Chapter Text
December 19th, 2013. Vegas - NHL Awards
"We didn’t even kiss… "
Shane sighed and deleted the message, opting out of the app to stop from humiliating himself even more.
Shame. A crushing, suffocating shame was all he could feel, and he had to blink the wetness from his eyes and swallow down the burning knot in his throat along with the lingering taste of vodka.
The elevator doors chimed and opened on his floor. He stepped out and somehow, on autopilot, got himself to his room. He walked to the end of the bed and stared at it, as if he could convince his brain that staring at the clean, made up bed would erase the night. Flashes of himself kept appearing in front of him.
In the bathroom during the ceremony, how he had begged, almost cried for Rozanov to look at him, to touch him. All night, how he couldn't do anything besides trying to find the bed of golden curls through the crowds. At the party, how he ran upstairs right to the penthouse the second he saw Ilya disappear through the flashing lights.
And then...how he acted, like…. like a clown in Ilya's room. No, not a clown -like a whore.
But he had been feeling the need burn in his veins, his blood electric the whole night, his mind out of focus, floating through every conversation, his thoughts entirely consumed by: Ilya, Ilya, Ilya. Yes, of course he had been horny, but it was more than just arousal, he had felt this ache in his chest since the last time they saw each other in Montreal. It’s like the moment Ilya closed the door of that stairwell hallway in October, he took a part of his chest with him, and he had been walking hollow since.
So he had begged. He begged to be fucked and to be taken, and he begged on his hands and knees, and he smothered his face in Ilyas crotch naked and desperate. Because he couldn’t make his mouth say anything else, other than beg. Because he had developed this language with Ilya around sex, where this was all they did, all they could ever do, and they never talked. Never allowed themselves for more.
He remembers laying in front of Ilya, naked and exposed while the other stayed fully clothed, and he touched himself, and let himself be watched from across the room, and he moaned out loud in the silence, and he said "i need you" and "please" , and "inside please". And then he was bent over, couldn’t even see Ilya's face, just felt the force of it all, the skin, the need, the warmth. He heard mumbles in Russian and hisses, but all of it deaf to his ears, mind clouded around more, more, more, please Rozanov, more.
When it was over, Ilya hadn't met his eyes once. They hadn't spoken, every attempt at connection shut down by the Russian's icy tone. They hadn't kissed. They hadn't touched—not in the way that mattered, not in the way Shane so desperately needed.
And now, he was alone again. In his own room.
He fell into the sheets, and let the night consume him whole.
January 26th 2014. San Francisco
Shane jumped off the ice after the game had ended, out of breath, dizzy and exhausted.
A 2-1 victory for the Metros. They had won, but it had been a sloppy game, and everyone knew it just by looking around the locker room. The atmosphere was heavy, the silence thick with frustration.
He took a deep breath as he closed his eyes and sat down on the bench, elbows resting on his thighs and head hung between his shoulders. The room kept spinning, his surroundings coming in and out of focus and spots dancing around behind closed eyelids.
Maybe it was stress, or the season’s been tougher than ever, but he can't help the bone-deep exhaustion he’s been feeling these last weeks. He’s been having trouble waking up in the mornings, sleeping far later than usual, barely scraping through his morning routine before rushing to practice. He had been skipping breakfast entirely. The mere thought of solid food in the morning made his stomach turn, so he relied on protein smoothies and energy bars to get by—though lately, even those had begun to taste off. His energy has been dropping violently, can’t finish most training work outs and ends up seeing black at the end of every shift he plays on ice.
A hand clapped heavily on his shoulder, his bones rattling at the force of it ''Captaine'' he heard J.J.’s voice above him. "Everything okay?" he asked as he pulled a clean shirt over his body.
Shane bobbed his head in a short nod, to avoid more dizziness, and opened his eyes.
He’d been Captain of the Metros since the start of the season. It's been tough, the pressure and expectations, he's the youngest captain that Montreal had ever had in their franchise history. And it's all he's ever dreamed of.
"Yeah, all good. Just tired, I guess." Shane answered.
Coach Theriault entered the locker room. "Okay everybody, listen up."
Everybody turned to look his way.
"It’s been a long week, but we have to keep our foot on the gas, boys. I know we’re all exhausted," Theriault's eyes scanned the room, landing on Shane as he continued. "This is our last game before the break for the Winter Olympics. Some of you are heading out to join the national team, and the rest of us need to stick strictly to the training regimen. This isn't a vacation. This is our chance to strengthen the roster and secure our spot for the playoffs."
"Hollander," Coach turned back to him again, "The next weeks will be extreme for you, as Captain of the national team we need you up on your usual energy for the Olympics, and keep it after coming back." he stressed, "Try not to let your energy drop as it did today, we need you back full force for the end of the season."
His stomach churned at the thought of it all. He was tired, so tired, "Yes coach," he mumbled as he turned around to change.
"Okay everybody, get some rest,"
The shower can wait till he gets home.
February 1st, 2014 - Montreal
The room is cold. Shane can see how they’ve tried to make it homey, inviting. But he’s always thought that a doctor’s waiting room will look cold and lonely, no matter the decorations.
