Summary:

His cottage is devoid of life, hollow of any signs of people. Water droplets drum against the glass panes facing the lake, the low, thick clouds oppressive as the sheets of rain obscure any view past the edge of his dock. It only adds to the feeling of loss, the echo of a misfit strung tight through his veins. 

Inside his foyer, he can smell the fading scents of his parents, the stale air of a building that's been closed up for seasons, and the sharp, acrid scent of a loneliness that's clung under the skin since before he became an adult; one that's strong enough he's leaving traces of it behind. 

It's a familiar one, a tinge that's clung underneath his normal neutral redolence of the muted tart bite of a haskap berry, oak, and the edge of winter snow that's seeped from his pores since he touched his first pair of skates. The taste of bitterness in the air that makes him grateful and angry and so fucking sad that it's been a part of his life since he was seventeen years old. 

OR: After the attempted duo photoshoot that ended with Shane walking out, he finds himself at his cottage, three weeks before the 2014 Stanley Cup finals.