Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Ilya tipped his foot slightly, brushing it against Shane’s under the blankets they were covered under on the couch. Things had gotten a bit tense from the moment he suggested marrying Svetlana. Which, he would admit, hadn’t been his finest moment. It was an idea crafted by fear, mostly. A desperate attempt to find a way to realize his real dream, which was to be with Shane permanently, even if not publicly.

He knew from the moment Shane looked up, though, that it wouldn’t work. He hadn’t pushed it, since, he was too afraid to cause conflict when they were having such a nice few days together. It felt peaceful. He honestly didn’t know the last time he ever felt that. Or if he had at any point, truly.

Winning the cup brought excitement, sure. A rush of endorphins that could never be mimicked. But being with Shane brought him something different- contentment. He wasn’t ready or willing to give that up, not without it being ripped from him.

“I could move,” Ilya murmured hesitantly. “To Ottawa, I mean. My contract is about to end.”

Shane didn’t need to be reminded; he had pretty much everything about his hockey career memorized by now. From his stats on the ice to his personal achievements and awards outside of it. He also knew Ilya loved the Raiders and that Ottawa was, well, shitty. That was probably an understatement, actually.

“The Centaurs are the worst team in the league, Ilya,” he murmured back, shaking his head as he put his phone down in his lap. “You can’t sign with them.”

It would probably humiliate him publicly, if not destroy the momentum he had been building. It was practically a one-way trip to never winning the cup again. He couldn’t be the reason Ilya started losing games and let him resent him for it.

“I could make them good,” he defended. “I made the Raiders good.”

“You made the Raiders better,” Shane corrected. “They’re a great team consistently and you’re too good to spend your time training other players. You need a team that works for you, not the other way around.”

“Oh, what, like Metros?” Ilya grumbled, rolling his eyes. “I would be kicked out of the locker room before a single practice started.”

He sucked on the inside of his cheek. “Why don’t you just re-sign with the Raiders?” he wondered. “Didn’t they make you an offer? You could probably get them to raise the salary if you wanted, my mom knows a really good manager who could replace-”

“Is not about money,” he interjected, shaking his head. “I have money. I could retire this season and be set for life.”

Maybe he would have to cut back on some expenses, but he wouldn’t need to work ever again. He didn’t play for money; he played because he loved it. Because it made him feel alive and got his heart racing in a way no other experience seemed to manage.

“I’m not letting you ruin your career for me,” Shane insisted, resting his head against the side of he couch as he stared at him with soft eyes. “You’d hate me if I did.”

“I would not hate you,” he assured him firmly. “Could never.” Even if he broke his heart, whatever pieces of it were left would still belong to him.

He sighed, the gesture both comforting him and making his chest ache all at the same time. “Let’s just…go to bed,” he suggested. “We can decide that stuff later.”

Ilya nodded, a bit frustrated over the lack of a real answer but too tired to fight him on it. Sitting up, he shoved the blanket away, reaching for Shane and pulling him up to his feet. “Fine,” he agreed, kissing his neck. “Bed it is.”

He huffed, shoving him away playfully. “Not what I meant,” he grumbled, heading towards the bedroom.

Ilya just kept his hands wrapped around him, trailing behind him closely. “Liar,” he claimed.

Shane hummed, lips quirking into a smile as he pulled Ilya into the bedroom, thoughts still lingering on the concept of their contracts. On the idea of Ilya being devoted enough to move to Canada, to fight for citizenship here when it was so difficult.

It was, to say the least, an act of love. A declaration of devotion, even. He couldn’t let him, of course. And he couldn’t imagine the Metros even being willing to offer him a contract with how steep his price would be. To say nothing of reputation and rivalry.

Even if he claimed it wasn’t about money, that did matter. It had to, at least a little bit. Besides, even if the Metros found the money somehow, his teammates wouldn’t be okay with it. At all. They’d probably start fights the second they saw him in blue.

Still, Shane knew he was right. At least about the distance between them. It was so difficult to be that far apart from each other. Especially now that they had finally admitted to each other that they were truly committed to this relationship. Monogamous. A word he never thought would apply between them.