"Mr. Hollander," the receptionist’s voice cut through his thoughts. "You can head on in. Dr. Lalonde will be with you in just a moment."
He stood up and walked towards the office that was pointed at. He had been sick for about two weeks now. Or, not sick but something’s not quite right. He can’t finish a work out without feeling like the air’s been punched right out of his chest, he feels nauseous at everything he smells, and as of the last two days, has been throwing up occasionally. Not to mention how he can now apparently sleep for 14 hours straight and still be tired.
Normally, this is something he’d pass by. Knows it's probably stress for the upcoming Olympics next week, knows it’s been some eventful months. But right now, he can't afford sick. He needs to be perfect and rested for Russia, he flies out in three days and as much as he’s tried to rest this week, he hasn’t been getting too far with getting better.
He had come in yesterday to get some tests done, they had taken two samples, stating that the first ones seemed to be faulty. He was sent home and were supposed to email the results yesterday evening, but instead he was surprised with a call from Dr. Lalonde, saying she’d like to go over the results in person.
As soon as he entered the waiting room this morning though, he was ushered for another blood draw. For "security regarding yesterday’s metrics."
Forty-five minutes later, he’s finally getting some answers.
As if he’s not about to have a panic attack.
Shane sat on the edge of the chair, leg bouncing, hands firmly under his thighs and hoodie pulled tight around himself. His phone face-down beside him. He hadn’t touched it in twenty minutes.
He feels sick again, and he feels miserable about it until the door opens and Dr. Lalonde walks in with a folder and a tablet.
“Hi, Shane,” she says. “Thanks for coming back so quickly.”
“Yeah,” he replies. “You said you wanted to talk about the tests.”
“A little, yes.” She sits down, and visibly forces a smile.
That’s the first thing that makes his stomach drop. The nervousness in her face.
“So,” she says, glancing at her tablet, “most of your results are normal. Blood sugar, thyroid, liver, kidneys— all fine.”
“Okay,” he says. “So I’m just tired? Stressed?”
She hesitates. “There’s one result I want to talk to you about.”
He straightens. “Okay”
She turns the screen toward him and it’s full of numbers and letters he doesn't understand, until he sees one line circled in red:
hCG: 41,902 IU/L
He squints. “Uhm...What’s that?”
She folds her hands in her lap, “That’s a hormone called human chorionic gonadotropin.”
“…Okay.”
“It’s produced during pregnancy.” And there was silence. The sentence sounded weird in the room, it didn't register to his brain at all. He waits for her to continue, to say how it means nothing for him. Or maybe it means cancer.. or something. She doesn’t talk.
He laughs nervously instead, “Sorry— what?”
“Shane,” she says quietly, ‘’Yesterday we ordered a basic test panel to the lab. In there it was included all the blood work, urine tests and an hormonal panel… it's a common thing to test out when stress or fatigue are the expected results, Hormonal imbalance is quite common in athletes because of everything your bodies and minds go through.'' Shane’s not sure any of this is getting through his head,
"But this specific hormone," she paused, taking a slow breath as if bracing herself, "Shane, your levels are entirely consistent with an early pregnancy."
His heart drops, and a chill spreads all over his body. She couldn't be talking to him.
“What?” There was no immediate answer, like she was giving him a moment to process the information. But there was absolutely nothing to process, because it made no sense. “No,” he repeats. “That’s not— no. What are you even trying to say-”
“I know this is surprising—”
“Surprising?” His voice cracks. “I’m – I’m a man!”
“I know.”
“And I’m not— I mean, I— I can’t—” He gestures helplessly at himself, “This isn’t how bodies work.”
She takes a breath. “Not usually,” she agrees.
“I think there’s been a mix-up,” he stands up and says quickly, rambling. “Maybe the lab— maybe they switched samples—”
“We thought that too, so we repeated the test... three times in total. ” she taps the screen, finger passing through different pages full of the same tests. Their eyes meet again over the tablet in her hands. “All were positive. Your levels are rising normally.”
“Rising,” He whispers and slowly sits back down. Like… growing. Inside him. “That’s impossible. I’ve never... I mean— I’ve never had... I don’t—” His voice trails off. He looks at her, desperate, “You’re wrong.”
She looks genuinely sorry. “I’m sorry. I have the ultrasound scheduled in 15 minutes, so we can confirm everything. But as far as everything my team and I have seen. This is happening.”
His hands start shaking. “I don’t. I don’t have… I don’t even—” He swallows hard. “How?.”
She hesitates, then says carefully, “The hospital took the liberty of contacting your hometown’s hospital. Which, by the way, all of this is extremely confidential,’’ she assures quickly, "We asked for a medical history, and according to your neonatal records… you were born with atypical internal anatomy.”
He just stares.“…What?”
“A small, underdeveloped uterus was documented at birth.”
“No,” he says immediately. “No, that’s— no one ever told me that.”
“I understand,” she says gently. “It’s not uncommon for parents to decide not to share that information if there are no medical issues growing up. It was classified as non-functional and mostly those things are forgotten when they don’t cause any trouble. It’s more common than you think”
He feels sick, and confused. He's suddenly thinking he might be dreaming because what the fuck is she saying?
