Luc Moreau, a senior marketing director for City Seltzer, stepping forward with a wide smile and extending a hand.

"Great to see you, Luc," Shane replied smoothly, shaking the man’s hand with a firm grip. "Incredible turnout tonight."

"We couldn't be happier," Luc said, gesturing toward the bustling crowd of business moguls, media figures, and local celebrities. "And I have to say, Farrah gave us a heads-up about some of the conversations happening behind closed doors regarding your long-term branding. I just want to echo what our VP said on the call—City Seltzer is behind you one hundred percent, Shane. Whenever you're ready, we're ready."

"That means more than you know, Luc," Shane said, his voice quiet but carrying genuine warmth. "Having partners who actually stand by their people makes all the difference."

"Always, Cap," Luc grinned, clapping Shane on the shoulder. "Now, please, grab a drink, enjoy the food. Chef Julien is doing live pan-seared duck breast at the north station—you have to try it before the crowd swarms him."

Shane offered a polite nod, sliding smoothly away from the conversation as Luc went to greet a cluster of investors.

Shane moved comfortably through the high-ceilinged hall, accepting compliments, posing for a few sleek photographs with high-net-worth brand partners, and casually discussing the upcoming Voyagers season with corporate sponsors. He wasn't stiff or defensive anymore. The clarity he had achieved during his meditation, combined with the burden he had finally put down regarding his locker room, gave him a calm, magnetic presence. He looked every bit the modern face of a global franchise: composed, sharp, and in control of his environment.

As he glided past the central bar, pausing to admire a bartender expertly flaring a bottle of gin to mix with a can of Picnic Basket, a mouth-watering aroma caught his attention.

Shane turned toward the live cooking stations lining the eastern glass wall. Standing behind a gleaming stainless-steel prep table, framed by the bright lights of the open kitchen setup, was a tall, lean chef in a crisp white jacket with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He was handling a heavy cast-iron skillet with breathtaking precision, tossing aromatic herbs into a pan of sizzling reduction while effortlessly holding court with a small group of mesmerized onlookers.

Shane slowed his pace, his eyes focusing on the chef's practiced, fluid movements. There was an easy, passionate grace to the way the man worked, completely focused on the art of what he was creating.

As if sensing the gaze, the chef lifted his eyes from the skillet. He caught Shane watching him from a few feet away. Instead of looking flustered or intimidated by the hockey star, a confident smirk slowly broke across the chef's face.

Shane felt a small, curious smile touch his own lips as he took a step closer to the station. He needed a brief breather from the constant networking, a moment to just exist in the room without having to smile on cue or pitch his vision for the Voyagers.

The chef he had noticed earlier was putting on a full show, demonstrating an intricate French-Japanese fusion menu. Smoke rose from a searing teppan grill as he deftly sliced paper-thin strips of Wagyu beef, searing them with a hand torch before drizzling them with a delicate ponzu reduction and garnishing the plate with microgreens and edible gold leaf. The movement was mesmerizing, almost hypnotic.

Shane drifted closer, resting a hand against the high marble counter. He looked at the man running the station. Up close, there was no denying he was exceptionally handsome.

Throughout his entire life, Shane’s romantic and sexual experience had been exactly one person: Ilya Rozanov. Outside of that chaotic, intense orbit, Shane had never allowed himself to get involved with another man. It hadn't been a lack of physical attraction to others, but rather a paralyzing, suffocating fear. For years, the terror of being exposed, of having a secret leaked, or of being blackmailed had kept him deep in the closet.

Now, with the backing of his GM, his family, and his major sponsors, that paralyzing fear was finally gone.

Beneath that relief, a quiet resentment toward Ilya still lingered. Ilya had held an absolute monopoly over Shane’s body, his desire, and his heart for far too long. Shane wanted that power to break down. He wanted the mental grip Ilya held over him to recede, to prove to himself that he was a free man who could experience pleasure on his own terms.

So, Shane allowed himself to ogle the chef.

He took in the details, noticing immediately how vastly different this man was from Ilya. Where Ilya was massive, broad-shouldered, and muscle-bound like a classical gladiator, this chef possessed a lean, wiry frame. He was flexible, precise, and fluid in his movements. His long, rich brown hair was swept back into a neat, high bun—Shane guessed it easily reached his shoulders when let down. A full, impeccably groomed beard and mustache framed his jawline and lips, giving him an earthy, grounded look.

Shane’s eyes lingered on the line of the man’s jaw. He caught himself wondering what that beard would actually feel like against his skin. He had spent years listening to female friends and teammates' partners make offhand jokes about "beard burn" after one drink too many, and the idle thought sparked a sudden, electric curiosity in his gut.

Shane was so lost in his visual appraisal that he didn't realize the chef had noticed until a low, amused chuckle echoed over the soft sizzle of the grill.

The chef plated a delicate piece of seared hamachi, lifted his dark eyes, and locked his gaze directly onto Shane. As he demonstrated the next technique, his movements became deliberately theatrical, leaning into the performance with a subtle, sensual confidence. He wiped his hands on his apron, his eyes flashing with a clear, undeniable flirtatiousness that sent a jolt of heat straight down Shane's spine.

A rare wave of pure recklessness washed over Shane. He didn't pull away, and he didn't look down at his shoes.

He waited patiently while the small crowd of onlookers finished admiring the plates and slowly dispersed toward the central bar. The moment the space around the counter cleared, Shane stepped forward under the pretense of taking a small sample plate. He reached into his suit jacket, pulled out a sleek, embossed business card with his personal cell number written neatly across the back, and slid it smoothly over the polished marble surface, right beside the chef's cutting board.

The chef looked down at the card, then up at Shane, a smirk spreading across his face beneath his dark mustache. Shane didn't say a word. He simply offered a sharp, knowing wink, turned on his heel, and glided back into the party to finish his mandatory rounds with the executives.

Shane had no intention of falling in love. He wasn't looking for a long-term boyfriend, and he certainly wasn't looking to fill the deep emotional cavern in his heart. But a little fun? A chance to feel wanted, to explore his desires without fear, and to enjoy himself without heavy consequences? That was something he was more than ready to claim.

Later that evening, the call came.

An hour after returning to his apartment, Shane opened his front door to find the chef standing in the hallway, out of his whites, wearing a simple black t-shirt that clung to his lean frame and dark jeans, his brown hair tumbling down over his shoulders in soft waves.

The moment the apartment door clicked shut, the politeness vanished.

Shane was pulled directly into an intense, feverish collision of lips and hands. The experience was entirely new, raw, and deliciously overwhelming. As the chef backed Shane toward the bedroom, Shane’s hands instantly found their way into that soft, thick brown hair, pulling him close while the heat of the man’s body pressed against his own.

And Buddha, did Shane quickly learn what beard burn felt like.

The coarse texture of the chef's full beard scraped delightfully against Shane’s jaw, his neck, and down his collarbones as the man dragged his mouth lower and lower. The contrast between the rough hair and the searing heat of the chef's lips made Shane’s skin flush a deep, hot red.

Shane groaned aloud, arching off the mattress as the chef worked his way down his torso. The man’s hands were remarkably skillful—a master of precision, bringing that same intense focus from the kitchen directly into the bedroom. He dropped to his knees between Shane's legs, his bearded jaw brushing against the sensitive skin of Shane's inner thighs, leaving a trail of glorious, tingling friction that made Shane's toes curl into the sheets.

When the chef took him completely into his mouth, the sensation was breathtaking. He took Shane deep, wrapping his lips tight, his throat working smoothly while the brush of his beard against Shane’s lower stomach made every nerve ending fire at once. Shane gripped the headboard, his head thrown back, panting uncontrollably as a wave of pleasure crashed over him, washing away every residual trace of stress.

Hours later, the bedroom was filled with the soft rhythm of their breathing.

They lay tangled in the high-thread-count sheets, drenched in sweat, cooling down in the ambient glow of the city lights outside the window. The chef was curled against his side, one lean arm draped over Shane's chest, his long brown hair sprawling across the pillows. Shane rested his chin atop the man's head, tracing his fingers lazily down the wiry muscle of the chef's back.

Shane ran his thumb over his own jawline, feeling the distinct, sensitive sting of scraped skin where the beard had pressed against him for hours. A thoroughly satisfied smile spread across his face in the dark.

Beard burn, he decided, was officially his new favorite thing in the world.

Out of pure muscle memory, part of him instinctively expected the guy to sit up, reach for his jeans, pack his things, and vanish into the night. That was the drill Shane was used to. That was how it always worked with Ilya.

But why should this guy have to rush out? This wasn't some scandalous, hidden affair. This apartment wasn't even listed under Shane's name in any public registry—it was what Ilya had once teasingly dubbed his "sex condo," a private sanctuary completely off the grid.

Beyond that, the man lying next to him wasn't a world-famous athlete. He didn't have paparazzi trailing his every footstep, and he certainly didn't have to hide from repressive Russian laws or state-sponsored surveillance. He was just a guy enjoying a late-night encounter in a quiet apartment.

The chef rolled onto his side, propping his head up on one hand while his dark eyes traced the line of Shane’s collarbone. A satisfied smirk played on his lips beneath his mustache.

"That was magnificently hot," the chef murmured in French, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that sounded like velvet. "We should definitely do that again."

Shane blinked, a sudden spark of surprise flickering through him. Hearing explicit, breathy French whispered directly into his ear in the middle of a bedroom was entirely new.

When Ilya was lost in the absolute throes of passion, English would evaporate from his vocabulary. It was always a torrent of rapid Russian spat against Shane’s skin—guttural, intense, and demanding. For years, Shane had allowed himself the small, foolish delusion that those harsh Russian syllables were sweet pet names or romantic endearments. Deep down, though, he knew the truth: it was almost certainly filthy, uncompromising dirty talk.

Shane shook his head slightly, a wave of self-annoyance washing over him. Stop it, he told himself firmly. Stop comparing every single man to Ilya.

Wanting to create as much distance from those memories as possible, Shane shifted onto his side and answered in smooth, fluent French. "It's tempting. But I prefer to be clear. I'm not looking for a relationship. Not now."

The chef didn't flinch or pull away. Instead, his fingers began to trace seductive circles down Shane’s bare arm, the light scrape of his nails sending a pleasant shiver across Shane's skin.

"That's perfect," the chef replied with an untroubled laugh. "My name is Francis, by the way. And to tell you the truth, I have a sous-chef position waiting for me in France. Between the paperwork, the notice period at the restaurant, and the logistics, I have about four months here before I fly out. I'm not looking for anything serious either. Just a good time, no pressure. If that suits you, the deal is done."

Shane looked at Francis, taking in the easygoing, open expression on his face. "Ok," he allowed a real, relaxed smile to touch his lips. "That suits me perfectly."

Francis grinned, giving Shane's shoulder a light pat before swinging his lean legs over the side of the bed. He reached down, grabbed a pair of gray boxers from the floor, pulled them on, and stretched his arms over his head, his long brown hair falling messily over his shoulders.

"Right then," Francis said, switching seamlessly back to English with a warm, playful lilt. "I'm starving. I'm going to the kitchen to cook us something."

Shane pulled on his own boxers and stood up, his muscles feeling delightfully loose and heavy. He followed Francis down the short hallway into the sleek, modern kitchen, stepping onto the cool hardwood floor. Francis was already opening cabinets and inspecting the refrigerator with the efficiency of a professional.

Shane pulled out a high leather stool on the kitchen island, sitting down and resting his forearms on the counter.

"Just so you know," Shane mentioned, watching Francis examine a carton of eggs, "I'm on a very strict diet. My nutritionist has me on a pretty rigid schedule."

Francis paused, turning around with an amused arch of his brow. "Oh, really? And what kind of diet would that be? I cook for high-performance athletes all the time, you know. I'm not going to poison you."

Shane hesitated for a fraction of a second. Sharing his regimen felt surprisingly intimate, a peek behind the curtain of his hyper-controlled professional life. He wasn't really used to this whole casual hooking-up dynamic, where the person in your bed stayed for late-night snacks instead of vanishing into the night. But the sheer ease of Francis's presence made it hard to stay guarded.

Shane stood up, walked over to his gym bag resting by the entryway, and pulled out the printed, multi-page nutritional breakdown provided by his trainer. He walked back to the kitchen and handed it over the counter.

Francis took the papers, leaning against the edge of the stove as his eyes scanned the printed lines. As he read through the aggressive carb restrictions, the near-total ban on healthy fats, and the absurdly low calorie limits designed for a man burning thousands of calories on the ice, Francis's eyebrows climbed higher and higher up his forehead until they practically hit his hairline.

He let out a sharp, incredulous scoff, tossing the paper onto the counter like it was radioactive trash.

"Yeah, you can throw this straight into the garbage," Francis declared bluntly, shaking his head in disbelief. "This is utter rubbish. I do freelance consulting work for plenty of top-tier athletes, Shane, and this kind of bullshit diet isn't fueling you—it's starving you. It's an outdated, brutal starvation routine that will destroy your recovery time and leave your muscles completely drained by mid-season."

Shane blinked, taken aback by the chef's fiery, unapologetic conviction. "It's what my trainer gave me—"

"Then your trainer is stuck in 1995," Francis interrupted smoothly, already pulling fresh butter, garlic, eggs, herbs, and a bowl of leftover rice from the fridge. "Look, I’ll give you the contact info for a proper sports nutritionist I work with in the city, plus a trainer who actually understands modern energy expenditure. They’ll fix this mess for you. But right now? Sit back down. I’m going to cook you something that actually nourishes your body."

Shane sat back down on the stool, watching in fascination as Francis went to work.

The kitchen was instantly filled with the comforting, rich sounds of sizzle and pop. Francis worked with a rhythmic, hypnotic ease, chopping green onions with light-speed precision, whisking eggs, and seasoning a pan of fried rice infused with sesame oil, soy, and fresh garlic.

As he cooked, Francis didn't just ignore Shane—he brought him into the process. Every few minutes, Francis would turn around, holding up a small tasting spoon.

"Here," Francis said softly, stepping close to the island and offering a spoonful of the shimmering glaze he was reducing. "Taste this. Tell me if it needs more ginger."

Shane leaned forward, letting Francis feed him directly from the spoon. The flavors burst across his tongue—savory, slightly sweet, rich, and deeply comforting.

"It's incredible," Shane admitted, his eyes widening.

Francis smiled, a genuine, warm look that crinkled the corners of his eyes, before turning back to the stove to finish plating.

Francis didn't make Shane's heart race with that terrifying, electric adrenaline that Ilya always commanded. Standing next to the chef didn't trigger that intense, almost frightening gravitational pull—that cosmic, inescapable orbital force that had bound Shane to Ilya for years, dragging them both through chaos, obsession, and heartbreak. Francis wasn't his soulmate, and he wasn't the love of his life.

But as Francis set a steaming bowl of perfectly prepared food down in front of him, sliding a glass of cold water across the marble, Shane felt something he had almost never felt with Ilya. Barring that first time.

He felt safe.

Outside of a locked bedroom door, away from the heat of raw passion, Shane had never truly felt completely safe with Ilya. Their connection was a storm of secrecy, fear, rivalry, and intense pressure. With Ilya, every moment carried the underlying threat of exposure, of emotional ruin, or of the brutal realities of the hockey world crashing down upon them.

With Francis, the air was light.

Shane picked up his fork, taking a large bite of the food, feeling the nourishing heat spread through his chest. He looked across the island at Francis, who was leaning against the counter with his own bowl, chatting easily about a night market he had visited in Tokyo last year.

What started as a wild, late-night hookup surprisingly turned into the easiest, most fun relationship Shane had ever had. Francis just fit into his life without any of the usual heavy drama. He’d show up three or four nights a week after his restaurant shift with armfuls of fresh groceries, and suddenly Shane’s kitchen—usually reserved for plain protein shakes and prepped Tupperware—turned into their favorite hangout spot.

They spent hours hanging out over the stove, drinking seltzer, talking trash, and making each other laugh. It didn't take long for Francis to bring up Shane's food habits again, especially after their earlier talk about his former trainer's ridiculous, starving-level routine.

"Okay, so we already established your old trainer was trying to kill you with those crazy calorie restrictions," Francis commented one night, tossing a handful of sliced mushrooms into a bowl and looking over at Shane, who was lounging on a counter stool in a worn hoodie. "And I'm still hooking you up with that proper sports nutritionist I know to get your actual game-day macros sorted out. But looking at your fridge right now... where is all the real food? Are you actually living on plain eggs and steamed rice?"