But it did.

That’s what led Shane to being up early the next morning, kissing Ilya on the cheek and leaving a note beside the bed for him that read, ‘Had to run an errand, I’ll be back before lunch.’.

· ─ ·✶· ─ · 

Knocking on his parents’ door, Shane took a breath to himself, running his thumb over his knuckles in a weak attempt to self-soothe his own nerves. Something he was acutely aware he picked up from watching Ilya do it over the years.

His dad came to the door first, a look of surprise on his face. “Thought you were on a silent retreat or something during break,” he muttered, pushing the door further open to let him in.

Shane let out a nervous huff. “I- Yeah, I am,” he assured him, entering the house. “I just needed to take a break from that for something. Where’s mom?”

David pointed his thumb over his shoulder. “Patio, eating breakfast,” he replied, a curious expression on his face. “Did you need to talk to her?”

He nodded. “Alone, preferably,” he admitted, quickly noticing the shock in his father’s eyes. “It’s nothing bad or anything, I swear,” he added. “Just hockey stuff.”

He looked a bit skeptical, not used to seeing his son nervous over hockey. Not since the draft, anyway. “Alrighty, then…” he mused slowly, closing the front door. “I’ll be in the kitchen making an extra omelet, I guess.”

Shane opened his mouth to tell him not to bother, that he wouldn’t be staying long, but just snapped it shut after a moment. There was no point, really. He was better off just accepting it.

Watching his dad walk into the kitchen, he took another breath, trying to steady himself before making his way to the patio. Sliding the glass door open, he peeked his head outside, where his mom was sitting at the table, picking through a bowl of fruit in search of a strawberry.

Yuna glanced up, looking a bit surprised to see him. “What are you doing here, hon?” she wondered, setting down her bowl and opening one of her arms for a hug.

Shane reached down, giving her a partial hug at the odd angle. “Oh, you know, just…visiting,” he muttered, sitting across the table from her. He could see his dad through the window, busying himself with a few eggs.

She hummed skeptically, noticing the tension in his posture. “Well, did anything specific incite the visit?” she asked curiously, tilting her head a bit.

He cleared his throat a bit, looking away for a moment as he tried to figure out how to say what he wanted to. It was so absurd, after all. He still wasn’t even sure what he was trying to get out of this whole idea, just that it had been rolling around in his head all night as Ilya held him and he couldn’t knock it loose.

“Yeah, there is something,” he confessed, looking her in the eyes. “You know how I have one more season until my contract with the Metros ends?”

Yuna nodded. Of course she did. “I’m already getting in touch with someone about a renewal offer,” she replied. “I figure another five years, maybe a 10% or 15% increase in pay is worth it to them given your history there and all that.”

Shane tensed again, his teeth visibly grinding nervously. “Right, I- I wanted to talk about that, actually,” he told her. “Um…how would you feel if I- if maybe I didn’t re-sign with the Metros?”

She froze, eyebrows shooting up in surprise. “Not re-sign with the Metros?” she repeated like she was trying to make sure she heard him correctly.

Why the hell would he not want to re-sign? They were one of the best teams in the league right now, he had an incredible following there, the owner could afford his price, and he had friends amongst the players. Hell, he even mentioned wanting his jersey to hang in their rafters one day.

He panicked a bit, seeing her look so surprised. “I know it sounds a bit crazy-”

“That’s certainly one word for it, sweetheart,” she murmured, sipping her coffee to try to steady herself from the shock. “Wha- I mean why? Is there something going on with them I don’t know about?”

Shane shook his head. “No, no, of course not,” he assured her. “I just think it might be…good to have some change, is all.”

Ilya was already risking so much by committing to him; he was giving up his playboy image which could harm his reputation, he was slowly severing ties with his home, he was fully prepared to lose his career by joining a team that was horrible just to be closer together. The least Shane could do was show him that he was willing to do the same and give just as much up to make their relationship work.

