Summary:

Initially, it had been time-consuming to sort through the waves of portent, how much to share, when to talk to Theriault, and what it meant for the team. And yet, in the end, despite the demands for more from his orphic voyages from management, nothing ever gets done with the information. More often than not, now that he’s captain, it's Hayden and JJ just idly texting all of their visions—none of which are exceptionally helpful, although the drama of hearing bits of gossip is just more exciting than anything else.

Shane's just—it's so fucking stupid. Why keep the useless magic laced through Montreal if all it does is splinter under the weight? Why endanger the team with malicious prophecies if only one person seems to bear the brunt? Why force anyone to see the slices of deeply personal life Shane's glimpsing?

OR: The night before the Boston game, Shane makes a series of discoveries. Nearly all are terrible.