Shane laughed, leaning his chin on his hand and stealing a slice of cucumber from Francis's prep board. "Honestly? Pretty much. My mom’s parents live in Kyoto, and when I spent summers with them growing up, my granddad introduced me to Buddhism—specifically ahimsa, the principle of non-violence."

Francis gestured with his kitchen knife, narrowing his eyes as he tried out the unfamiliar word. "So, this whole plant-based preference... it’s because of Ah-heem-sah?"

Shane couldn't help a slight smirk, picking up a piece of diced tofu. "It's Ahimsa. Stress on the second syllable. And yeah—it started in ancient Indian traditions like Jainism and Hinduism, but Buddhism adopted it centuries ago. For me, applying non-harming to my diet is just the simplest way to minimize suffering where I can."

"Right, Ahimsa," Francis rolled the word off his tongue, getting it right this time. He paused, chef's knife resting on the cutting board as he looked at Shane with a raised eyebrow. "Wait, so your grandparents got you into rich Buddhist temple food in Japan, but your team trainer just let you starve on plain rice?"

"Pretty much," Shane grinned. "Traditional Shojin ryori is incredible, but my old regimen had zero clue how to feed a plant-based athlete. I just want food that respects my beliefs without leaving me completely drained on the ice."

Francis pointed his spatula at Shane with a mischievous grin. "Say no more, Cap. Challenge accepted. Until your new nutritionist fine-tunes your athletic fuel, this kitchen is an official Japanese-French plant-based lab. Zero meat, zero boring food. We’ll stack your macros with tofu, edamame, and tempeh so your recovery stays sharp."

From that night on, cooking together became their favorite thing. Francis threw himself into mastering vegetarian Japanese dishes, tweaking them with his French chef background. He made rich, savory ramen broths out of roasted kombu and garlic, crispy agedashi tofu, and amazing miso-glazed eggplant. Shane finally got to eat food that fit his beliefs and actually tasted amazing, and Francis loved having a willing guinea pig who appreciated every single bite.

Beyond the food, they just had a blast together. Shane didn't have to be the serious, stoic captain of the Voyagers around Francis. They'd lounge on the couch in their boxers, binge-watching ridiculous cooking competitions or terrible movies while Francis made fun of Shane's super-formal French, and Shane tried—and failed—to explain the rules of icing and off-sides to a guy who thought hockey was just "ice ballet with sticks."

What made those few months with Francis, so liberating wasn't just the amazing food or the complete lack of secret-agent drama—it was the fact that Shane finally got to explore his own sexuality on his own terms.

Everything he knew about his own body, his desires, and his preferences had been taught to him by Ilya Rozanov. With Ilya, sex was intense, consuming, and strictly defined by their unspoken dynamic. Shane had never had the room, the safety, or the emotional bandwidth to even ask himself what he actually liked outside of that intense orbit.

With Francis, the bedroom became a low-stakes playground. Francis was open, vocal, and completely relaxed, which gave Shane permission to experiment without the crippling fear of judgment or making a mistake.

Shane spent those weeks discovering his actual preferences. He learned that he loved slow, playful foreplay just as much as intense heat. He learned that he was wildly sensitive to touch in places Ilya had usually brushed past in their rush, and that he actually enjoyed dirty talk when it wasn't spat in furious, breathless Russian.

He even tried topping Francis once.

They’d spent a lazy, rainy Sunday afternoon in bed, and Francis had playfully rolled onto his stomach, teasingly offering Shane the driver's seat. Shane gave it a genuine shot, curious to see what it felt like to be the one in control for a change. It wasn't a total disaster—Francis was encouraging and responsive—but halfway through, Shane realized it just didn't do much for him. It felt more like a mental workout than pure pleasure, and he couldn't quite get into the flow of it.

Afterward, as they lay tangled in the sheets catching their breath, Shane admitted it with a soft laugh. "Yeah... I think I'm strictly a bottom."

Francis had laughed, turning around to brush a kiss against Shane’s scruff-scraped neck. "Hey, zero shame in knowing what you like, Cap. You tried it, you didn't love it, moving on."

Bottoming was where Shane felt completely present and engaged, and with Francis, he could enjoy it without any of the heavy emotional baggage or power struggles he’d experienced in the past. It worked out perfectly for their casual arrangement.

Though, a few weeks before Francis was set to pack his bags for Paris, the topic came up while they were cleaning up after dinner.

Francis was drying a wine glass, leaning against the counter in his gray sweatpants. "You know, as much fun as we've had—and mon dieu, it’s been incredible—if I weren't leaving for France, we probably would've hit a wall eventually anyway."

Shane looked up from wiping down the island, raising an eyebrow. "Oh yeah? Because of my terrible French?"

"Non, your French is delightfully snobbish," Francis grinned, pointing the dish towel at him. "It’s because I’m a switch, Shane. I love topping you, but long-term? I need a partner I can flip with every now and then. And since you're a hundred percent committed to the bottom life, one of us would've ended up unsatisfied eventually."

Shane smiled, tossing his sponge into the sink and leaning back against the counter. Hearing it laid out so casually, without an ounce of bitterness or hurt feelings, was so refreshing.

"Fair enough," Shane agreed easily. "Good thing you're moving to Paris then."

"Exactly," Francis chuckled, slinging the towel over his shoulder and walking over to pull Shane into a hug. "Perfect timing."

It really was. The expiration date on their relationship didn't feel like a tragedy; it just felt natural. Shane had gained a trusted friend, a whole new appreciation for plant-based culinary art, and most importantly, the confidence of a man who actually knew what he wanted in bed.

He wasn't just Ilya's default partner anymore—he was Shane Hollander, and he finally knew himself.

Chapter 4: This night is about showing people that they belong in hockey

Shane adjusted his jacket as he sat across from Marius Stefani’s wide oak desk. Sunlight filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the general manager’s office, reflecting off the glass display cases lining the walls. Sitting to his left was Zane Boodram, his posture relaxed, resting one forearm over the armrest. To his right sat Ryan Price, legs crossed, fingers loosely interlocked over his knee.

With Francis on a plane to Paris and the four-month buffer of good food, easy laughter, and low-stakes intimacy behind him, Shane felt centered. He was sleeping well, his body was properly fueled thanks to the new nutritional plan Francis had helped set up, and his mind was clear.

Marius leaned forward, resting his elbows on the polished desk, placing a thick black binder between them.

"Alright," the GM began, his voice dry and businesslike. "We’re four days out from coming back from the winter break, which means our first home game back at the Bell Centre is the designated Pride Night. It’s the first time this franchise has ever officially hosted one. I want to run through the PR strategy, the game-night ops, and the merchandise before we bring in the rest of the leadership group."

Shane nodded. "Farrah reviewed the corporate releases last week. City Seltzer, Rolex, and Reebok have already signed off on co-branding the game-day program. They’re running dedicated ads along the perimeter boards."

"Good," Marius said, opening the binder and sliding three distinct items across the desk. "Let's talk gear."

The first item was a roll of hockey tape. Instead of the cheap, thin vinyl sticky tape that most teams ordered for promotional nights—the kind that peeled off after two shifts or left a gummy residue on the blade—this was heavy-duty, high-grade cloth tape. The pride flag colors were printed in sharp, vivid dyes directly into the weave.

Shane picked it up, running his thumb over the textured surface, then he tested the friction with his palm. "This won't shred during warmups."

"It shouldn't," Marius said. "I had the equipment manager source it directly from a custom manufacturer in Vermont. It’s the same thread count as your standard black cloth. It won't chafe, you don’t have to worry about moisture, and it won't ruin your puck feel if you decide to keep it on for the first period."

A real smile touched the corners of Shane’s mouth. It was a minor detail to most players, but Shane had always been particular about his pregame rituals. He hated promotional tape nights, and whenever he chose not to join the rest of the team, sticking instead with his preferred black tape, he couldn’t help feeling a little left out. This time, though, it would have bothered him even more.

This wasn’t just the Voyagers’ first Pride Night; it was Shane’s first, too. That was why it meant so much that the GM had gone out of his way to make the Pride tape something more than a cheap gimmick—something they would slap on for ten minutes before tossing in the trash.

"It’s perfect, Marius. Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet. Look at the jersey first," Marius replied, gesturing toward the second item spread across the desk.

Zane leaned forward, reaching out to lift the preliminary Pride Night jersey by the shoulders. "Man, look at this."

The Voyagers' traditional home jersey was classic navy, white, and red. But for Pride Night, the iconic crimson 'M' spanning the chest had been completely redesigned. The bold, classic structure of the letter remained intact, but the inner fill was woven into a crisp, radiant rainbow spectrum that blended into the navy body of the jersey.

"The design team nailed this," Zane said, his eyes scanning the detailed embroidery along the chest. "The 'M' actually works better for the gradient than I thought it would. Cassie saw the mock-ups on my tablet three days ago and already placed an order for one."

Marius chuckled. "Tell her she’ll get a game-worn one after the auction."

"She wants hers early so she can wear it in the wives' box during warmups," Zane grinned, setting the jersey back down. "She’s already telling the other partners to get theirs."

Shane watched Zane’s unforced enthusiasm with a sense of grounded appreciation. Stripping Hayden Pike of his alternate captaincy and giving the 'A' to Zane had been a tactical necessity, but Zane had earned every inch of that letter over the last few months. He was steady, reliable, and didn't shy away from hard conversations.

On Shane’s other side, Ryan remained completely motionless.

The young defenseman hadn't touched the tape, nor had he reached for the jersey. He sat with his shoulders pulled slightly inward, his gaze fixed on the embroidered rainbow crest lying on the table. The room grew still around him, the casual banter between Marius and Zane tapering off as both men noticed Ryan’s sustained silence.

Shane turned his head slightly, studying the younger man. Ryan was one of the finest defensive talents the Voyagers had drafted in a decade, but off the ice, he was guarded, introverted, and prone to severe anxiety. Since being elevated to the top shutdown pair alongside JJ, Ryan had flourished on the ice, but he still carried a cautious air in structured settings.

Ryan swallowed hard. His eyes didn't leave the jersey.

"I'm gay," Ryan said.

The words were spoken barely above a whisper.

Marius didn't move an inch. He simply kept his hands folded on his desk, his expression remaining open and attentive. Zane didn't pull back either; he merely adjusted his stance, turning his upper body toward the younger defenseman.

Ryan lowered his head, staring at his hands in his lap. "I've... I haven't ever said that out loud to anyone in hockey before. Not once."

Marius leaned forward, his voice steady. "Thank you for trusting us with that, Ryan."

Ryan let out a breath, his fingers tightening against his knees. "I just... seeing the jersey. Seeing how much work you guys put into making sure it wasn't just some joke or a photo-op. I wanted to say it."

"Ryan, look at me," Marius said.

Ryan lifted his head, his eyes meeting the general manager's.

“This night is about showing people that they belong in hockey,” Marius said. “That’s it. It’s not about putting anyone on the spot or forcing someone to come out because we’re having a Pride Night. Your personal life is yours, Ryan. You don’t owe the team, the league, or the fans an announcement.”

He paused, making sure Ryan was looking at him.

“If you ever want to come out publicly, you do it when you’re ready. If you don’t, that’s your choice too. Nothing changes here. You’re a player on this team, and you’re going to be treated like one. And if anyone starts asking questions they have no business asking, they can come through my office first.”

Ryan nodded once, a visible wave of tension melting out of his frame. "I appreciate that, Mr. Stefani. Really."

"Call me Marius," the GM replied with a slight nod. "We’re past the formal titles in this office."

Zane reached over the armrest and clapped his hand down onto Ryan’s shoulder, giving it a firm, reassuring squeeze. "You're a damn good defenseman, Pricey. Nothing changes that. We've got your back."

Shane looked at Ryan, seeing a reflection of the paralyzing fear he himself had carried for years before his parents, Farrah, and Marius had built a wall of security around him. He leaned over slightly, using his elbow to give Ryan a small, affectionate nudge against his ribs.

A faint smile broke through Ryan’s reserved expression, a brief flash of relief lighting up his face as he bumped Shane back.

"Shane," Marius said, turning his attention back to the captain. "Farrah mentioned you had a few thoughts on how we handle the media availability before the game."

"Keep it simple," Shane answered, his tone shifting smoothly back to business. "The entire room answers questions about the hockey game first. When the reporters ask about Pride Night, every guy sticks to the same script: inclusion, supporting the community, and making hockey accessible. Nobody gets to turn it into a joke, and nobody uses it to air personal opinions. We have to present a unified front."

"Have you talked to the rest of the veterans?" Marius asked.

"I haven't needed to," Shane replied evenly. "They know the standard. The fines for inappropriate language are still in effect, and the team knows where I stand. Anyone who has an issue with wearing the Pride jersey can sit out the game and take a healthy scratch. I don't expect any refusals."

Marius nodded, satisfied. "Good. We play the game in the rainbow crests, we auction them off after the final buzzer for the local youth center, and we take the two points from the Admirals. That's the plan."

Zane picked up the roll of tape, tossing it from his left hand to his right. "I'm wrapping my stick with this for the game. Not just warmups."

"Me too," Ryan added quietly, his voice carrying a new, clear tone of conviction.

Shane looked between his two alternates, the steady veteran who had taken over leadership without complaint, and the young star who had just taken his first breath of freedom inside the walls of this office.

"Then we all do," Shane said. "The entire top line and defensive core."

Marius closed his binder with a definitive snap. "Meeting adjourned. Go get your ice time."

An hour later, the main ice pad at the Voyagers' suburban practice facility was alive with the sharp scrape of steel against ice and the hard, rhythmic crack of pucks striking the glass.

Shane moved through his edge-work drills with mechanical precision. He cut hard around the blue line, digging his inside edge into the ice, leaning low to sweep a stray puck onto his stick before snapping a wrist shot cleanly into the top corner of the net.

Across the neutral zone, the rest of the team was running three-on-two rush drills.

Shane slowed to a drift near the player bench, leaning his elbows against the dasher board to catch his breath. His gaze drifted down the ice, landing on Hayden.

Hayden was executing a breakout pass to the far wing. His form was as flawless as ever—his head up, his hips square, delivering a crisp, tape-to-tape pass that hit the winger in stride. But the moment the play dead-ended at the blue line, Hayden skated back toward the queue with his chin tucked into his collarbone, completely silent.

In the months since his outburst, the dynamic between them had not thawed.

Shane had kept his word. He had stripped away the friendship, the banter, and the casual brotherhood that had once defined their relationship as captain and alternate. On the ice, Shane communicated with Hayden strictly through functional hockey calls—"Man on," "Wheel," "Leave it." Off the ice, in the locker room and on the team plane, Shane treated Hayden with the cold, polite distance of a senior executive addressing a line worker.

Hayden had accepted the punishment without a single complaint. He didn't push back, he didn't demand explanations, and he didn't try to corner Shane in the showers to beg for forgiveness. He simply showed up, worked harder than almost anyone else on the roster, and bore the weight of Shane’s silence.

Shane watched as Hayden stopped near the faceoff circle, tapping his stick once against the ice to signal he was ready for the next rep.

Part of Shane—the part that had meditated on the sofa of his apartment months ago, letting go of the poison—knew that Hayden was genuinely remorseful. Hayden was not Theriault. He wasn't a bigot, nor was he malicious. He was simply a man who had been afraid to rock the boat, a man who had chosen comfort and quiet over standing up for his best friend when it mattered most.

Not yet, Shane thought, keeping his eyes on Hayden’s back as the whistle blew again. Reconciliation isn't given away just because time passes. It has to be earned.

Shane pushed off the boards, gliding back into the center ice circle to join Zane and Ryan for the next set of power-play reps.

Over the days leading up to the game, Shane spent his quiet moments monitoring the Voyagers’ official media channels alongside the personal accounts of his teammates. He tracked the reception with the same analytical precision he applied to opposing penalty kills.

The fan commentary settled at roughly 87 percent supportive. A predictable, homophobic minority flooded the comment sections with predictable rhetoric, but the overall response was far kinder than Shane had anticipated for an Original Six franchise hosting its very first Pride Night. The hockey world was changing, slowly and unevenly, but the structural shifting was undeniable.

On game day, the atmosphere inside the Bell Centre locker room was motionless.