Hockey was temporary, after all, even if he didn’t want it to be. When he eventually retired, it wouldn’t matter what team he had been on, only that he had someone he loved to come home to.

“That’s some change,” Yuna muttered, still confused. “I mean, I’m not judging your decision but…they drafted you, Shane. The fans expect you to re-sign, so does your team, probably.”

“I know,” he stated, nodding. “It’s just- what if I’m not getting everything out of hockey that I could be if I played somewhere else?”

He knew the rink, the entire building by heart, even. He spent more time in the locker rooms than he did at home, most days. He liked the consistency, but if there was even a chance of being able to make his relationship with Ilya stronger, he’d jump on it. And since there was no way the Metros would accept Ilya, the only other option was to hope the Raiders would accept Shane.

She pursed her lips slowly, trying to think things through in her mind. “Okay, I- I can understand that, I suppose,” she murmured, blowing out a breath. “People would be shocked, but whoever you sign with would be thrilled, I’m sure.”

He huffed slightly. “I hope so,” he mumbled, swallowing harshly again.

“Let’s see, there’s Seattle of course,” Yuna suggested, ticking off her finger. “They’re a solid team, looking to make changes I hear. And New York; that could be good since you’re already on good terms with some of the players. Pittsburg has a decent funding, too, they might be approachable.”

Shane nodded slowly, pretending to care about those teams. “What about uh- Boston?” he broached delicately.

“Boston!?” she exclaimed, eyes flying wide open. “Honey, that’s Rozanov’s team.” Not that he needed to be reminded of it, of course. They had only been rivals since before the draft. “I know he’s got a contract ending soon, too, but we can’t bank on him switching teams and the Raiders taking you, instead.”

As smooth as that transition might manage to work if all the stars aligned, there was no way she would take that risk. Rozanov loved the Raiders and there were whispers that he had been approached about a new contract with an even higher salary than before.

“I know, I- I don’t expect him to change teams or anything,” he clarified. “I was thinking of maybe, you know, joining with him as captain.”

If it was possible for Yuna’s eyes to widen any further, they would have. She tried her best to get a grip, though. To think things over logically. But that was, frankly, pretty difficult. Her son just suggested signing to the same team as his sworn enemy, after all.

That was tough to wrap her mind around no matter how hard she tried to break it down in terms that made sense. They were a good team, sure. Strong odds each season, wonderful fans, a tendency to retain players instead of constantly trading them like some did. But it was still Boston.

“Okay, let’s say for some reason you want to do that,” she muttered, reaching out to take his hand. “You wouldn’t be walking into a friendly environment. They would be…hostile, to say the least. And you wouldn’t be captain; you would need to take orders and earn first line again.”

“I know,” Shane assured her, seemingly alright with all of that. “I don’t think they’d be cruel or anything, though. They want to win and anyone helping them do that is probably okay with them.”

Yuna scoffed slightly but composed herself, squeezing his hand a bit harder. “Alright, say that’s true,” she noted hypothetically. “They’re already paying Rozanov top billing and might give him a raise to keep him, not accounting for Marlow or Hammersmith. They just don’t have the money for someone as expensive as you.”

They paid their players well, she knew. And they had a lot of good ones. Carmichael and Connors might not make quite as much as most of their first liners did, but they were still one of the most expensive teams in the league to pay per season. They couldn’t match Shane’s current salary and afford to keep everyone else, let alone raise Rozanov’s salary as well. 

“I know that too,” he insisted, voice firm as if trying to push the matter a bit harder. “But I’m okay taking a pay cut.”

“No, you aren’t,” she replied, shaking her head. “Especially not if your cut is feeding Rozanov’s salary. You’re worth more than he is.” More awards, more cups, her son deserved the higher paycheck, not him.

Shane tried not to roll his eyes, looking a bit frustrated. “Look, I have like eight sponsorships right now,” he reminded her. “You’re probably sitting on three more you don’t want to tell me about, too. My investments are stable, my house is paid off, my savings alone are enough to live on pretty lavishly for a few decades. I don’t need a raise.”