“You’re saying,” he whispers, “I’ve had this… my whole life?”
“Yes.”
“And no one thought to tell me?”
She doesn’t answer.
“How far?” he asks suddenly.
“Approximately six weeks by your hormone levels, we’ll know for sure once we do the ultrasound”
He does the math without wanting to and suddenly, he feels like someone is squeezing his heart in one hand, and his brain in the other
“Oh my God.”
“We can move on to the ultrasound room,” she continues. “We need to confirm the pregnancy and make sure everything’s developing safely.”
“Safely,” he repeats.
“This will be considered high-risk,” she says honestly. “Because of your anatomy.”
Of course it is. He rubs his face with both hands.“This isn’t real,” he mutters. Looking at the ceiling “This is… this is some kind of nightmare.”
She waits, her eyes carried a certain grief for him; then asks quietly, “Do you have someone you want to talk to?”
He looks away, “…No.”
“Okay.” She nods, “Then we’ll take this one step at a time.”
The lights are low and the machines glow softly, humming like they’re alive.
Shane lies on the narrow bed, hoodie folded under his head like a bad pillow. His shirt is pushed up and a cold gel sits on his stomach. He hates this already.
The technician smiles politely, “Okay, this might feel a little cold.”
“It’s fine,” he mutters.
She presses the probe down and he flinches. “Sorry, I’ll be gentle.” She says.
They sit in silence for a few seconds, just the quiet whirring of the machine. Shane stares at the ceiling, He doesn’t want to look; he’s terrified of looking. But then she's asking him, “Do you want to see?”
He hesitates. “…I guess.”
She turns it toward him. At first, it’s just static. Grays and blues dancing around the screen, then she points at something. “Right here,” she says.
He squints. “I don’t—” and he sees it.
A tiny shape. His breath leaves him in a rush, as his heart beat quickened under the light of the monitors. That’s… Inside him.
“It might be a little early to listen to a heartbeat.” She keeps explaining, voice calm and professional. “Maybe in a week or two the image can be clearer, and we can listen for the heart. Right now, we just wanted to be sure of the diagnosis.” She stops, smiles, “And well, here we have it.”
He looks again and sees the tiny moving black dots, he can't pretend he doesn't see them, this is real, this is happening to him.
“Oh my God,” he whispers and his eyes burn. “I… I don’t know how to do this.”
She glances at him, “It’s okay to feel overwhelmed.”
“I’m...terrified.”
“That’s normal too.”
“Is it… okay?” He swallows around the words.
“Right now? Yes. Everything looks okay.”
“Okay,” he whispers. “Okay.”
Later again at Dr. Lalonde’s office, they run through some basics:
‘‘If you don’t want to continue with the pregnancy, this clinic will 100% help you through the process, you’d be accompanied all the way through, Shane.’’
‘‘I– God, i don’t know, I–’’
‘‘You don't have to decide right now. We schedule you in 2 weeks for a follow up ultrasound, and we can talk about what you’ve decided.’’
‘‘I have a trip… to Russia. I’m playing in the Olympics.’’
‘‘Shane… you need to remember the risks of this pregnancy. If you’re considering even for a bit to carry the pregnancy to full term, you’d have to rest. You can't be playing hockey right now… . And at least for after a year postpartum. ‘’
Silence. He couldn't not play in the fucking Olympics. She must have seen it in his face.
‘‘I’ll schedule you when you come home. Any day, we’ll clear for you.’’
And then:
‘‘So, if you decide to travel. You’re gonna need medical testing for the league and the national team. They normally do surprise testing at the training center before you fly out, I've volunteered there before.’’
Fuck, fuck she was right.
‘‘I’ll clear your tests, I’ll have these sent out to the team and say something about how testing was done due to illness, and… maybe an injury… in case you need out any moment.''
‘‘But how– how would that work, I'd still need testing done in Russia, and the tests will come out weird and–’’
‘‘I got it, my team normally does the testing in this events, and we actually have a visit scheduled in 2 days, so I'm guessing i’ll see you there, We'll have a full report ready for a back injury and connect any hormonal discrepancies to physical distress and you coming off a strong flu, they keep any reports we send out and consider our comments.’’
And of course:
‘‘If… you decide to go full term. We can talk about how to do this. I’m aware of your status Shane, and what you have to lose, as big of a blessing a baby can be for some families, this is not easy and it’s not ideal in your situation. Whatever you need, we can arrange for a special team on NDA contracts and nothing of this would ever have to get out. I know you don’t want to think about this know, but i need to tell you so you can make an informed decision.’’
‘‘...Thank you Dr. I really appreciate it.’’
Now sitting in his car clutching printed ultrasound pictures, Shane stares at them like they might disappear. He sobs.
He can’t breathe and for the first time in the last couple hours he lets himself think of him. Think of the last time they saw each other, of how he let this happen and now he’s stuck in this fucked up scenario. Think of how he's going to fucking tell Ilya Rozanov this. That he's pregnant.
Pregnant.
He has to know. He has to tell him. Shane can't do this alone. Doesn't know how to.
But for now, he drives straight to Ottawa.