The silence wasn't born of hostility or resentment over the rainbow-patterned gear sitting in every stall. The players were not protesting. Rather, the stillness stemmed from a profound, awkward hesitation: the team simply did not know how to act around Shane. Ever since the purge where Coach Theriault, Cameau, and Drapeau were discarded, Shane had operated as an unyielding wall of authority. He had stripped away the casual camaraderie, leaving the roster treading on eggshells, terrified of making a wrong move or saying the wrong word.

Shane stood in the center of the carpet, his stall fully packed behind him. He looked around the circle of men—some staring at their laces, others carefully wrapping their stick blades with the non-chafing Pride tape Marius had provided.

The captain sighed.

He had never been a fan of traditional, fiery pre-game captain's speeches. He hated empty platitudes about giving 110 percent or dying for the crest. Historically, Shane used his pre-game floor time as an extension of the tactical board. He would breakdown the opposing team's second-tier defensive pairings, recite specific faceoff win percentages, and walk the lines through high-probability scoring zones. It was an unconventional, highly cerebral approach to leadership, but it delivered results.

Tonight, however, the chalkboard details had to wait.

"Listen up," Shane called out.

His voice cut through the hum of the room, crisp and controlled. Every player lifted their head immediately. Even Hayden, sitting three stalls down, froze with a strip of rainbow tape held between his thumb and forefinger.

Shane locked eyes with the veterans first, then let his gaze sweep across the younger players. "I'm not going to stand here and pretend everything in this locker room is suddenly fixed. I haven't forgotten how things were handled in the past, and I'm not ready to forgive the silence that allowed it to happen."

A few players shifted awkwardly in their seats.

"However," Shane continued, his tone shifting from sharp reprimand to measured recognition, "I am not blind. I've watched the work you've put in over the last months. I've seen the discipline on the ice, the effort to change the culture, and the respect you've shown to the standards set by Marius, Zane, and myself."

He paused, resting his hands on his hips, his posture commanding the entire locker room.

"This night is important," Shane declared plainly. "I am not out to the public, and most of the world still sees me as just another corporate face of this league. But standing here as the captain of the Montreal Voyagers for our first official Pride Night means more to me than I thought it would. It matters to the kid in the stands who thinks there's no place for them in this sport. It matters to people inside this building."

Shane glanced toward Ryan, who gave a nearly imperceptible nod from his stall.

"We aren't just playing for two points tonight," Shane declared, his voice rising with steady authority. "We are showing the league, the media, and our fans what the new Montreal Voyagers look like. We are setting a standard that cannot be pulled down. Go out there, play hard, play clean, and win this hockey game."

For a fraction of a second, no one moved.

Then, Zane lifted his stick and tapped the heel of the blade against the floor. Thump.

Ryan joined in immediately, cracking his stick down. Thump. Thump.

Within three seconds, the entire room erupted into a deafening cadence of wooden and composite blades hammering the floor. The veterans, the rookies, the scratches in suits—everyone joined the rhythm, the collective sound vibrating through the steel frame of the locker room. Hayden tapped his stick hard against the floor, his eyes fixed on Shane with a look of fierce resolution.

Shane gave a single, sharp nod, pulled his helmet down over his head, snapped his visor into place, and led his team out through the tunnel. When they made it onto the ice for warmups, the visual impact of the Bell Centre hit him like a physical force.

The arena was a brilliant explosion of color. Thousands of fans filled the lower and upper bowls waving progress flags, trans flags, and traditional rainbow banners. Bright LED displays along the perimeter boards flashed customized sponsor graphics mixed with vibrant spectrum gradients. The arena music thundered through the sound system, but it was almost entirely drowned out by the roar of the crowd.

Over eighty percent of the fans in the lower bowl were wearing the special-edition Pride jerseys, the iconic navy sweaters featuring the bold, rainbow-filled 'M' across the chest.

Shane skated out onto the ice, taking his first warmup lap around the Voyagers' defensive zone. A sudden, unexpected sting hit the back of his eyes. Moisture welled in his lower lids, threatening to spill over. He gripped his stick tighter, profoundly grateful for the dark tint of his visor and the heavy cage of his helmet, which kept his expression concealed from the hovering television cameras.

He rounded the net and drifted toward the blue line, catching Ryan skating alongside him. The defenseman was looking up into the upper decks, his jaw slightly open as he took in the wall of rainbow flags draped over the railings.

Shane bumped his shoulder gently against Ryan’s arm as they glided side-by-side. Ryan turned, his eyes wide behind his shield, an overwhelmed expression on his face. He gave Shane a fast, tight nod of solidarity—a shared understanding between two men who knew exactly what it cost to carry a secret inside an Original Six arena.

Across the red line, the New York Admirals were taking the ice for their own warmup routine.

Shane slowed his stride near the center circle, watching the opposing team file out. To his immense relief, almost every single player on the Admirals roster had wrapped their sticks in Pride tape, moving through their drills without a trace of reluctance or awkwardness.

At the center ice line, the Admirals' captain—Scott Hunter—skated toward the circle to collect a stray puck.

Scott was a formidable force in the league: an elite power forward, a perennial All-Star, and a fierce competitor who played the game with relentless physical intensity. But as Scott lifted his head and looked across the red line at the sea of colors filling the Bell Centre, his face softened.

Shane watched Scott’s expression closely. The Admirals' captain looked visibly struck by the atmosphere, his chest rising and falling as he looked up into the crowd with an expression that mirrored the raw emotion Shane had just seen on Ryan’s face.

An idle, curious thought flicked through Shane’s mind: Is Scott like us?

Shane immediately shut the thought down, fighting a dry smile. His gaydar was terrible. He'd spent too many years obsessing over hockey to notice much of anything outside his own little world. He had no idea what Scott Hunter's personal life looked like, and he wasn't about to start guessing.

Scott caught Shane looking at him. The Admirals' captain gave Shane a respectful, knowing nod across the red line—a silent acknowledgment from one captain to another—before snapping a puck hard into the far corner of the New York end.

Shane turned back to his own side of the ice, gathering his line for the final pre-game rush drills.

When the puck dropped, all the emotion surrounding Pride Night disappeared beneath the speed of the game.

The Admirals came out physical, hitting hard along the dasher boards and trying to disrupt Montreal’s transition game. But the Voyagers were playing with a sharp, disciplined edge that had been absent earlier in the season.

Midway through the first period, Zane won a hard defensive-zone faceoff, tying up the Admirals' center and kicking the puck back to Ryan. Ryan collected the rubber cleanly, held his ice under pressure from an incoming forechecker, and fired a crisp, fifty-foot stretch pass straight down the spine of the neutral zone.

Shane caught the pass on his backhand without breaking stride, crossing the New York blue line at full speed. He used the Admirals' defenseman as a screen, fake-shot to draw the goalie's weight onto his right skate, and snapped a wicked wrist shot cleanly past the glove side into the top corner of the net.

The horn blared through the Bell Centre, accompanied by the burst of red lights and the deafening roar of twenty thousand fans.

Shane skated into the corner, turning to accept the high-fives from his line. Zane bumped helmets with him, while Ryan skated up from the blue line to pat his chest pad. Even Hayden, glided past, offering a firm stick-tap against Shane's shin guard before returning to the bench. Shane acknowledged the tap with a single, professional nod.

By the start of the third period, the game was tied 2-2. The Admirals had capitalized on a power-play opportunity, grinding out a dirty rebound goal past Mitty, the Voyagers' goalie, to level the score.

With four minutes remaining on the game clock, the Voyagers' top line trapped New York in their own end.

Shane worked the low cycle behind the Admirals' net, protecting the puck with his body while taking heavy cross-checks from a New York defenseman. Maintaining his balance, Shane spotted Zane cutting into the high slot. Shane delivered a blind, saucer pass over two active sticks, landing the puck flat on Zane’s tape.

Zane didn't hesitate, unleashing a thunderous one-timer that shattered off the crossbar and bounced into the net to make it 3-2.

The arena erupted. Shane was the first one to reach Zane, wrapping his arms around the broad defenseman as the rest of the unit poured in to celebrate the lead.

The final two minutes were a grueling exercise in defensive structure. The Admirals pulled their goalie for an extra attacker, swarming the Montreal zone with six skaters. Ryan stood tall on the defensive left side, blocking two heavy slap shots with his shin guards and clearing the crease with aggressive stickwork.

When the final horn sounded, securing the 3-2 victory for the Voyagers, the crowd at the Bell Centre rose to their feet in a standing ovation that lasted well past the final handshakes.

After a long shower that washed away the sweat and tension of three demanding periods, Shane bypassed his tailored charcoal suit for the time being and instead pulled on a specialized set of Voyagers training clothes. Issued specifically for tonight, the dark performance shirt and fitted track pants featured subtle rainbow piping along the seams and a vibrant, pride-themed crest across the chest.

He made his way down the quiet lower corridors toward one of the arena’s auxiliary event halls. Marius had insisted on this post-game meet-and-greet weeks ago. The GM had made his case with undeniable logic: a select group of fans, community organizers, and local LGBTQ+ youth groups had been invited to a private reception immediately following the game. It was brilliant PR, a massive branding win, and guaranteed to generate a wave of authentic digital content.

As Shane pushed through the double doors, he could already see the franchise's digital media team fluttering through the room like energetic butterflies. Photographers and videographers darted from one cluster of people to another, their high-end cameras flashing, capturing candid moments, warm smiles, and recorded video snippets for the team's social channels.

Under normal circumstances, Shane loathed events like this.

Large crowds were a nightmare for Shane. Too many people talking, too much noise, too many things happening at once, and he could get overstimulated pretty quickly. He had always preferred one-on-one socializing, where he could focus on the person he was actually talking to instead of trying to keep up with an entire room. Put him in a crowd of strangers, though, and he usually ended up feeling stiff and awkward, never quite sure where to put himself.

He took a slow breath and adjusted the cuffs of his training jacket, getting himself ready for the version of Shane he usually brought to media events—the polite, practiced captain who knew exactly what to say. But the moment he stepped into the hall, he found that instead of tensing, he was relaxing.

For once, he didn't feel like he had to put on that mask to protect himself.

The room wasn't filled with ruthless executives or demanding brand sponsors trying to leverage his image. It was filled with real people—families, teenagers, local activists, and dozens of queer couples, many of them holding hands or wearing matching rainbow-crested Voyagers jerseys.

Before Shane could even take five steps, a young couple approached him. They were in their late twenties, wearing dark winter coats over their Pride jerseys, both clutching sharpies and game programs.

"Hey, Captain Hollander! Mind signing this?" the taller one asked, waving his program with a nervous grin. "I'm Liam, by the way. This is my partner, Luc."

"Hey Liam, and nice to meet you, Luc," Shane replied, taking the sharpie and uncapping the pen. "Where do you want it?"

"Right on the crest would be awesome," Luc said, leaning in. He was holding a plastic cup in his other hand, looking around the room. "Man, we drove in from Kingston after work today. Almost three hours down the 401 in the snow, but we weren't missing this."

Shane signed his name across the rainbow 'M' with practiced ease, sliding the marker back to Liam. "That highway is brutal in January. Glad you guys made it in one piece."

Luc laughed softly, nudging Liam with his elbow. "Told you he'd say that. But honestly... we used to go to Toronto Guardians games all the time when we lived closer to the city. We even tried getting half-season packages. But the culture around that arena was just so openly homophobic—fans in the concourse, and guys in our section throwing slurs every time there was a whistle, and nobody ever called them on it. We eventually gave up and stopped wearing jerseys. It just felt like a headache."

Liam nodded, sliding the signed program carefully into his coat pocket. "When we moved out to Kingston, we started coming to Montreal instead and picked up tickets in Section 114. Tonight, walking down the concourse holding hands, seeing the whole team taped up in rainbow colors... it felt like night and day. First time in a long time we felt like we could just enjoy a hockey game together."

Shane listened, nodding along. Hearing how casual they were about having to dodge homophobia at games hit close to home, but it also made him feel so proud that his team was becoming a safe place for queer people who loved hockey and just wanted to enjoy the game.

"I'm really glad you guys made the drive," he finally said with an easy smile. "If anyone ever gives you grief in Section 114, grab an usher immediately. You belong here just as much as anybody."

"Appreciate that, Cap," Liam grinned, giving Shane’s hand a quick shake. "Get some rest tonight. Hell of a game."

As they moved toward the food tables, a mother and her teenage daughter stepped up beside Shane. The girl was wearing an oversized Hollander Pride jersey, her hands buried in the sleeves, looking nervously at her boots.

"Captain Hollander? Sorry to interrupt," the mother said politely. "I'm Danielle, and this is Maya. She plays center for the Montreal Stars bantam team."

Shane turned to the teenager, offering a small, welcoming smile. "Hey, Maya. How's the season going?"

Maya looked up, her face turning slightly red under the room's bright lights. "Good. We won on Tuesday. I scored on a wrist shot from the slot."

"Nice," Shane said, leaning against the edge of the high-top table so they were eye-level. "Right-handed or left-handed shot?"

"Left," Maya said, her voice growing a little stronger. She tugged at the sleeve of her jersey. "My coach said I should watch how you handle the puck on the power play."

"Well, don't copy my faceoffs from the second period tonight," Shane joked lightly. "I lost three in a row to Scott Hunter."

Maya let out a genuine laugh, her shoulders relaxing. Her mother smiled, looking at Shane. "Maya came out to her teammates a couple of months ago. It's been a bit of a transition for her team, so coming here tonight... seeing all of this... it meant a lot to her."

Maya bumped her mother's arm gently, looking embarrassed. "Mom, stop."

"It's fine," Shane said softly to Maya, catching her eye. "It takes a lot of guts to be who you are, especially in a hockey locker room. Keep working hard on the ice and don't let anyone distract you from your game."

Maya gave a determined nod. "I won't. Thanks, Cap."

Over the next forty-five minutes, the line moved naturally. Shane talked with an older couple, Jean and Pierre, who had been coming to games since the 1980s; he signed a jersey for two university students who kept debating his career stats in front of him; and he posed for a quick group photo with a local LGBTQ+ youth hockey league.

The room was loud, but it wasn't overwhelming. The usual awkwardness Shane felt during corporate sponsor meet-and-greets was completely absent. There were no canned speeches or aggressive sales pitches—just real people having genuine conversations.

Across the room, he saw Ryan standing near a team backdrop, talking animatedly with a young fan about defensive positioning, a bright, easy smile on his face. Further down, Zane was holding up a giant Pride banner, laughing as a photographer took a shot with a group of teenagers.

By the time the staff began packing up the backdrops, Shane’s voice was hoarse, but he felt grounded and completely at ease.

An hour later, the arena had emptied out.

Shane headed back to the locker room to change out of the Pride training clothes and slip back into his tailored charcoal suit. Once he was dressed and had gathered his gear, he walked out to the quiet exit corridor near the family lounge, watching the custodial crew sweep up leftover confetti in the main concourse.

Marius stepped up beside him, holding a glass of sparkling water. "The auction raised over two hundred thousand dollars for the local youth shelter," the GM said, watching the sweepers. "And the rainbow jerseys sold out in under twenty minutes on the team store website."

"That's a good night's work," Shane said.

"It’s a start," Marius corrected gently. "A very good start."

As Marius turned back toward his office, Shane reached up, his fingers brushing against the thin gold chain hidden beneath his dress shirt—feeling the small, eight-spoked Dharmachakra resting against his sternum.

He didn't hold onto aversion or anger anymore. The burning poison he had carried for months—toward Hayden, toward his team, toward Ilya—had finally settled into equanimity. Releasing that resentment didn't mean rushing into transactional forgiveness or tearing down his boundaries; Ilya’s number was still blocked, and the distance between his teammates and himself remained intact. But the wheel kept turning, and he was no longer letting past betrayals dictate his inner peace.

"Come on, Cap!" Zane called out from down the hall, waving a hand toward the exit doors. "Cassie’s hosting a post-game dinner at our place. You're coming."

Shane adjusted his suit cuffs, a real smile touching his mouth. "Lead the way."

The crisp night air settled over the residential streets of Westmount as Shane pulled his Jeep into the tree-lined driveway of Zane and Cassie Boodram’s home. The warm glow from the tall front windows spilled onto the snow-dusted walkway, casting an inviting light against the dark winter evening.