He could easily take an extra commercial or two and make back what he was losing with a salary cut. Besides, he could be gaining something so much better than money if he lived in Boston. If he lived with Ilya. God, it sounded like a dream he was too stubborn to let himself believe in just yet.

Yuna didn’t relent. “But you deserve one! If you’re the best of the best, then you should get paid like it—”

“Mom,” Shane interjected firmly, his tone serious and his eyes reflecting the emotion just as much. “I want to go to Boston. Please, help me make it happen.”

She paused, slowly inhaling as he let go of her hand. She couldn’t understand it. He could have his pick of teams with his reputation. Any coach, any arena of fans would be thrilled to have him. And he wanted to walk into the one locker room full of players that actively hated him more than anywhere else.

“Okay,” Yuna eventually conceded, nodding. “I will…reach out to someone over there and see what I can figure out.”

Shane’s tension visibly eased, a small smile gracing his lips. “Thank you,” he whispered. “I know it doesn’t seem like it makes much sense—”

“It doesn’t make any sense,” she insisted with a huff of disbelief, rubbing his forehead. “But if it’s what you want, I’ll make it happen for you.” She wasn’t quite sure how, yet, but she would. “Maybe we can spin it for some publicity… ‘Rozanov and Hollander: enemies to allies.’ or something like that.”

She scrunched her nose over it, the fake title already leaving a bitter taste in her mouth. She couldn’t even imagine her son in one of those jerseys or think about having to buy Raiders merchandise and actually rooting for that team after a decade of insults and eye rolls thrown at the television set each time they played against Montreal.

Still, she would work it out. For Shane, she always did.

Shane stood up, kissing her cheek. “Thank you,” he repeated, even more sincerely. “I mean it, mom. I really think this is going to be good for me.”

She hummed, smiling back for as long as he glanced at her and then let it drop the second he went back inside to see his dad. Shane as a Raider. She couldn’t fathom it in her head, let alone actively try to make it happen without a pit lodging itself in her stomach. Even so, she had given him her word and would keep it.

· ─ ·✶· ─ · 

Later that night, Shane watched Ilya fuss with the blankets in his lap as he stared at the fire outside again. It wasn’t something he lit very often when he was here alone, but Ilya had liked it so much that didn’t mind building one almost every single night. Besides, he enjoyed watching him jump when the Loons called every once in a while.

Shane hadn’t quite lied when he came back, but didn’t tell him the full truth, either. He said he went to his parents, which was true. He said he talked to his mom, which was also true. He just didn’t mention the topic of it.

“Soo…about this morning,” he muttered, tapping his fingers against his leg anxiously. “I need to tell you something about it.”

Ilya glanced at him, raising an eyebrow. “Ah, finally,” he mused.

He frowned. “What does that mean?”

Ilya’s glance turned into a glare, gesturing towards him. “You have been jumpy all day,” he explained. “I’m assuming it’s because of your trip to your parents house, yes?”

Shane nodded a bit as he huffed slightly, realizing he might not have been as smooth about it as he hoped to be. “Oh, right,” he murmured awkwardly.

Ilya wasn’t blind or stupid. He could see the way Shane had been a bit tense coming home, how he seemed to keep zoning out during their conversations and needing to be brought back with his name or the snap of his fingers. And how he immediately apologized but never mentioned what he was thinking about. It didn’t take a genius to know something was going on.

“So?” he wondered, covering some of Shane’s legs with the fabric even without being asked. “What is it? Are they suspecting or something?”

He shook his head a bit. “No, I- no,” he muttered, resting his hand on the back of the loveseat and winding one of Ilya’s curls around his finger. “It’s…well, you remember last night, right? When you wanted to move for me?”

Ilya nodded, humming softly. “Did you think about it, more?”

“All night,” Shane confessed, chewing the inside of his cheek as he fussed with his hair. “And I realized that you were already giving up a lot by being with me, and I think maybe it’s time I give something up for you, too.”

He frowned slightly, leaning into his touch. “What do you mean?” he asked, not following along.

Shane exhaled deeply. “I asked my mom today if she would reach out to the Raiders,” he admitted. “I’m going to try to sign with your team.”

Ilya froze. His eyes didn’t widen and his mouth didn’t drop. He seemed too stunned for either of those reactions to happen. Instead, he just stared in shock, searching Shane’s face for any sign of this being a joke of some kind. He looked entirely serious, though.

“Y- you are going to come to Boston?” he repeated, the words making no more sense once saying them out loud. “For me?”

Shane nodded, hand sliding down to cup the side of his neck, his fingers fussing with the nape of his neck. “If my mom doesn’t blow the negotiations,” he murmured. “I thought- I mean your team would want me, right? They’d be okay if I joined them?”

He nearly scoffed. “Are you kidding?” he replied. “You have no idea how much they respect you, Shane. They would love to have you on the team. Not nearly as much as I would, of course, but they would be thrilled.”

He blew out an anxious breath, a bit relieved. “Good,” he whispered to himself. “And I figured if I was living there, maybe I could just…live with you, too? We would take separate cars to practice, obviously, and I’d rent an apartment so everyone thinks I don’t but…we could, if you wanted.”

He held his breath a bit, the offer both managing to see so abrupt and yet so long overdue, all at once. Being in the same city, on the same team was more than enough for him already. But if he was going to uproot his life he might as well go all the way, he figured.

“Yes, yes of course I want to live with you,” Ilya responded immediately, before the question had even fully slipped out of his mouth. He pulled him into a kiss. “I get to play with you on my team and wake up next to you every day? That is better than anything I could have imagined.”

Shane’s lips tugged into a wide smile, pressing his forehead against Ilya’s. “We’ve waited long enough for it, right?” he murmured. “Figured we needed to actually make some changes if we want this to work.”

Ilya nodded in agreement. “I will make it worth it, I swear to you,” he promised him. “You will love Boston. And I can take you places in public without anyone caring.” His voice nearly cracked at the end, the thought of being seen together without fear riddling them both making his chest ache with joy.

They still couldn’t kiss, couldn’t get overly affectionate or slip up on their words. But it was something. And compared to having nothing, something seemed like everything.

· ─ ·✶· ─ · 

Time passed and their contracts came to an end not too far apart. Ilya decided to re-sign with the Raiders to no one’s surprise, even if the media tried to pretend like it was somehow shocking news.

‘Raiders captain Ilya Rozanov to extend his contract for another five years, according to inside sources.’

Shane pursed his lips, staring at the headline as he sat on the bench in his locker room, post practice. He had barely changed before the article was published and if he wasn’t so obsessed with Ilya, maybe he might not have gotten the notification for a few more hours or days. But he googled him frequently enough to get recommendations, he supposed.

Hayden leaned over his shoulder, nudging him slightly. “No shocker there, huh?” he mused, reading the headline over the phone. “Why do they always say ‘sources’ like it’s some massive secret and not purposely announced with everyone permission, anyway?”

Shane shrugged. “More views, I guess,” he murmured, clicking his phone off and shoving it into his bag. He made a mental note to text Ilya later and congratulate him on it.

His best friend hummed, supposing it was a good enough answer. “What about you, then?” he wondered, bending over to tie his laces. “You got your new contract sorted out, yet? I hope you don’t take all that money they scrounged up for you; the rest of us would like raises too.”

It was a joke, of course. Hayden knew Shane got paid the big dollars because he was the face of the Metros, not to mention their captain. But for some reason, his friend seemed to go quiet over the comment, taking it seriously or something.

“You don’t have to worry about it,” he assured him softly, words getting drowned out by the chatter in the locker room as everyone continued packing their stuff up for the day. “I’m not…”

“Not what?” Hayden questioned, furrowing his brows in confusion. “It’s too loud in here; I didn’t catch that.”

Shane wet his bottom lip, not repeating himself for some reason. “Nothing,” he muttered, shaking his head as he brushed it off.

He hadn’t technically signed his new contract yet. But he was pretty much as ready as possible. His mom had managed to get him a three-year contract, at just shy of the money he was currently making. Which, he honestly hadn’t expected given the way their finances were pretty much all accounted for with the current roster.