Shane killed the engine and sat in the driver's seat for a brief second, allowing the hum of the heater to fade into stillness. His body felt heavy, every muscle humming with that distinct, satisfying ache that only followed a hard-fought victory against a division rival. He smoothed down his dress shirt, buttoned his suit jacket, and stepped out into the freezing air.

When Shane reached the front porch, the door swung open before he could even reach for the doorbell. Zane stood in the entry hall, dressed comfortably in an oversized gray crewneck and sweatpants, holding a pair of indoor shoes.

"Get in here, Cap," Zane grinned, stepping aside. "Cassie’s got the oven running on full blast and the kitchen smells incredible."

"Thanks for having me, Zane," Shane said, stepping onto the heated tile floor and kicking off his winter boots. "I hope I didn't arrive too late."

"You're right on time. Pricey got here five minutes ago—he's currently being interrogated by my wife about his pre-game meal choices," Zane chuckled, taking Shane's overcoat and hanging it in the closet. "Follow the noise."

Shane smiled as he walked down the wide, wood-paneled hallway toward the open-concept kitchen and living area. The rich, savory aroma of roasted garlic, fresh rosemary, and baking bread filled the air.

As he rounded the corner into the living room, he froze dead in his tracks.

Sitting on the high stools around the marble kitchen island were Cassie, looking vibrant as she stirred a simmering pan of marinara, and Ryan, who was awkwardly holding a glass of sparkling water while laughing at something Cassie had just said.

But it wasn't the hosts or the young defenseman that caused Shane’s breath to catch in his throat.

Sitting on the plush, cream-colored sectional sofa in the center of the living room were two identical girls, their dark, glossy curls bouncing as they practically leaped off the cushions. Dressed over their tiny leggings and long-sleeve shirts were two brand-new, miniaturized Montreal Voyagers Pride jerseys. Woven in crisp rainbow colors across the chest were the bold 'M' crests, and when the girls spun around, the name spanning their shoulder blades read HOLLANDER above a vibrant number 24.

Standing right beside the couch, holding a glass of white wine, was Jackie Pike.

Shane’s mind stalled for a second. He hadn’t seen Jackie in person since the day he’d coldly told Hayden he was taking Jackie and the girls to the zoo, then forced his former best friend out of his own house. He knew Jackie had been on his side through everything that had happened in the locker room, but he’d kept his distance on purpose. The last thing he wanted was to make things harder for her and Hayden while he figured out where he stood with all of it.

Before Shane could utter a word, two high-pitched gasps echoed across the hardwood floor.

"Uncle Shane!"

Ruby and Jade didn't hesitate. The twin girls scrambled off the sofa, their socked feet slapping wildly against the floorboards as they charged straight toward him at full speed, their miniature Hollander jerseys fluttering around their knees.

Shane’s natural stoicism dissolved instantly. He dropped to his knees right there near the edge of the rug, opening his arms wide just in time to catch both girls as they threw themselves against his chest.

"Uncle Shane! Look! Look at our jerseys!" Jade squealed, tugging frantically at the rainbow 'M' on her chest. "Mommy got them for us! We watched you score from the stands!"

"You were so fast!" Ruby echoed, burying her face into his shoulder and wrapping her small arms as far around his neck as they would reach. "We yelled so loud!"

Shane wrapped his arms tightly around the twins, pulling them flush against his chest. He lowered his head, pressing his face into the soft, sweet-smelling dark curls atop Ruby’s head, hiding his teary expression from the rest of the adults.

Hot tears welled up behind his eyes, instantly spilling over his lower lids to soak quietly into the twins’ hair. He tightened his grip just a fraction, taking a shaky breath to steady his voice, though his shoulders trembled slightly beneath his jacket.

He loved these girls more than he could put into words. In a sport that could be cold and transactional, where there always seemed to be some catch or expectation attached, Hayden’s daughters had never asked anything of him. They just loved him. Seeing them run toward him, his name printed across their jerseys over a Pride flag, hit him harder than he expected. It was such a simple thing, but somehow it made him feel accepted in a way he hadn't realized he still needed.

"I saw you," Shane murmured into Ruby’s hair, his voice thick and raspy. He swallowed hard, forcing the emotion down before pulling back just enough to look the twins in the eyes. "You two look like the absolute coolest fans in the entire arena. Did you know that?"

"Cooler than Daddy?" Jade asked innocently, her wide brown eyes full of wonder.

Shane offered a soft smile, touching the tip of her nose with his finger. "Way cooler than Daddy. No competition."

Jackie stepped forward from the kitchen archway, setting her wine glass down on the side table and leaning against the frame as she watched Shane interact with her daughters.

"I hope you don't mind the surprise intruder alert," Jackie said, her voice soft and carrying that familiar, grounded comfort Shane had missed for months. "Cassie invited us over for game-night dinner three days ago. The girls refused to put on any other clothes once the package from the team store arrived."

Shane stood up smoothly, keeping a hand resting protectively on Ruby’s shoulder. He looked at Jackie, the lingering tension evaporating completely into the warm air of the living room. "I could never mind seeing them, Jacks. Or seeing you."

Jackie walked over, wrapping her arms around Shane’s waist for a meaningful hug. "It's good to see you, Cap. You played an incredible game tonight."

"Thanks," Shane murmured, resting his chin briefly atop her head before stepping back.

Cassie clapped her hands together from the kitchen counter, cutting through the emotional atmosphere with a bright, welcoming smile. "Alright, everyone! The food is officially served. Shane, I made sure the spread is eighty percent plant-based—Zane warned me about your fancy new culinary standard, so don't you dare criticize my garlic roasted broccolini."

Shane laughed, the sound light and unburdened. "If it smells half as good as it looks, Cassie, I won't have a single complaint."

The dinner was a resounding success.

The dining table was stacked high with platters of roasted winter vegetables, spiced lentils, garlic crostini, fresh salads, and a rich, creamy vegan pasta dish that Cassie had meticulously prepared to accommodate Shane’s macros. Zane sat at the head of the table, filling glasses with city seltzer and wine, while Ryan sat beside Shane, looking remarkably comfortable as he chatted with Cassie about her work in interior design.

For the first hour, the conversation stayed light and cheerful. They replayed the highlights of the win against the Admirals, laughed over a ridiculous missed call by the referee in the second period, and listened to the twins give a highly dramatic, hand-animated reenactment of Shane’s second goal.

By nine-thirty, the physical exhaustion of the day caught up with the twins.

Jackie guided Ruby and Jade over to the living room sectional, setting them up with two iPads, soft blankets, and a pair of kids' headphones. Within minutes, the twins were completely immersed in an animated movie, their small thumb-swipes keeping them thoroughly distracted in their own little world.

Jackie walked back to the dining table, taking her seat beside Cassie, while Zane cleared away the main dinner plates, leaving a wooden tray of fresh fruit, dark chocolate, and tea in the center of the table.

Ryan pushed his tea mug around in a small circle against the wood, looking at the dark liquid before lifting his head to gaze at Shane. Across from him, Zane sat back down, folding his arms over the edge of the table, his expression serious but open.

"Shane," Zane began carefully. "Can I ask you something? You don't have to answer if you don't want to, but... Pricey and I have been talking."

Shane rested his forearms on the table, holding his own cup of herbal tea. "Go ahead."

"We know why we were brought here," Zane said simply, gesturing between himself and Ryan. "Marius is in the process of purging the Voyagers’ toxic culture. He got rid of Theriault, Cameau, and Drapeau in one afternoon. But... we are confused about the veterans. The way they act around you... it’s like they're walking on glass every single day. And none of them look you in the eye unless you address them first."

Ryan leaned forward, adding quietly, "I noticed it on the first day of training. It isn't just respect for the captain. It looks like... guilt. What happened in that locker room before we arrived?"

Shane looked down at the amber surface of his tea. Beside Cassie, Jackie let out a quiet breath, her hands tightening around her wine glass.

"Coach Theriault was a bigot," Shane said, lifting his gaze to look straight at Zane and Ryan. "For years, he ran that room using fear, division, and subtle abuse. He targeted me specifically because of my Buddhist practices—calling it pagan nonsense, telling me I lacked the grit to lead a real Canadian hockey team. He kept a tally of my mistakes, used xenophobic remarks about my Japanese heritage, and created an environment where anyone who stepped out of line was targeted."

Ryan’s jaw set hard, while Zane’s brows pulled down into a dark line.

"The day Marius fired him," Shane continued smoothly, "Theriault lost his temper. In front of the entire roster, he called me a 'fucking fag.' He threw it in my face like a weapon, expecting me to break or be humiliated."

Ryan flinched slightly, the crude slur hitting him like a cold slap.

"Marius had him escorted out by security immediately," Shane continued. "Along with Cameau and Drapeau, who were actively participating in the harassment. But the reason the rest of the team acts the way they do... is because for years, nobody said a word. Not the veterans, not the rookies, not even the guys who ate dinner at my table every week. They sat there in silence and let it happen because it was easier to stay quiet than to risk their ice time or rock the boat."

A heavy, solemn stillness fell over the table.

Zane leaned back, shaking his head slowly, disgust washing over his face. "Jesus Christ, Shane."

"So, when they were left alone with me that morning," Shane continued, "I told them we were no longer friends—that we would be strictly co-workers. I set strict financial fines for any discriminatory language on or off the ice, and I skated them until they couldn't stand up. I made it very clear that if they wanted to play for this team, they would follow my standard, or Marius would trade them to Buffalo."

Across the table, Jackie shook her head, a flash of anger crossing her eyes. She muttered under her breath, her voice tight with exasperation. "God, I should have kicked Hayden's ass straight into the St. Lawrence River."

Shane turned his attention to Jackie, a gentle, softening look touching his features. "Jacks, don't."

"No, Shane, I mean it," Jackie said, resting her elbows on the table, her face flushed with lingering frustration. "He's my husband, and I love him, but hearing it laid out like that... it makes me furious. He was the alternate captain! He was your best friend! He should have slammed Theriault against the wall the very first time that man opened his mouth. He stayed silent because he was afraid of conflict, and he let you carry that horrific burden all by yourself. Every time he comes home looking miserable because you gave him the cold shoulder, part of me wants to tell him he deserves every single second of it."

"Jackie, listen to me," Shane said firmly, reaching across the corner of the table to cover her hand with his own. "Do not let what happened in that locker room bleed into your home. I would never forgive myself if it starts affecting your marriage."

Jackie looked at Shane, her eyes searching his face. "Shane..."

"I'm serious," Shane said quietly. "Hayden made a mistake. A massive, cowardly mistake. But he isn't Theriault. Nor is he Cameau or Drapeau. He doesn’t harbor hate in his heart—he was just afraid. And over the last four months, he hasn't made a single excuse. He accepted being stripped of his 'A', he accepted my cold shoulder, and he has worked his tail off every single day without complaining."

Zane listened closely, his respect for Shane deepening with every word.

Shane squeezed Jackie’s hand gently before letting go. "I'm not telling you that everything is completely fine. I haven't invited him back into my life, and we aren't going out for drinks after games. But I'm getting close to forgiving them. All of them."

Ryan looked at Shane, genuine curiosity in his expression. "How do you do that, Shane? How do you just... let it go after what they did?"

Shane took a small sip of his tea, letting the warm herbal flavor settle on his tongue before answering.

"There's a well-known Buddhist teaching about anger," Shane explained calmly. "Holding onto anger is like holding onto a hot coal with the intent of throwing it at someone else—you're the one who gets burned. For a long time, I carried a lot of rage. I carried rage toward Theriault, toward the team, and toward... other people in my past."

He paused briefly, the fleeting image of a certain Russian’s phone number drifting through his mind before he pushed it aside.

"I realized that if I let that anger dictate who I am, I become just as bitter, cruel, and rigid as the people who hurt me," Shane said softly. "So, I sat on my sofa, and I let the anger go. I let go of the hurt. I don't carry hatred for Hayden, or JJ, or any of the guys in that room anymore."

Shane looked around the table—taking in Zane’s protectiveness, Ryan’s admiration, Cassie’s compassionate gaze, and Jackie’s fierce loyalty.

"Forgiveness isn't about forgetting what happened or pretending it never took place," Shane concluded, a peaceful smile breaking across his face. "It's about choosing not to let their past failures poison my present. I've let go of the pain. Right now, I just need to give myself the time to allow myself to trust them again. Building real trust takes work. But nights like tonight... seeing how this room pulled together, seeing the work everyone is putting in... it proves to me that we're moving in the right direction."

Cassie wiped a small tear from the corner of her eye, offering Shane a radiant smile. "You are an incredible man, Shane Hollander. An incredible captain."

Zane lifted his glass of seltzer, looking across the table at Shane with absolute conviction. "To the captain. And to a team that's finally worth leading."

Ryan lifted his glass immediately. "To the captain."

Jackie smiled through her lingering emotion, lifting her wine glass to tap it against Shane’s mug. "To Uncle Shane."

Shane clinked his tea mug against theirs, the soft chime of glass echoing through the warm kitchen. He looked over toward the living room sectional, where Ruby and Jade were now fast asleep under the soft blanket, their tiny rainbow Hollander jerseys peeking out from beneath the fabric.

Shane took a slow drink of his tea, feeling the nourishing warmth fill his chest. The winter outside was cold and unrelenting, but inside this room, surrounded by real safety, genuine friendship, and the promise of a better future, Shane knew he was exactly where he needed to be.

Chapter 5: What an idiot I was

Hayden sat in the third row of the media auditorium, staring at the blank projector screen at the front of the room. Around him, the rest of the Montreal Voyagers roster shifted in their padded folding chairs. Nobody was talking. The usual banter, the casual chirping, and the locker room noise that typically filled team meetings had vanished, replaced by a tense silence.

This was the mandatory sensitivity and inclusion seminar, orchestrated directly by Marius Stefani. At the podium, a guest lecturer was setting up a laptop and adjusting a microphone, preparing to walk a room full of professional athletes through a three-hour presentation on workplace harassment, discrimination, and language standards.

Shane Hollander was not in the room. Neither were Ryan Price or Zane Boodram. Management had explicitly exempted the three of them from attending. They didn't need a course on how to act like decent human beings; Ryan and Zane already knew how to conduct themselves, and Shane was the victim of the very environment this seminar was designed to dismantle.

Hayden rested his elbows on his knees, staring down at his hands. Over the last few months, his life had unraveled. Disgust washed over him—not directed at the league, the GM, or the former coach, but aimed entirely at himself.

Shane had been his best friend. The man who stood beside him as his best man when he married Jackie, and the godfather to his children who spent hours playing on their living room floor.

And yet, when Coach Theriault had hurled bigoted remarks across the locker room, calling Shane a pagan whore to his face, Hayden had sat there on his bench. He hadn't said a word. He had let the silence stretch, abandoning his friend when it mattered.

What an idiot I was, Hayden thought, his stomach twisting into a knot.

He had convinced himself back then that Shane simply didn't care. He assumed that because Shane was disciplined and composed on and off the ice, the slurs and the toxic culture just bounced off him. It was a cowardly lie Hayden fed himself to avoid making waves. He had chosen the comfort of the status quo over standing up for his friend.

He hadn't even argued when Marius called him into the front office weeks ago to strip him of his alternate captaincy, handing the 'A' straight over to Bood. Hayden didn't care about the letter on his jersey anymore. He didn't deserve it. He had failed as a friend, a leader, and an alternate captain.

The work of cleaning out the locker room rot, confronting the bigotry, and demanding accountability had been left entirely on Shane’s shoulders. Hayden should have been standing right beside him, shutting down Cameau and Drapeau before things reached a breaking point. Instead, he had played the bystander.

It stung every time he saw Shane at the facility now. Shane didn't yell at him. He didn't offer cold stares or bitter remarks. Instead, Shane treated him with a polite, professional distance that felt far worse.

Meanwhile, Shane had grown friendly with Ryan and Bood. Watching Shane share casual laughs with the two new arrivals in the hallway hurt, but Hayden couldn't muster any jealousy. Ryan and Bood were solid guys who had earned Shane’s trust, while Hayden had thrown his away.

The past weeks had been an exercise in exile. True to his word, Shane had taken Jackie and the twins out for lunch and a trip to the zoo that first weekend, leaving Hayden behind. Jackie hadn't argued with Shane's decision; when Hayden tried to explain what happened, the disappointment in his wife's eyes had nearly broken him.

Since then, Hayden had worked himself to exhaustion at every practice, trying to find a way to earn back a fraction of the respect he had lost.