There had been some financial shuffling, apparently, she said. He wasn’t quite sure where they cut the costs, but they did it. For him. The papers were drafted up and as soon as his mom went over it with the lawyer, he could sign them. Hopefully by the end of the week.

That just left him clueless about what to tell him team. To tell Hayden, especially.

“Are you alright, man?” he questioned, frowning. “You look a little…pale or something.”

Shane snapped his eyes towards him, feeling a bit nauseous. “What? Yeah, totally good,” he assured him.

“Really? You’re not about to faint, then, and that’s just your face for some reason?” Hayden teased.

He felt the lump in his stomach grow larger, unsure how to explain to them exactly what he was planning to do. It was nothing against them, he knew. But they wouldn’t believe that. To them, it would be a blatant betrayal. Walking into their sworn enemy’s city could very well be, in their eyes, unforgivable.

He swallowed harshly, getting even sicker to his stomach. He had known, for months now that this was happening. But there was never a good time to tell them. He even considered letting them find out through the inevitable news articles posted after he green-lit it. That was cruel, though. They deserved better from him.

Shane swallowed harshly, noticing Berkes about to walk out of the locker room. “Berkes!” he shouted, stopping him. “Wait a minute, before you leave.”

He glanced over his shoulder, surprised but not annoyed. “Why?” he wondered, lingering the door. “I thought we were finished for the day.”

He nodded. “We are, I just—” he flexed his fingers nervously. “—have to make an announcement before everyone clears out of here, today.”

Berkes looked a bit skeptical of his tone but dropped his bag by the door and walked a bit further into the locker room. He gestured to him, like he was letting him make his announcement. He figured it was probably about their technique or their lack of enthusiasm, something to criticize.

Shane glanced at Hayden, who looked equally confused. Slowly standing up, he felt his heart hammering harder than it ever seemed to as the other guys quieted their conversation to listen to what he had to say.

“Um…I- I know that everyone here is well aware by now that my contract with the Metros ended,” he started, his voice slow and hesitant. “I’ve been here mostly out of routine and a sense of duty more than anything, lately. Because you guys are- you’re family to me, you know? We’ve won championships on the ice and off the ice I’ve seen some of you get married, have kids, just…grow as people.”

“Why is this sounding like a cheesy goodbye speech?” JJ questioned, his tone teasing and light.

“Yeah, right, like Hollander would ever leave us,” Wilson retorted, huffing in amusement. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Shane just swallowed harshly again, glancing down in silence as he counted his breaths in hopes of keeping it together both emotionally and physically. This was not the place for a panic attack or tears.

Hayden frowned, confused. “Shane?” he muttered, sounding like humor was the last thing on his mind. “T- that’s ridiculous, isn’t it?”

He clenched his jaw, shaking his head for a moment before finally lifting it. “No, it’s not,” he admitted, his voice a bit rough with emotion. “I am…signing with another team.”

They were silent for a moment, more stunned than anything else. It felt like the floor crumbled under their feet in the blink of an eye and Shane, frankly, looked like he wished it would. If for no other reason than being swallowed into the center of the Earth would be preferable to their scrutinizing gazes.

“That’s a joke, right?” Mitty questioned. “You’re jerking our legs before you tell us you’ve already worked things out with management.”

Shane shook his head again, a bit firmer. “No,” he clarified. “I declined their offer to extend my contract two weeks ago.”

They had been approaching him, anyway, trying to offer more money or better perks but it wasn’t working. The only reason that had been kept out of the news was because they were still hoping he would come back to them after looking elsewhere.

“How could you turn them down?” Drapeau asked, his tone confused, if not a bit accusatory. “I mean you- you’re the captain! What could make you walk away from that? Where would you even go?”

“Tell me it’s not New York or some shit,” Compeau added, finding his voice too. It had a bite to it, like he was suddenly more upset than disheartened. They all were.

“It’s not New York,” Shane assured them.