A sharp burst of static echoed through the ceiling speakers, snapping Hayden out of his thoughts.

"Alright, gentlemen, let's get started," the lecturer announced, stepping to the center of the stage as the projector flickered to life, displaying the first slide: Building Respectful Culture in Professional Sports.

Hayden straightened his back, lifting his chin, and focused on the screen. He wasn't going to tune this out, or pretend he was above it, and he certainly wasn't going to miss a word. He owed Shane a debt he might never be able to fully repay, but sitting here, taking ownership of his failures, and learning how to be better was the bare minimum he could do.

The glow of the screen illuminated the auditorium, casting light across rows of subdued hockey players. Hayden sat near the center, eyes fixed on the speaker. Around him, nobody checked their phone or whispered jokes. The room was quiet, born out of a collective realization of how severely they had allowed their environment to rot.

Dr. Aris Thorne, a specialist in workplace dynamics hired by Marius Stefani, walked across the stage. He didn't speak down to them, nor did he adopt a preachy tone. His voice was calm and clinical—the voice of a professional breaking down systemic failure.

"We aren't here today to strip away the edge from your game," Dr. Thorne began, clicking to the first slide. "We know hockey is fast, emotional, and physical. We know that verbal gamesmanship—chirping—has been part of the sport since the ice was frozen pond water. That is not what this seminar is about. This seminar is about drawing a clear line between competition and bigotry."

The presentation transitioned to the first heading: Homophobia.

Hayden felt his chest tighten, but his eyes stayed locked on the bullet points displayed on the screen.

Dr. Thorne gestured behind him. "Historically, hockey culture has fostered an environment that signals to LGBTQ+ individuals that they are unwelcome. A primary driver of that is the casual deployment of anti-queer language. We need to distinguish between criticizing a player's ability and attacking their identity."

The screen displayed two contrasting columns.

"Telling an opponent, he blew a coverage or can't handle a bouncing puck is a critique of his play," Dr. Thorne continued. "Using words like fag, faggot, or homo, or telling someone to stop acting gay—that is not a chirp. That is target-specific discrimination."

Hayden looked down at his hands. Every time those slurs had echoed through their locker room over the past seasons—thrown around by Cameau, Drapeau, or Coach Theriault—Hayden had written it off as locker-room noise. He had told himself it was just heat-of-the-moment intensity. Sitting here now, reading the breakdown on screen, that justification felt like an excuse.

"When you use identity as an insult, you aren't just engaging an opponent," Dr. Thorne explained, his gaze sweeping across the room. "You are sending a clear message to everyone within earshot. You are telling closeted teammates, organization staff, officials, arena workers, and young fans that who they are is fodder for contempt. Even 'jokes' reinforce a hostile environment."

Dr. Thorne paused, letting the point settle before moving to Bystander Responsibility.

"Silence is complicity," Dr. Thorne stated. "When a teammate uses a slur and the room goes quiet, that silence is interpreted as permission. Being a leader means intervening. It means pulling a teammate aside privately to correct them, speaking up instantly on the ice, or escalating repeated abuse to management."

Hayden clenched his hands on his thighs. Silence is complicity. He hadn't just been silent; he had been an alternate captain. He wore a letter on his jersey, yet he had sat on his bench and stared at his skates while Shane was subjected to relentless vilification.

The slide clicked forward to the next section: Xenophobia and Nationality.

Dr. Thorne highlighted the international makeup of modern NHL rosters, listing the flags representing players from North America, Scandinavia, Eastern Europe, and Asia.

"Your locker room contains men from different cultures, backgrounds, and languages," Dr. Thorne noted. "Respecting those differences is fundamental to a functioning team. That means respecting accents and refusing to indulge in national stereotypes or mocking a teammate's English skills."

Hayden winced as the slide listed explicit examples of unacceptable conduct:

• Mocking accents or language barriers.
• Telling someone to "go back to your country."
• Labeling European or Asian players as "soft" based on origin.
• Using ethnic stereotypes disguised as locker-room humor.

Shane’s words from the night he snapped echoed in Hayden’s mind: I am done with everyone walking all over me... because unlike most of the players in the league, I am not white. I am half Japanese.

Hayden had always thought of Shane as simply Shane—the star center who had everything under control. He had ignored the additional weight Shane carried every day as a non-white player in an overwhelmingly white sport.

When people mocked Shane's heritage, his diet, or his faith, Hayden had convinced himself Shane was above it all, that his composure protected him from getting hurt. It was a lazy assumption to keep Hayden from having to confront uncomfortable truths.

Dr. Thorne moved into the core framework of the lecture: Chirping vs. Hate Speech.

"Let's be practical," Dr. Thorne continued, bringing up a comparison chart. "We are not asking you to stop competing. We are telling you to target the hockey, not the person."

He walked through the examples clearly:

Acceptable Chirps (Attack the Play):

• "Nice giveaway."
• "You're slower than my grandmother."
• "Your goalie is covering up for your mistakes."
• "You couldn't hit the ocean from a boat."

Unacceptable Language (Attack the Identity):

• Homophobic, racist, or xenophobic slurs.
• Attacks on religious practices, meditation, or faith.
• Mocking physical disabilities or medical conditions.

"Slurs carry historical weight," Dr. Thorne emphasized, leaning against the podium. "They reinforce real-world discrimination that extends far beyond sixty minutes of ice time. They fracture locker rooms, alienate teammates, expose your organization to reputational damage, and invite league discipline."

He shifted the focus to Locker Room Culture and Leadership.

"Tradition is not an excuse for bad behavior," Dr. Thorne stated. "The phrase 'that's just how hockey is' is a dead argument. Locker room culture is defined entirely by what the veterans tolerate. If senior players allow toxic humor, rookies will emulate it to fit in. If leaders establish that identity-based attacks are off-limits, the standard shifts overnight."

In the seats around Hayden, players sat upright. Mathieu was taking notes in a notebook; JJ sat with his head bowed; Mitty watched the slide covering Social Media and Public Accountability, which detailed how private group chats, deleted posts, and online interactions carry permanent professional consequences.

Dr. Thorne brought up several anonymized case studies, detailing real incidents across sports leagues where discriminatory language led to fractured teams, fines, suspensions, and ruined careers.

Finally, the presentation reached its conclusion, displaying a summary slide:

• Compete hard.
• Chirp smart.
• Attack the play—not the person's identity.
• Respect teammates, opponents, officials, and fans.
• Everyone deserves to feel welcome in hockey.

"The expectation from your General Manager, your organization, and your league is absolute," Dr. Thorne concluded, shutting off the microphone. "You are elite athletes. You are capable of playing with intensity, passion, and fire without resorting to hate. Thank you for your time."

The seminar concluded as Dr. Thorne gathered his notes, packed his laptop into his briefcase, and stepped out the side exit. The door clicked shut behind him, sealing the room in silence.

Hayden remained in his seat, looking at the blank screen where the summary slide had just been projected. The silence stretched until JJ slammed his palm onto the armrest of his chair.

"Putaing de merde," JJ cursed under his breath, shifting into rapid-fire French before forcing himself back into English so everyone could understand. "I should have fucking known better. Mon dieu, I should have known!"

He stood up, pacing back and forth in the aisle and rubbing a hand over his face.

"I'm Black!" JJ shouted, turning to face the group. "I know what it feels like to walk into a rink where nobody looks like you. I know how much it hurts when people throw casual comments at you on and off the ice. But I was so focused on fitting in—so terrified of being the guy who made a scene—that I just put my head down. I let all that bullshit slide right past me. I let them say whatever they wanted to Cap, and I said nothing. Rien. Just so I wouldn't stand out."

A few seats down, Mitty let out a long breath, staring at the floor between his sneakers.

"Me too," Mitty sighed, his Russian accent was thick and unfiltered. "Every week, it is something. Comments about my accent, jokes about being a communist, stupid stereotypes about cold weather and vodka. I hated it. It made me feel like an outsider in my own locker room. But I kept my mouth shut because I thought that is just how hockey is."

Mitty shook his head, tightening his hands into fists on his lap. "Cap shouldn't have had to do what he did. He shouldn't have been forced to be the villain in his own team just to get us to act like human beings. He had to burn everything down because none of us had the spine to stand beside him."

Across the aisle, Mathieu leaned forward, resting his forearms on the seat in front of him. "Is he the villain, though?" He asked softly, as he looked around at his teammates. "Or did he just act like the great captain he’s always been?"

The question hung in the air.

"Think about it," Mathieu continued, looking at JJ and then over at Mitty. "A villain destroys things for himself. Shane destroyed his own comfort, his privacy, and his relationships with all of us to fix a system that was breaking him. He took all that pain, isolation, and he carried it alone until he couldn't anymore. He didn't come in here to tear us apart—he did it to save this team from becoming something irredeemable."

Hearing JJ and Mitty speak about their own struggles made Hayden’s stomach twist tighter. They had at least experienced being targeted and trying to navigate an environment that wasn't built for them. But Hayden was local, white, Canadian, straight, and comfortable. He had every advantage and platform available in the sport.

More than that, he had been Shane's best friend. He was supposed to be the bridge, the protector, the leader who shielded his brothers from the rot. Instead, he had been the ultimate bystander—blinded by his own comfort, deaf to his friend's suffering, and passive while the culture around them poisoned everything.

Hayden stared down at his hands. He remembered the look on Shane's face when he stripped him of his pride, and the sweetness in his voice when he mentioned taking Jackie and the twins to the zoo without him. It hadn't been an act of cruelty from Shane; it was a mirror held up to Hayden's cowardice.

He wanted to apologize to the team. He wanted to stand up, call himself every terrible name, and beg his teammates for a chance to make it right. But the words died in his throat. Words were cheap. Words were what he had used for years to justify staying while Coach Theriault and the others tore Shane down.

"Mathieu is right," JJ said finally, stopping his pacing. "Cap isn't the villain. We were the problem. All of us."

"So, what do we do now?" Mitty asked, looking up at the group. "How do we fix this?"

Mathieu stood up, pulling his jacket over his shoulders. "We start by doing what he asked. We shut our mouths, we work until our lungs burn, and we show him on and off the ice that we heard him. We don't ask for his forgiveness. We earn his respect back."

One by one, the players began to stand, gathering their things in a resolve that had been missing from the organization for years. Hayden was the last to get up. The course hadn't erased his guilt—nothing could undo the years he spent playing the passive bystander while his best friend suffered. But as he stood up and walked toward the exit, Hayden felt a resolve take hold.

The era of keeping his head down was over. He had lost his ‘A’, his best friend's trust, and exposed his own cowardice. Rebuilding any of that would take months, maybe years. But starting today, Hayden promised himself he would stand up, speak out, and hold both himself and his teammates to the standard Shane Hollander deserved.

He was going to earn it back. Whatever it took, no matter how long, he would prove to Shane Hollander that he could be the friend he was supposed to be.

Hayden drove home, his hands gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white. All he wanted was to hide from the world—to find comfort in Jackie's embrace, lose himself in Ruby and Jade's laughter, and see little Arthur napping in his crib. He needed his family to ground him against the weight of shame he had carried all afternoon.

He pulled onto his street, easing off the gas pedal as his driveway came into view.

His heart sank.

Parked along the curb in front of his lawn was Shane’s Jeep.

Hayden sat in his driver’s seat, the engine idling. Shane was inside the house.

The girls had talked about their zoo trip for days, gushing about the giant elephant plushies Uncle Shane bought them and squealing with excitement over his promise to take them to the aquarium next. Shane was a great godfather. Even when Hayden had ruined his own bond with his best friend, he refused to let Hayden’s failures deprive the children of their uncle.

Hayden stared at the car, every instinct telling him to drive around the block and wait until Shane left. He shouldn't intrude or risk ruining Shane’s time with the kids.

Yet beneath the shame, Hayden missed him. They had spent years glued at the hip—sharing pre-game meals, celebrating victories, standing beside each other at weddings—and living in this cold exile was wearing Hayden down.

Before his brain could process the decision, Hayden switched off the ignition, stepped out, walking up the front steps and pushing the door open.

The sound of soft giggles and rustling cardboard echoed from the living room.

Hayden stepped into the entryway. Jackie stood near the rug, holding baby Arthur against her shoulder with a smile. Down on the floor sat Shane. Ruby and Jade were on either side of him, surrounded by puzzle pieces as they tried to find matching edges.

Shane was laughing as he helped Jade fit a corner piece into place. It was the most relaxed expression Hayden had seen on his face in months.

Then Shane lifted his gaze and saw Hayden standing in the hallway.

The warmth on Shane’s expression vanished, smoothing out into an unreadable mask. He didn't glare or raise his voice, but the shift in the room was immediate. Jackie looked from Shane to her husband, taking in Hayden's pale expression. She stepped forward, bending down to pat the girls on their shoulders.

"Alright, sweeties," Jackie said smoothly, keeping her tone light. "Let's leave Uncle Shane and Daddy to chat for a minute. Time to head upstairs and wash your hands for dinner."

Ruby and Jade whined, but Shane offered them a gentle nudge toward the stairs. "Go on, girls. We'll finish the elephant picture next time I visit."

The twins scrambled to their feet, following Jackie up the staircase. Their footsteps faded down the hallway, leaving the living room empty. Shane gathered his jacket from the sofa and picked up his car keys from the table. He didn't offer a cold remark; he simply prepared to leave in silence.

Hayden stood near the entryway, his throat locked tight. The idea of Shane stepping past him, heading to his car, and returning to that distant professional wall was more than Hayden could take.

Before Shane could take a second step toward the door, a sob broke from Hayden’s lips, making Shane stop dead in his tracks, his eyes widening.

Hayden covered his face, but he couldn't stop the flood. Months of accumulated guilt, self-loathing, and isolation broke through his defenses. Sobs racked his shoulders as he stood in the hallway.

Shane stared at him, caught off guard. He had seen Hayden sustain injuries on the ice, take hits, and suffer playoff losses without shedding a tear. Seeing his former best friend standing there completely shattered, stripped away every last layer of Shane's guard.

The rigid posture melted from Shane’s shoulders. He dropped his car keys onto the table, stepped forward, and wrapped his arms around Hayden, pulling him in close.

Hayden collapsed into the embrace, burying his face into Shane’s neck, his fingers clutching the back of Shane’s jacket. He cried, tears soaking into Shane’s collar as relief washed over him.

Shane held him firm, letting Hayden release what he had been carrying. He didn't rush him or pull away. He stood in the entryway, anchoring his friend until Hayden's breathing slowed.

Hayden took a long breath, pulling back to wipe his face with his sleeve.

"I'm sorry," Hayden choked out, his voice raw. "Shane... I am so fucking sorry."

Shane didn't interrupt. He kept his hands on Hayden's arms, listening.

"I should have noticed," Hayden stammered. "I should have seen what he was doing to you. I should have stood up and barked down every single person in that room. I was a coward, Shane. I let you carry all that weight alone, and I failed you. As a teammate, as an alternate... as your brother."

Hayden squeezed his eyes shut. "You're my brother in all but blood. You were the best man at my wedding. You're the godfather to my kids. And I let you down when you needed me most. I am so sorry, Shane. I promise you... I will do better. I'm going to earn your trust back."

Shane watched him, taking in the truth behind Hayden's words. There was no deflection, no self-pitying excuses, and no attempt to minimize the failure. Just clear accountability. A tired sigh escaped Shane’s lips. He tilted his head back, shaking it with a faint smile.

"It really isn't fair, you know," Shane complained softly. "I can never stay mad at you as long as I want to."

Hayden blinked through his tears.

Shane offered a warm, genuine smile—the one that reached his eyes.

"You're forgiven, Hayd."

The words landed like a wave of relief. Hayden let out a half-laughing gasp, covering his face with his hands. Shane chuckled, clapping a hand against Hayden’s shoulder and pulling him into a brief hug.

"Come on, man," Shane teased softly. "Look at you. You're a crybaby right now."

Hayden laughed, wiping his eyes with his palms and leaning against the wall. He was still going to work to be the brother Shane deserved, but for the first time in weeks, he knew his friend was back.

When Jackie and the kids stepped down into the kitchen, the tension that had lingered around the house was gone. In its place was the aroma of toasted sesame, sweet soy glaze, and fresh garlic.

Standing side by side at the kitchen island were Shane and Hayden. The cutting board between them held thick blocks of pan-seared tofu and king oyster mushroom "steaks" sizzling in a skillet alongside bowls of steamed edamame, baby bok choy, and snap peas, while the rice cooker steamed in the corner. Hayden chopped scallions while Shane stood over the pan, basting the tofu and mushrooms with a glossy house-made teriyaki glaze. They were laughing.

"Uncle Shane!" Ruby squealed, sprinting across the floor with Jade right on her heels. "Are you staying for dinner?"

Shane turned, setting his spatula aside with a smile. "I sure am. In fact, you two get to be my taste-testers tonight."

The girls cheered, dancing around the island.

Jackie stood near the entryway holding baby Arthur. The exhausted shadow that had hung over Hayden’s features had vanished, replaced by a calm expression. She caught Hayden’s eye, giving him a questioning nod. Hayden stepped away from the counter, wiping his hands on a towel as he walked over to her.

"Everything okay?" Jackie asked softly. "Are things... back to normal?"

Hayden leaned in, pressing a kiss against her temple before looking at Shane. "We've still got work to do, but... yeah. We're getting there."

Jackie let out a sigh of relief, her smile expanding. She transferred a sleeping Arthur into Hayden’s arms. "Here, take your son. I’ll help Shane get plates set up."

Hayden held the baby against his chest, watching his wife slide into rhythm beside Shane to grab serving platters.

Within ten minutes, the family was gathered around the dining table. At the center sat the platter of glazed teriyaki tofu and king oyster mushrooms, mounds of rice, and crisp vegetables. Placed beside every plate was a cold can of Canada Dry ginger ale, a habit that Shane had infected the Pikes with.

Ruby took a bite of the seared mushroom steak, her eyes widening. "This is way better than Daddy’s food!"

"Hey!" Hayden feigned offense, adjusting Arthur while taking a bite himself. "My cooking is great!"

"No, she's right," Jackie laughed. "Shane, this is incredible. When on earth did you get this good at cooking?"

Shane paused, his chopsticks hovering over his plate. A faint flush touched his cheekbones before he lowered his hands back to the table.

"I've... actually been seeing someone," Shane admitted, looking around the table with a slight smile. "He’s a chef. He's been teaching me a few things in the kitchen over the last couple of months."

Jackie’s eyes lit up with excitement, while Hayden’s head snapped up from his plate in surprise.

"He actually convinced me to switch nutritionists, too," Shane added, turning his ginger ale can between his palms. "He took one look at the low-carb plan my old trainer had me on and told me it was unsustainable for my ice time. He showed me how to fuel properly with real ingredients without starving myself."

A beam broke across Hayden’s face. "Finally! I've been telling you for years that your old diet was terrible! You were living on plain rice and boiled asparagus. I love this guy already."

Hayden caught himself, taking a sip of his ginger ale to keep from rambling and demanding more information about this mystery chef. Over the last few hours, he had sworn he was done making assumptions or stepping over boundaries. He held his tongue, letting Jackie handle the conversation.

"So," Jackie asked, leaning forward with a smile, "are things serious with him?"

Shane shook his head as he answered. "No, not really. We started seeing each other when he had a job lined up as a sous chef at a restaurant in France. He recently moved to Paris."

Shane took a deep breath, his expression becoming reflective.                                                                                                                                       

"And honestly, even without the move, I can't see myself in a serious relationship right now," Shane continued. "I need to work on myself first. My main focus this season has to be leading this team and winning the Stanley Cup. So... we just had fun with no expectations. But he's a great guy, and we stayed friends after he left."

Across the table, Hayden felt a pang of disappointment. Deep down, Hayden wanted Shane to experience the kind of partner he had in Jackie, someone who could anchor him when the pressure of the NHL became too much.

But looking at Shane, watching the clarity in his eyes, the disappointment faded.

Shane had spent months trapped in a toxic pressure cooker. He had survived betrayal, slurs, hiding his identity, and carrying a franchise on his shoulders. He didn't need a complicated, high-stakes romance right now. He needed healing, freedom, and lighthearted fun with someone who treated him well and fed him good food.

"Well," Jackie said warmly, lifting her can of ginger ale toward the center of the table, "here's to fresh starts, incredible food, and focusing on what matters."

Hayden lifted his can, clinking it against Jackie's, Shane's, and the tiny plastic cups held up by the twins. "To fresh starts."

Shane smiled back, the gold Dharmachakra necklace resting over his shirt. As they spent the rest of the evening eating and catching up, Hayden knew the road ahead for the Montreal Voyagers would still be challenging. But sitting there surrounded by his family and his friend, he knew they were moving in the right direction.

That dinner set the tone for the weeks that followed. The understanding rebuilt over glazed teriyaki tofu and king oyster mushrooms moved far beyond Hayden’s kitchen, slowly rippling out into the rest of the locker room. By the time mid-April rolled around, and the team gathered for their first ever pre-playoffs barbecue at Bood’s place, the shift in the team's dynamic was unmistakable.

Hayden leaned against the porch railing, taking a sip from his drink as he looked across the backyard. Laughter bounced off the wooden fence, mingling with the aroma of burgers and steaks floating over from the grill.

For the first time in years, Hayden felt a sense of peace.

The Montreal Voyagers were no longer just a collection of athletes sharing a locker room; they were a team. The old days—where showing vulnerability meant being branded soft were gone. Players didn't just throw around careless banter anymore; they looked out for one another. Last month, during a road trip to Toronto, when Mathieu’s fiancée caught the flu back in Montreal, JJ called his aunt, a head nurse, to check on her personally.

They had all sat down with Shane weeks ago, one by one and as a group, offering sincere apologies for the years of silence. Shane accepted them, opening the door for healing to happen naturally. The connection between Shane and the rest of the guys was grounded and growing stronger every day.

Hayden glanced toward the grill, watching Bood behind the flames.

Losing his alternate captain’s letter to Bood had never bothered Hayden. He and Shane made a strong leadership duo: Shane provided the sharp tactical mind and athletic standard, while Bood brought a warm, big-brother energy that held everyone together.

Bood was famous for hosting team events, turning his backyard into the gathering hub for the franchise. His wife, Cassie, had welcomed the team with open arms, quickly becoming close friends with Jackie.

Across the lawn, Ruby and Jade were chasing Bood’s young son, their giggles echoing over the yard, while Jackie sat at a patio table nearby, holding baby Arthur on her lap and chatting with Shane.

Cassie stepped down from the deck steps, carrying a pitcher alongside a tray of glasses. "Fresh batch of homemade sangria," she announced, setting the tray on the side table near Jackie and Shane.

She reached for a glass, turning toward the pair.

"Oh, don't bother with Shane, Cass," JJ piped up from a lounge chair, waving a hand. "Cap doesn't touch alcohol during the season. Athletic protocol."

Cassie stopped, looking at JJ in confusion. "I wasn't offering it to Shane," she said, looking between JJ and the group. "I was handing this to Jackie—she stopped breastfeeding Arthur last week. Besides, why would I offer alcohol to someone who practices Buddhism?"

Silence fell over the patio.

JJ froze mid-sip. Mathieu paused with a cornhole bag cocked back, while Mitty blinked in slow bewilderment from the outdoor couch. Hayden straightened up from the railing, his eyes darting toward his friend.

Everyone looked at Cassie, then turned to Shane.

Shane let out a low sigh, rubbing the back of his neck with a faint, embarrassed smile.

"Wait..." JJ stammered. "You're... wait, what?"

"I tell people it's for hockey just to keep it simple," Shane admitted, gesturing vaguely. "Saves me from having a long conversation every time I'm at a party. The actual reason is the Fifth Precept—it advises against intoxicants that cloud the mind." He took a casual sip of his sparkling water. "It’s not a rigid rule. I could have a glass if I wanted to, but I just prefer keeping my head clear."

Hayden felt a pang of guilt. He has gotten very used to that emotion this season. But the shame of today was different, because Hayden had thought they were finally on the right path. How is it that none of them had taken the time to ask Shane how deeply his faith mattered to him, or what it meant to his daily life?

"Cap... man, I'm sorry," JJ said, lowering his glass. "I’ve sat next to you on charter flights for years and I just made assumptions."

"It's fine, guys," Shane said gently. "I never brought it up. You don't need to make a big thing out of it."

"No, Shane, it is a thing," Mathieu cut in quietly, stepping closer. "We spent years watching you without actually knowing you. That's on us."

Hayden pulled a chair up beside Shane, leaning his elbows on his knees. "Honestly, Shane... I'm embarrassed by how little I know. What was that paper lantern you set up in the locker room back in August?"

Shane’s eyes softened, a faint smile touching his lips. "That was for Obon. It’s a Japanese tradition to honor your ancestors. You light floating paper lanterns—tōrō nagashi—to guide spirits and remember family." He tapped his thumb against his glass. "It’s really just about Anicca—remembering that things are temporary, so you appreciate them while they're here."

"Is that why you never blow up when a game goes sideways?" Hayden asked.

Shane chuckled softly. "Pretty much. Good games, bad games, blown calls, bad bounces... none of it stays. Once you get that, you stop panicking on the ice. You just breathe and adapt."

"Tell them about the girls, Shane," Jackie laughed softly from across the table.

"Oh, God," Hayden snorted, looking over at his teammates. "Getting Ruby and Jade out of bed on a school day usually takes a full military operation. But whenever Shane stays over, they're up at dawn."

"They dragged me out of the guest room a few months ago expecting to play," Shane explained, his face lighting up. "I was already on the floor doing morning meditation. Jade saw me sitting cross-legged, sat right down next to him, and tried to copy my posture. Ruby fell in line two minutes later."

"Now they set alarms when Uncle Shane visits," Jackie added, grinning. "I walked into the living room last month and all three of them were sitting straight as arrows in dead silence for ten full minutes. Shane is a miracle worker, I tell you."

"They had a million questions after," Shane said fondly. "Why my hands were folded, why I wasn't eating bacon..."

"Which sparked the Great Vegetarian Crusade of 2015," Hayden chimed in, leaning back. "They made me check cereal boxes for gelatin for two solid weeks because Shane taught them about Ahimsa—non-harming."

"And Shojin Ryori," Jackie reminded him. "Traditional temple food. They still demand 'Uncle Shane Rice' twice a week."

"So, what about forty minutes before puck drop?" JJ asked, leaning against the pergola post. "When you sit by your locker in total silence?"

"Samatha," Shane said simply. "Unlike analytical meditation, this one trains the single-pointed focus. Clear out the media noise, the crowd, and the last mistake so you're just present for the next shift."

Mitty nodded slowly. "In Russia, sports psych is always 'get mad, use rage.' But playing angrily leads to stupid plays. Your way is steadier."

Bood, who had walked over from the grill carrying a platter of food, set it on the table with a nod. "I played against Shane for years before coming here. You couldn't rattle him. You hit him, slash him, chirp him, and he just skates back and scores. Makes sense now."

A murmur of agreement went around the group.

Shane looked around at his team. The gold Dharmachakra wheel rested against his chest. For so long, he had kept this side of his life walled off, expecting people to mock it. Seeing his teammates understand and have his back meant everything.

"Thanks, guys," Shane smiled gratefully. "Seriously."

"Alright, enough speeches," Jackie announced playfully, clapping her hands together. "Food’s getting cold, and Uncle Shane promised to show the twins how to roll vegetarian sushi."

"Oh, I am definitely watching that," Hayden laughed, pulling his chair closer as Bood passed around plates. "If those girls learn how to roll sushi from Shane, I'm retiring from kitchen duty!"

As the patio filled with laughter and clanking plates, Hayden looked over at Shane smiling as he helped Jade with her food. A thought hit him then, one that stayed with him long after everyone went home. All those things they’d spent years brushing off as quirks or intense habits were never just quirks. Everything Shane did had a reason behind it.

All anybody ever had to do was ask.

The change in the culture of their locker room brought a protective edge to the Voyagers. They were top of the standings as the playoffs crept closer, but they had also turned into one of the most physical teams in the NHL. If an opponent threw a cheap hit or a chirp toward Shane, three Voyagers would leap over the boards. The message was clear: nobody touched their captain.

That protective instinct was highest whenever they played Boston.

The Hollander-Rozanov rivalry had always been intense, but this season, something was off. Usually, when Ilya ran his mouth, Shane would smile or chirp right back. But lately, Shane avoided him, staying on the other side of the ice during warmups.

The spark between them was missing. Instead, Ilya acted like a total brat who'd had his favorite toy taken away, visibly pissed off that Shane wouldn't look at him and resorting to desperate rage-baiting.

During a stoppage in the second period, Ilya skated past the Voyagers' line, spitting on the ice.

"Hollander is fucking boring!" Ilya sneered, his voice cutting clearly over the roar of the crowd. "Boston wins tonight, we go out, drink, and party like real men! Maybe Shane stops being so boring if he learns how to take a drink!"

Hayden didn't pause to think. Hearing Rozanov mock Shane's lifestyle struck a raw nerve. Digging his blades into the ice, Hayden accelerated across the blue line and drove a right hook into Rozanov’s jaw.

In response, the ice erupted into chaos. Cliff Marleau tackled Hayden from behind, driving him hard into the boards as both benches cleared. Gloves, sticks, and helmets scattered across the ice while officials blew their whistles in a desperate bid for control. By the time order was restored, Hayden, Marleau, and two others were escorted to the box with major fighting penalties.

When the final horn sounded and the Voyagers secured a win, the energy inside the locker room was tense.

"What the hell did Rozanov say to get you so worked up, Pike?" Mathieu asked, untying his skates. "You charged him like a train."

Shane walked past the group and stopped directly in front of Hayden’s stall. "Hayden," the captain said softly. "He didn't mean it like that."

Hayden pulled his jersey over his head, tossing it onto the bench. "It doesn't matter if he meant it like that or not! You told us yourself—just because someone is ignorant doesn't give them the right to disrespect you. I'm going over there to set the record straight."

Shane looked startled by the conviction in Hayden's voice, but then his posture relaxed.

"You're right," Shane admitted quietly. "You can go speak with him. But do not use your fists again, Hayden. And remember... he isn't a bad guy. He doesn't even know I practice Buddhism."

Hayden gave a firm nod. He pulled a tracksuit on and marched out of the room, striding down the corridor toward the Raiders' quarters. He pushed the double doors open hard, slamming them against the concrete walls, and walked straight into the Boston locker room.

The room went dead silent.

Marleau stood up from his stall with a snarl. "You've got a lot of nerve walking in here, Pike, after jumping our captain!"

But Hayden, ignoring him, walked right past Marleau, his gaze locked directly on Ilya Rozanov. The blond sat on his bench in a sweat-soaked undershirt, pressing an icepack against his swollen jaw. His blue eyes narrowed as Hayden stopped three feet in front of him.

Hayden let his eyes drop to the gold Orthodox cross on Ilya’s chest.

"That cross seems pretty important to you," Hayden began, his voice cutting through the room. "It's not the first time I've seen you wearing it. So, I know you understand what it means to care about your faith."

Ilya's posture stiffened.

"You think Shane is fucking boring?" Hayden barked, taking another half-step forward. "You think he doesn't go out and party like you because he's stiff? Half the idiots in this league believe the narrative that he just avoids alcohol during the season to be a perfect athlete. But recently, he started wearing a gold chain. Do you even know what's on it, Rozanov?"

Ilya remained motionless, his jaw set tight, but his eyes stayed fixed on Hayden.

"It’s a Dharmachakra wheel," Hayden stated. "It's a sacred symbol of Buddhism. He wears it because he is a practicing Buddhist. He doesn't drink because the Fifth Precept cautions against intoxicants that cloud the mind. He is also a vegetarian and meditates every single day. He isn't following a trend like most North Americans nowadays; Shane lives his religion every day."

Hayden scanned the faces of the Boston players staring in stunned silence.

"So, if any of you chirp him about it again," Hayden growled, dropping his voice as he looked at Ilya, "or call him boring, or tell him he needs to drink to be a real man, you will find out what the Voyagers stand for now. We will drop the gloves and take your heads off on the ice every shift. And I expect you to come over to our hall and apologize to my captain. Because rivalry or not, what you said out there was completely out of line."

The anger in Ilya's face drained away, replaced by shock and a visible wave of guilt. When Marleau and two other Raiders took a step forward to throw Hayden out, Ilya slapped a hand against Marleau's chest, stopping his teammates.

"Enough," Ilya commanded, his voice raspy and stripped of his usual swagger as he looked up at Hayden. "He is right. I will apologize."