That should have helped calm their nerves, but instead, it just made them more apprehensive. Because Shane wasn’t willingly sharing where he intended to move. He was only explaining where he wasn’t going. And that could only mean he planned to sign with a team that they didn’t like. Which, frankly, was a long list.

“Who are you signing with?” Hayden questioned bluntly, his voice cutting through everyone else’s inquires or clamoring. They played together for over a decade and were best friends off the ice. He was someone Shane would answer; he had to be.

He blew out a breath, contemplating the risks of telling them. They could blab it around before news officially broke and blow up the entire deal. But he doubted they would, they would probably be too busy trying to pretend he was dead to them.

Shane wet his bottom lip, looking at the floor instead of anyone specific. He couldn’t; it was too hard. “Boston,” he whispered under his breath. It was quiet, but in the dead silence, everyone heard it.

And just like that, every friend he had in that room turned into his enemies. Their gazes hardened, their breaths hitched, and their jaws clenched. Everything Shane just said about them being his family was tossed out the window like he hadn’t been their friend and their teammate for years.

“No fucking way,” JJ muttered to himself. He didn’t want to believe it, at first, but given how distraught his former captain looked, he knew it was true.

“You wouldn’t,” Drapeau insisted, his tone harsh and bitter as he shook his head. “You’d rather answer to Ilya fucking Rozanov than be our captain?”

Shane winced, barely lifting his gaze long enough to catch his eye before Drapeau looked away. “It’s not personal,” he insisted. “You guys are always gonna be—”

“No, no, it is personal,” Berkes interjected before he could even finish speaking, pointing his finger at him accusatorily. “We hate the Raiders, Shane. That means we don’t get to be anything to you if you step foot into their locker room.”

“Have you already signed the contract?” Hayden asked, finally breaking his silence.

He was still in a state of shock, frankly. Some part of him was in denial, too. He wanted to believe this was a cruel joke or some temporary lapse in judgement that his best friend would realize was a mistake and correct as quickly as possible. But he knew better. Shane wouldn’t tell them he planned to leave unless he was following though on it.

Shane’s shoulder sagged a bit. “I’m going to,” he replied. “In a few days. The details are just being double checked.”

“What details? Like which fucking parking space is yours?” Comeau snapped. “What wall they’re gonna put your face on at the arena because you don’t have enough of them here?”

He grew even more uncomfortable, the anxiety physically manifesting as he tensed, his throat working hard just to try to form a single sound. Even when he got one out, it was interrupted by more comments and accusations, all filled with venom.

“You’re such a fucking traitor,” Wilson claimed. “You know the way they play, how they act. They put you in hospital for God’s sake!”

“On accident,” Shane defended weakly, hearing someone scoff amongst the crowd that was starting to grow closer to each other in proximity. It seemed almost like they were forming a wall against him, arms crossed and expressions disgusted.

“You know what, maybe if you can jump teams this easily then you do deserve to be with them,” JJ told him. “You clearly have the same mindset as they do.” That teammates were just that, teammates, meant to be used and discarded.

Hayden opened and closed his mouth, looking between his team and his best friend. He wanted to protect Shane, but he was also just as upset as the others were. And he couldn’t risk them thinking that he was condoning what Shane was planning. So, he kept his lips sealed, his head and heart utterly torn.

“I- I’m sorry that you feel that way,” Shane murmured, trying to fight how badly their words stung. “I thought…never mind.” He huffed lightly, glancing at his bag. “I’ll leave you guys alone.”

He reached for his stuff, grabbing his bag and slinging it over shoulder. He ducked his head, pushing the door open quickly to leave before any of them could say or do anything. Walking out, he felt his breaths quickening as his panic attack began to build back up inside his chest.

It felt constricting, hammering inside of him in a way he couldn’t expel, and it was difficult to tell if it was his body shaking or real tears that made his cheeks feel so warm. Either way, he didn’t stop, just kept walking until he left the rink.

For the last time, he was pretty sure.

· ─ ·✶· ─ · 

Shane stared down at the coffee table with a blank gaze, the stack of papers sitting beside a pen. A few days had passed, the only texts he had received were cruel. That was if the team contacted him at all. 