Hayden gave them a final look, turned on his heel, and walked out.

An hour later, after media obligations concluded, Hayden stood near the exit doors by the team bus. Through the glass, he caught sight of Ilya approaching Shane near the back of the loading dock, and away from the cameras.

Hayden couldn't hear the words from across the corridor, but the shift in body language was unmistakable. Ilya spoke with a rare sincerity, his usual postured arrogance completely gone. Shane listened calmly, nodding once before offering a brief gesture of acceptance.

The apology might have been triggered by Ilya’s cheap chirp on the ice, but the unspoken weight passing between the two star players ran far deeper than a standard post-game dispute. Whatever had been simmering between them all season had gone beyond a simple hockey rivalry, touching something personal.

Hayden leaned against the wall, watching Shane walk back toward the team bus with a noticeably lighter step. A season ago, Hayden’s immediate instinct would have been to push, to demand answers, or to force his way into whatever Shane was carrying alone. But he had learned the hard way that trust couldn't be rushed or interrogated out of someone.

Choosing patience over impulse, Hayden decided to give his captain space—content to wait until Shane was ready to come to him and tell him the truth in his own time.

Chapter 6: The word "boring" had always been code between them

Ilya sat on the bench in the locker room at TD Garden, pressing an ice pack against his throbbing left cheekbone.

Around him, the Boston Raiders room was a storm of shouting.

"Those Montreal animals are out of their minds!" Cliff Marleau spat, slamming his helmet into his stall. "Ever since Hollander took the captaincy, that team played like choirboys. Soft as butter! Now? You can't even skate past their bench without three of them jumping over the boards! What is going on in Quebec?"

"Sucker punching our captain on open ice?" St-Simon barked, stripping off his jersey. "Pike should be suspended for ten games!"

Ilya didn't join in. He barely heard them. His mind was miles away, trapped in a spiral that had been eating at him for months. After all, he knew why everything had gone to Hell.

He just hated admitting it.

The silence between them hadn't started by accident; Ilya had lit the fire himself. Ever since the Sochi Olympics, he had enforced radio silence on Shane, leaving texts unread, calls ignored, and shutting him out completely.

Then came the disaster in Las Vegas after the awards ceremony.

Before they even went on stage, Ilya had a panic attack in the green room bathroom. Seeing Shane in person for the first time in six months—standing there under the fluorescent lights looking composed, clean, and untouchable—sent Ilya into a spiral. His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped animal. The sheer volume of what he felt for Shane scared him; he knew with terrifying clarity that if he let his guard down, if he allowed himself to just kiss Shane or hold him like he desperately wanted to, he would never be able to stop. He would be completely consumed.

Growing up in an abusive home in Russia had taught Ilya one absolute truth: vulnerability gets you destroyed. Love was a transaction, something given only when earned by performance and revoked the second you failed. He didn't know how to process tenderness, so when panic hit, he defaulted to his only defense mechanisms—aggression, mockery, and control.

Instead of greeting Shane with honesty, Ilya made it a power play. He cornered Shane in the bathroom, turned the lock, and immediately raised his armor. He hid his desperation behind arrogant grins, taunting Shane and turning their entire connection into a crude bet: whoever walked away with the MVP got to dictate exactly how they had sex that night. He treated Shane like a prize to be won rather than the man he had spent six months missing, using cold, transactional dominance to keep his own heart safely behind glass.

Later that night, in his penthouse suite, the bill came due. Shane showed up at his door—vulnerable and clearly looking for an explanation. But seeing Shane open himself up only amplified Ilya's terror. Unable to handle the emotional weight, Ilya snapped. He hid behind his coldest, most vicious mask, mocked Shane’s vulnerability, and kicked him out as soon as he got what he wanted.

Ilya liked to pretend they were just two rivals fucking in secret, but the truth was far uglier: he was utterly in love with Shane Hollander, and he had destroyed them both out of pure cowardice.

For someone as structured as Shane, who scheduled his entire life down to the minute, Ilya’s unpredictability was exhausting. When Shane needed him to step up over the summer, Ilya had panicked, shut down, and cut all contact, leaving Shane to handle the mess alone.

When training camp opened, Ilya assumed they would fall back into their usual cycle of conflict and reconciliation. Instead, Shane blocked him. His phone number went straight to voicemail, his emails bounced back, and Shane didn't look him in the eye once during pre-game warmups. On the ice, where they used to trade sharp, knowing grins and petty chirps after every whistle, Shane treated him like a nameless opponent in a pre-season roster cut.

The spark was gone, and it drove Ilya out of his mind. For months, he tried everything to provoke a reaction—chirping harder and throwing bigger hits—desperate to see a flash of that old fire.

Then came tonight.

Unable to break through Shane's calm facade, Ilya let his mouth run wild. He hurled insults toward the cameras, calling Shane boring, mocking his discipline, and bragging about how the Raiders would party after beating Montreal.

The word "boring" had always been code between them—a way of saying you are pristine, predictable, and safe.

To anyone else, predictability was an insult, but to Ilya, predictability was everything. Growing up in a house where his father drank until the furniture broke and his brother disappeared into drugs, nothing had ever been stable or safe. Shane was the only steady point in Ilya's chaotic universe—unshakable, structured, and immune to the mess. Breaking Shane's composure had been a game, but relying on his predictability was Ilya's hidden lifeline.

But tonight, the word poured out coated in genuine poison.

The moment it left his lips, Ilya looked at Shane. There was no snappy comeback or fierce glare. Instead, a flash of hurt washed over Shane’s face—a wounded look that revealed how deeply the blade had cut.

Sickening regret slammed into Ilya's chest. But before he could process it, Hayden Pike surged across the blue line, delivering a flying right hook straight to Ilya's jaw. Now, sitting in the locker room with blood in his mouth and a swollen cheek, Ilya stared at the floor.

"Hey, Roz, you alright?" Marleau asked, stepping over. "Pike hit you pretty good. We're gonna make him pay next time, I swear to God."

"Leave it," Ilya snapped, pulling the ice pack away.

"What do you mean, leave it?" Marleau asked, stunned. "He jumped you!"

"I said leave it!" Ilya barked, his eyes flashing a warning that made Marleau back off.

Ilya buried his face in his hands. He had pushed too far. In his attempt to regain control, he had shattered the one sacred thing he possessed. Shane was gone, surrounded by a team that protected him like a pack of wolves, leaving Ilya stranded in the cold mess he created.

Before he could process the war in his gut, the double doors of the locker room slammed open against the concrete, and the room went silent.

Cliff stood up instantly, tearing off his gloves. "You've got a lot of nerve walking in here, Pike!"

Pike ignored Cliff completely, walking straight through the room with his eyes locked onto Ilya. He stopped three feet away, staring down at his mama’s cross resting against Ilya's collarbone.

"That cross seems pretty damn important to you," Pike began, his voice cutting through the room. "It's not the first time I've seen you wearing it. So, I know you understand what it means to care about your faith."

Ilya's jaw tightened as a sharp spike of shame hit him. He reached up instinctively, his knuckles brushing the cold metal as he covered the cross. He had never been religious, so he did not get what Pike meant by caring about his faith. He only wore this because it was the last thing he had from his mama.

"You think Shane is fucking boring?" Pike barked, taking a step forward. "You think he doesn't go out and party like you because he's stiff? Half the idiots in this league believe the narrative that he just avoids alcohol during the season to be a perfect athlete. But recently, he started wearing a gold chain. Do you even know what's on it, Rozanov?"

Ilya didn't move. His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped animal, a sick rhythm taking over his chest. He knew the chain was there—he’d caught glimpses of gold glinting under Shane’s collar during warmups, against the pale skin of his throat—but he had never asked. He had assumed it was just expensive jewelry, something his mother had him do for a sponsor.

"It’s a Dharmachakra wheel," Pike stated. "It's a sacred symbol of Buddhism. He wears it because he is a practicing Buddhist. He doesn't drink because the Fifth Precept cautions against intoxicants that cloud the mind. He is also a vegetarian and meditates every single day. He isn't following a trend like most North Americans nowadays; Shane lives his religion every day."

With every word, Ilya felt himself shrinking under a wave of agonizing guilt.

Buddhism. Vegetarian. Meditation.

Concrete, basic facts about the man he claimed to love—and he was hearing them for the first time from a middle-six forward in a locker room.

How could he claim Shane was his steady point, his entire world, when he had been so blind? Ilya had spent years obsessing over Shane’s predictability, using Shane's composure to keep himself grounded while his own life spiraled. He had been so wrapped up in his own panicked push-and-pull behavior—in his fears of getting too close, in his childhood instincts that made him run before he could be abandoned—that he had never bothered to look closer. He had treated Shane like a prize to win, a secret to keep, or an obsession to manage, but he hadn't taken the time to actually know him.

Pike scanned the shocked faces of the Boston players before looking right back at Ilya.

"So, if any of you chirp him about it again," Pike growled, "or call him boring, or tell him he needs to drink to be a real man, you will find out what the Voyagers stand for now. We will drop the gloves and take your heads off on the ice every shift. And I expect you to come over to our hall and apologize to my captain. Because rivalry or not, what you said out there was completely out of line."

Cliff, St-Simon, and Hammersmith took an aggressive step forward, their faces flushed red, but Ilya abruptly slapped his palm against Cliff’s chest, shutting his teammates down instantly.

"Enough," Ilya commanded, his voice raspy. He couldn't even look Cliff in the eye; he just stared up at Pike, his expression raw with genuine remorse. "He is right. I will apologize."

Pike offered one last cold look, turned on his heel, and walked straight out of the room.

Ilya stared at the closed doors, his mind completely numb. The physical throbbing in his jaw where Pike had struck him was nothing compared to the sickening rot in his stomach. Beyond the Vegas disaster, beyond six months of cowardly radio silence, beyond his own selfish misery... he had failed on the most basic level. He claimed to love Shane Hollander, yet Hayden Pike was the one standing in a hostile locker room, fiercely protecting Shane's beliefs without a shred of fear.

An hour later, after media obligations died down and the concrete corridors stood mostly deserted, Ilya walked toward the loading bay.

Shane was standing near the luggage bay doors, zipping up his coat with his duffel bag slung over one shoulder. Ilya stepped forward, every step heavy, his throat tight and raw. The humiliation from Pike’s confrontation was still burning under his skin, but beneath that shame was something far worse: a sickening fear that he had crossed a line he could never cross back over.

"Hollander," Ilya called out softly, his voice cracking slightly as he stopped a few feet away.

Shane turned around slowly. His brown eyes were unreadable and devoid of their usual spark. There was no anger—just a cold, impenetrable wall.

"I... I am sorry," Ilya rasped. He searched Shane's face desperately. "For what I said on the ice. The comments... I did not know about... the Buddhism. I did not know Hollander. I did not mean it like that."

It was a broken apology. But Shane recognized the frequency underneath the English—he knew Ilya wasn't just apologizing for a stupid chirp in the middle of a game. Ilya was apologizing for Las Vegas, the agonizing six months of radio silence, the cruel hot-and-cold games, and the pain he had inflicted because he didn't know how to handle his own terrified heart.

"I know," Shane replied gently. "I forgive you, Rozanov."

A sigh escaped Ilya's lips, but before relief could settle, Shane took a half-step closer, his expression shifting into something sharp and earnest.

"We cannot keep doing this," Shane said, his tone firm, but free of malice. "We cannot keep acting like this on and off the ice. We are destroying each other, Rozanov. It’s killing both of us."

Ilya felt his heart contract violently. His stomach dropped into a void. This was it—the moment he had brought upon himself through his own cowardice. The final goodbye. He gripped the strap of his gear bag, bracing for the hammer to fall.

"But," Shane continued softly, a ghost of genuine warmth breaking through his stoic composure, "we could try being friends."

Ilya blinked, utterly frozen. "Friends?" he echoed.

"We can start by telling the media to shut up about this dramatic rivalry," Shane said, a faint, familiar curve touching the corner of his lips. "We keep the intensity on the ice, where it belongs. But outside of the rink... we can try. I actually enjoy your company, Rozanov. When you aren't being an idiot, you make me laugh."

Ilya stared at him, his mind racing. He didn't know what this meant for the future or if the romantic door had just been locked forever. But looking into Shane’s warm brown eyes, the crushing weight that had been grinding Ilya into the dirt finally lifted. He hadn't lost him completely. The thread between them was still there—thinner, maybe, but lighter and cleaner than the toxic mess they’d been dragging around.

A small spark flickered back in Ilya's eyes. "So... if we are friends..." Ilya began slowly, a smirk tugging at his mouth, "maybe you unblock my phone number?"

Shane raised a single eyebrow, his lips twitching into a knowing smirk. "Will you behave?"

"Yeah," Ilya promised, crossing his hand over his heart, right over the gold Orthodox cross beneath his jacket. "I behave. I promise."

Shane reached into his coat pocket, pulled out his phone, and deliberately tilted the screen toward Ilya so he could watch. Shane’s thumb tapped the screen twice—unblocking the contact—before sliding the phone back into his pocket.

"Goodnight, Rozanov," Shane said smoothly. He gave Ilya one last lingering look, turned on his heel, and stepped onto the brightly lit interior of the Voyagers' bus.

Ilya stood alone in the cool night air, watching the bus pull out onto the street. He took a long, deep breath—the first real breath he’d taken in months. He walked back toward the Raiders' bus, pulling his phone out the exact second his boots hit the top step. Dropping into his leather seat near the back, his thumb flew across the screen.

Lily: Good game.

He stared at the screen, his heart doing an anxious dance against his ribs. A minute ticked by. Then two.

Buzz.

Jane: Next time I hope you actually show up on the ice.

Ilya burst out laughing—a loud sound that cracked through the bus, startling Cliff in the seat across the aisle. Cliff shot him a strange look, but Ilya just leaned his head back against the headrest, closing his eyes as a grin spread across his face. For the first time in years, he felt light.

The playoff push was a grueling war, but Ilya didn't feel like he was fighting it alone in the dark. They texted constantly. At first, it was cautious, testing the waters, before opening into a fast back-and-forth:

Lily: If I die from Boston Logan catering, tell media it was assassination by Montreal fan.

Jane: That looks like an old hockey puck, not food. Drink water, Rozanov.

Lily: Water is for losers. I drink coffee and rage.

Jane: Explains your skin.

Lily: My skin is beautiful!! Ask anyone!!

Through those rapid threads, Ilya discovered a side of Shane he had never seen—a dry, razor-sharp wit that caught him off guard. Sides of himself that Ilya had never allowed Shane to show him. It filled him with guilt because Ilya had known that Shane had wanted to share this with the blond for years, but it had been the Russian’s cowardice that had prevented it.

Jane: Leaving for Kyoto in July.

Lily: Why Kyoto?

Jane: Grandparents live there. Plus, it’s humid, peaceful, and nobody in Japan knows or cares what a 'Stanley Cup' is. It’s heaven.

Lily: Must be nice to hide. In Moscow, old ladies recognize me at grocery store and tell me my backhand is soft.

Jane: They’re not wrong.

Lily: SHANE.

Shane started talking about the Voyagers' locker room, revealing how much things had changed since Marius Stafani had given him full control and backing.

Jane: Ryan Price played 22 minutes tonight. First time he didn't look like he was going to throw up before puck drop.

Lily: Price? That man is huge, what reason would he have to throw up?

Jane: He’s a good defenseman. Just has terrible anxiety. I finally convinced him to talk to our team psych a few months ago and get a proper prescription. Night and day difference.

Lily: You are like team therapist now, Cap?

Jane: Someone has to keep these animals functional.

In return, Ilya opened up in ways that terrified him, stripping away the arrogant persona he usually wore like armor.

Lily: [photo of a childhood picture with a beautiful woman with brown curls]

Lily: That’s Svetlana, she’s my childhood best friend. She’s the only reason I survive North America. She handles my whole life. Like big sister, but meaner.

Jane: She sounds smart.

Lily: She is. Hey... you know that cross Pike was yelling about?

Jane: Yeah.

Lily: It was my mama’s. She died when I was small. After she passed, my father drank until he broke everything, and my brother got lost in drugs. It was hell at home. I wear her cross, so I don't forget her. It's the only safe thing I have left from back then.

There was a pause in the line before a message popped up.

Jane: That’s really beautiful, Ilya. I’m glad you keep her close. Thank you for sharing this with me.

Ilya stared at the screen, touching the gold metal against his collarbone, feeling an ache in his heart. It was freeing, sharing this with someone else. But it was even more special, because it was Shane.

When the Eastern Conference Finals arrived, it brought the ultimate collision: the Boston Raiders against the Montreal Voyagers.

It was a brutal seven-game war. In years past, losing Game 7 on home ice in front of a heartbroken Boston crowd would have plunged Ilya into a bitter rage, smashing sticks and drowning his anger in vodka.

But when the final horn echoed through TD Garden and the blue-and-red jerseys swarmed their captain, Ilya stood near the blue line, hands on his knees, chest heaving. His bright blue eyes were fixed on the far end of the ice.

Instead of anger, a wave of pride washed over him.

He couldn't be bitter. He had spent this season watching Shane rebuild the soul of his franchise. In previous years, Montreal's game plan had been simple: pass to Hollander and pray. Shane had carried the entire city on his shoulders, burning himself out night after night just to make them qualify for the playoffs.

Now? The Voyagers were a completely new team. Every player had elevated their game to match their captain. Mitty was a brick wall in net, making reflex saves with total composure. The top pairing of JJ and Ryan Price shut down elite lines with precise positioning and fearless shot-blocking. Upfront, Shane centered a lethal first line flanked by Hayden Pike and Zane Boodram. They played as a single unit, supporting one another on every inch of the ice.

Two weeks later, Ilya sat alone on his sofa in his Boston apartment, watching Game 6 of the Stanley Cup Finals.

The Voyagers dismantled the Colorado Avalanche, securing a decisive victory and bringing the Stanley Cup back to Montreal for the first time in sixteen years. The arena in Quebec erupted into bedlam, a sea of red jerseys screaming as the roof shook.

Ilya leaned forward as the cameras zoomed in on center ice. Shane stood at the heart of the celebration, a tearful smile on his face as the commissioner handed him the trophy. Shane lifted the Stanley Cup high above his head, becoming the first half-Asian captain in Montreal's history to raise the Cup.

Ilya smiled at the screen, a genuine warmth in his chest. He watched Shane pass the trophy to Hayden, then to Bood, and then directly to Mitty, engulfing each in a tight hug. Seeing Shane surrounded by teammates who loved and protected him was the most beautiful thing Ilya had ever witnessed.

A month later, the hockey world gathered in Las Vegas for the NHL Awards.

When Shane’s name was announced as the winner of the Hart Memorial Trophy for Most Valuable Player, the auditorium rose in a standing ovation. Ilya was among the first to leap to his feet, whistling and clapping as Shane walked up to the stage looking radiant and at peace.

There was no envy in Ilya's heart. Watching his friend receive the highest individual honor in the sport, Ilya felt only happiness.

After the ceremony, as the after-party bustled under the lights of the ballroom, Shane caught Ilya's eye from across the room. Shane excused himself from a cluster of reporters and walked straight over with a small smile.

"Not a bad night," Ilya joked, leaning against the bar counter.

"Not bad at all," Shane agreed, stopping beside Ilya. "I hear you were clapping pretty loud over there, Rozanov."

"Of course," Ilya said, looking Shane over with deep affection. "You deserved it, Hollander. No one worked harder."

Shane looked back at him, recognizing the absence of posturing in Ilya's voice. The awkwardness, fear, and bitter jealousies were gone, replaced by a grounded foundation of trust.

"Thank you, Ilya," Shane said softly. "That means a lot coming from you."

Ilya took a slow sip of his drink, his eyes lingering on the gold Dharmachakra wheel resting over Shane's tie. Maybe next season, when the time was right, he could convince Shane to try being more than just friends again. Maybe they could build something real, step by step, without the fear and secrets.

But for tonight, standing beside the man he loved, watching him shine, Ilya was content to take it one peaceful step at a time.

Much to his chagrin, that peacefulness didn't even survive the summer.

Whatever fragile hope Ilya had carefully nurtured in Las Vegas shattered the moment his boots hit Russian soil. What was supposed to be a relaxing off-season reset in Moscow rapidly turned into a suffocating nightmare—one that drove Ilya to his absolute limit and shattered his summer plans into pieces.

The flight back from Moscow to North America was long and exhausting. Ilya spent the entire ten hours staring out the tiny oval window into the black void above the Atlantic, his teeth clamped together so tightly his jaw ached.

His summer in Russia had been a disaster from the very first week.

His father, Grigori, was slipping fast. The early stages of dementia had accelerated over the winter, turning the once-formidable man into a hollow, confused shell who looked through Ilya with blank, terrified eyes. But what made the situation unbearable was not just Grigori’s declining mind—it was Alexei.

Ilya had been sending massive bank transfers back to Russia for three years, specifically earmarked for his older brother to care for their father. He had paid for private specialists, home caterers, and daily nursing support so Grigori could stay in his home comfortably. But when Ilya walked into the Moscow apartment unannounced in mid-June, he found the place smelling of stale vodka, dirty laundry piled in the hallway, and Grigori sitting alone in the dark, wearing a stained shirt while Alexei was out at a club with his friends.

The fight that followed three days later had nearly burned the apartment down.

"You dare yell at me?" Alexei had snarled, his face flushed red with booze as he stood in the doorway, crowding Ilya against the wall. "You fly in from America for two weeks a year with your pockets full of dollars and judge how I live? You are never here, Ilya! You ran away to play a child’s game while I have to handle the old man losing his mind every single day!"

"I pay you!" Ilya had roared back, his hands shaking as he grabbed Alexei by the collar, slamming him back against the plaster wall. "I pay you more than a doctor makes in Moscow to take care of him! You do not do this for free out of the goodness of your heart! You are a leech!"

"He doesn't even know who you are!" Alexei spat, shoving Ilya back with a bitter, ugly laugh. "He calls me by your name when he wakes up scared in the middle of the night! You buy your way out of guilt, little brother. That is all you do."

That was the breaking point. Something inside Ilya snapped clean in half.

He didn't hit Alexei, though every nerve in his knuckles screamed at him to do it. Instead, Ilya acted with ruthless, cold efficiency. Within forty-eight hours, Ilya used his pull and money to get Grigori admitted into one of the top private care facilities in Russia—a gated medical estate just outside Moscow with round-the-clock nurses, private gardens, and actual medical care.

He cut Alexei off completely. He revoked his brother’s access to the family bank accounts, set up direct payments to the clinic’s administration, and left a single envelope of cash on the kitchen counter to cover Alexei’s rent for two months.

When Alexei realized what had happened, he stormed to the clinic, screaming threats at the security guards in the parking lot. Ilya watched him through the tinted window of his car, feeling nothing but an icy numbness. He was done. He couldn't fix his family, he couldn't save his father, and if he stayed in Russia for another week, he knew he would end up killing his brother with his bare hands.

So, he cut his summer short, bought a one-way ticket out of Moscow, and boarded a plane.

He didn't go back to Boston. He couldn't stomach the empty townhouse or the familiar streets. Instead, in a moment of desperate impulse, he caught a connecting flight straight to Montreal.

It was late when his taxi dropped him off in front of Shane's off-the-grid condo apartment. The "sex condo," as Ilya had privately labeled it years ago when they used to meet there in secret, hiding from the league, the media, and their own fear.

Ilya knew he was acting like a lunatic. He knew that showing up uninvited at his rival’s private property across international borders made him look like a desperate, unhinged stalker. But he didn't care.

He had nowhere else to go.

He walked towards the door and hesitated for a fraction of a second before punching in the four-digit keypad code.

8-1-2-4.

The blue light flickered, the electronic lock clicked open with a soft chime, and the door swung inward.

Ilya stepped inside, letting out a long, ragged breath as the door shut behind him. He dropped his duffel bag onto the hardwood floor, kicked off his boots, and walked straight into the master bedroom. He didn't even turn on the lights. He collapsed face-down onto the massive king-sized bed, burying his face into the pillows.

He was exhausted. The jet lag, the emotional wreckage of Moscow, and the sheer weight of the last month crashed over him all at once. Within two minutes, he was dead to the world.

He was woken three hours later by the sharp, persistent vibration of his phone buzzing against his thigh. Ilya groaned, rolling over on his back and blinking against the dark. He pulled his phone out of his jeans pocket.

The screen lit up with Shane’s contact name: Jane.

He swallowed hard, clearing his scratchy throat before tapping the screen and lifting the phone to his ear. "Shane?"

A short silence stretched over the line. It was then that he realized that he had called Shane by his first name out loud for the first time. Before he could panic, Shane’s voice came through—calm, but with a distinct, sharp edge of authority. "Ilya. Why did my phone just send me a security notification that the lock on my Montreal condo was opened at two in the morning?"

Ilya closed his eyes, pressing the heels of his hands against his eye sockets. Right. High-end real estate. Automated security apps. Of course, Shane had the deadbolts synced directly to his phone.

"I... ah. Sorry," Ilya rasped, his voice rough from sleep. Ever since Hayden Pike had confronted him in the Boston locker room, Ilya had gotten remarkably better at apologizing, and he didn't try to make excuses now. "I am sorry, Shane. I know this is... bad. Very bad. I am like stalker."

"Where are you right now?" Shane asked. Ilya could hear the faint sound of wind and rustling leaves in the background on Shane's end.

"In your bed," Ilya admitted quietly. "In Montreal."

Shane let out a sigh. "I'm in Ottawa, Ilya. At my cottage. What are you doing in Quebec? The season doesn't start for two months."

Ilya sat up on the edge of the mattress, running his fingers through his messy hair. The shame hit him in a sudden wave, making his chest feel tight. "I cut summer short. I left Russia."

"Why?"

Ilya stared down at his bare feet on the hardwood floor. "My father... he is very sick now. Dementia. Getting worse fast. And my brother..." Ilya’s voice cracked slightly, his English stumbling under the weight of the memory. "Alexei was taking my money but not taking care of him. He was letting our father rot."

Shane didn't interrupt. The wind on the line quieted down.

"So, I took my father," Ilya continued raspy-voiced. "I put him in a medical home near Moscow. Private, with good doctors and nurses. I pay them directly now. And I cut Alexei off completely. He screamed at me. He said I am terrible son who buys his way out of guilt." Ilya took a ragged breath. "I had to leave, Shane. If I stayed in that country for one more day, I would have killed my brother. I had nowhere to go. So, I came here."

The silence stretched on the phone for five seconds. Ten. Ilya held his breath, bracing for Shane to tell him to get his things and get out.

"Nature might be good for you right now," Shane commented softly.

Ilya blinked, his heart skipping a beat. "What?"

"I’m at my cottage in Ottawa," Shane repeated, his tone shifting into something warm and grounding. "It is private with a beautiful lake-view, I always find it healing coming here during my off-season. Take a train or rent a car. You shouldn't be sitting alone in a dark apartment."

A sudden, overwhelming relief flooded Ilya's chest, so strong it made his throat ache. "Really? You... you want me to come?"

"Yeah," Shane said gently. "I do. Get some sleep, Ilya. Make your way to Ottawa tomorrow afternoon."

"Okay," Ilya whispered, a small, genuine smile breaking through his exhaustion. "Okay. I come tomorrow. Thank you, Shane."

"Goodnight, Ilya."

The call ended. Ilya set his phone on the nightstand and sat in the dark for a moment, letting the relief wash over him. Shane wasn't angry and had invited him to his fortress of solitude.

His stomach gave a loud, violent rumble, reminding him that he hadn't eaten since a stale airport sandwich in Frankfurt twelve hours ago. He pulled up a delivery app on his phone, ordered a large portion of chicken and rice from a nearby late-night spot, and walked into the master bathroom to wash the grime of international travel off his skin.

He stripped off his clothes, turned on the shower, and stepped into the glass enclosure. He reached into the tiled nook for the soap. When Ilya picked up the bottle, he expected the familiar, sharp scent of cedarwood that Shane had used for as long as Ilya had known him. But when he squeezed the bottle, the scent that filled the steam was different. It was cedar, yes—but mixed with a crisp, distinct note of sea salt and sweet bergamot.

Ilya frowned, looking down at the label in his hand. Sea Salt & Minerals Body Wash.

Beside it sat a bottle of matching shampoo. It was not Shane's standard brand. Ilya stood under the hot water, his brows pulling together in mild confusion. Shane was a creature of habit; he didn't buy fancy sea-salt body washes on a whim.

He finished his shower quickly, wrapped a towel around his waist, and walked back out into the apartment. Now that his brain was waking up, his eyes started taking in details he had completely overlooked in his initial exhaustion.

He walked into the open-concept kitchen to grab a glass of water.

The kitchen used to be completely spartan; a sterile line of stainless steel, a basic coffee maker, and empty countertops. Now, it looked like a kitchen worthy of a chef. A cast-iron skillet sat on the stove. A wooden block of professional Japanese chef knives rested near the sink. Next to the microwave sat small jars of specialty spices—smoked paprika, sesame seeds, truffle salt, and artisanal olive oils.

Ilya stopped in front of the counter, a pit opening in his stomach as dread filled him. Shane didn't cook like this. Shane ate plain grilled chicken, steamed rice, and prepped meals from his team nutritionist.

He walked over to the dining table. Resting on the corner was a paperback book. Ilya picked it up. It was written entirely in French—a novel about French gastronomy and history. Shane didn't read French novels. The only thing Shane read was scouting reports, sports psychology books, and hockey biographies.

Then, Ilya’s eyes drifted toward the coat rack near the front entryway. Hanging neatly on a brass hook was a lightweight indigo jacket. Ilya walked over and touched the fabric. He checked the tag inside the collar.

Medium.

Shane wore a Large or Extra-Large to fit his broad, muscular hockey shoulders. This jacket belonged to a man with a much slighter, smaller frame. The realization didn't hit Ilya like a sudden shock; it descended on him like a heavy, suffocating wave of pure, toxic poison.

Shane had been seeing someone.

Not just sleeping with someone in a random hotel room—Shane had brought a man here. To this condo. The private sanctuary that had once belonged exclusively to the two of them. Shane had let another man cook in his kitchen, leave his French books on the table, use his shower, and store his sea-salt body wash in the bathroom. There was physical proof of another man’s presence etched into every corner of this space.

Proof of a life that Ilya had never allowed himself to build with Shane.

A hot, ugly surge of jealousy erupted in Ilya's gut, so violent it made him feel physically sick. He gripped the edge of the kitchen counter until his knuckles turned chalk-white, his breathing shallow and jagged.

His mind raced, torturing him with images. He pictured Shane standing at this counter, laughing while some smaller, polished guy cooked dinner for him. He pictured Shane leaning over the couch, kissing a man who didn't have to hide in the shadows, a man who didn't cut off contact for six months, a man who didn't carry the messy, dangerous baggage of an abusive family dynamic.

He brought him into our place, Ilya thought, his jaw clenched so hard his teeth clicked. He let him sleep over.

And the worst part—the most agonizing, sickening part of it all—was that Ilya knew he had no right to be angry.

This was his fault. All of it.

He was the one who had pushed Shane away in Las Vegas. He was the one who had enforced radio silence. He was the one who had treated Shane like a secret dirty habit instead of a partner, leaving Shane broken-hearted and alone. Shane had every right to move on. Shane had every right to find a nice guy from Montreal who bought sea-salt body soap and cooked him good food.

Ilya dropped his head, resting his forehead against the cold quartz countertop, letting out a shaky, bitter breath.

No.

He straightened up slowly, his bright blue eyes narrowing as he stared at the jacket hanging by the door. The initial wave of self-loathing transformed into an unwavering determination. Shane had said they were friends now; he had unblocked his number and had invited him to his cottage in Ottawa.

The door wasn't locked—it was sitting slightly ajar.

Ilya wasn't going to walk away without a fight. He had lost his father to disease, he had lost his brother to hatred, but he was not going to lose Shane Hollander to some French-reading chef with a medium jacket.

Whoever this man was, he was clearly in the past now, after all Shane was alone at his cottage, and there was no sign of the guy here tonight. Ilya had his chance. He was going to Ottawa tomorrow, and he was going to show Shane exactly what he had been missing.

He would prove to Shane that he didn't need an ordinary partner. He would show him that the connection between them—the history, the fire, the sheer unyielding match of two equal forces—was worth fighting for. He would be better. He would learn how to talk, how to stay, and how to be real. He would make Shane forget every other person who had ever stepped foot in this condo.

He was going to Ottawa tomorrow. And he was going to win his rival back.