They hurt, of course, but weren't nearly as brutal as Hayden's silence. He tried to reach out, to apologize and talk, but the only response he got was that he needed time to think and would text him back when he was ready.

“Are you sure about this?” Yuna questioned, sitting across from him in the living room, her hands clasped together as her brows furrowed. He didn’t look as certain as he should, given the circumstances.

He nodded anyway. “Yeah, of course,” he muttered, meeting her eye.

He reached for the pen, clicking it and leaning over the table. He scribbled his name on the bottom of the first page, then flipped it and repeated it on the next and the next, each one getting a bit faster and more determined.

Yuna watched at he seemed to get more comfortable with his choice, almost even excited if she were to guess. Even though she still couldn’t understand why. She had tried to figure it out, ever since he asked. But when she pried, he shut down or gave some answer that was clearly forced and fake.

“No need to get through the whole stack right away,” she reminded him. “You’ll get carpal tunnel or something.”

Shane shrugged, still signing. “It’s fine,” he assured her, flipping to another page.

As much as his brain wanted to think about his team, to guilt him into feeling like traitor the way they called him and be upset over what felt like abandonment, he was also so ready to move forward. To move to Boston, to live with Ilya, to play with a new team beside him. It was making him feel a bit lighter with every signature he gave.

He wasn’t oblivious to the look on his mother’s face, the way she had been confused from the moment he brought up the idea of playing in Massachusetts. She attempted to get an answer a few times, but he never gave her a very clear one. He hoped she would drop it or at least find some assumption and stick with it. That hadn’t happened, yet.

“Okay, I’ll uh- let you finish signing them, then,” she muttered, straightening up a bit in her chair. “After I mail them back to Boston, the Raiders wanted to announce your contract publicly. Is that alright?”

Shane nodded. “Mhm,” he hummed, adding another signature. “Soon as possible would be best.”

She pursed her lips. “I’ll let them know,” she replied, gears in her head spinning with curiosity.

He hadn’t been himself all week, maybe a bit past that, if she was being honest. But the last few days he absolutely refused to mention the Metros, and she could only assume it was because he tried to do the right thing and be honest with them, which probably didn’t go very well.

“You’re staring,” he commented flatly, still not looking up. It was just a feeling he had, knowing what it felt like to have someone’s eyes on him after being in front of so many cameras for so many years.

Yuna cleared her throat a bit. “Sorry,” she murmured. “I was just wondering about your team- old team, technically,” she admitted. “Have you told them yet? About the move, I mean.”

Shane stuck his tongue against the inside of his cheek. “Uh huh,” he responded succinctly.

“How’d they take it?” she pressed a bit, trying to keep her voice gentle in case it was going to upset him.

“Called me a traitor and implied I was self-absorbed and doing it for more attention,” he told her, shrugging again like it was irrelevant information and not something that had been tearing him apart all week.

It wasn’t like he could do anything about it, explain or apologize when no one was speaking to him. And why should he even try to? If they wanted to treat him like a bastard just because he was looking out for himself for a change, then so be it. He could be a traitor in their eyes.

Yuna’s eyes softened, feeling a bit disgusted with the team. “Oh, honey, you know that isn’t—”

“Don’t wanna talk about it, mom,” he interjected, shaking his head as he eventually lifted it, looking her in the eyes. “And I don’t want any sympathy, either. This is a good decision for me, I know it is.”

She paused, the conviction in his voice catching her off guard for some reason. She knew it was hard for him to walk away from the Metros, that he could never do this out of betrayal to them. He loved his team, his city, and his fans.

But there was something about Boston that had him looking more determined than he had been in years.

He was comfortable with the Metros, stable. And now he seemed…excited. Over what, she didn’t know. But something. And it was big enough to cause that look in his eyes, the one he always got when something difficult was something he wanted badly.

“If you think it is, your father and I will support it,” she murmured. There wasn’t much else to say about it, after all. Manager or not, she couldn’t make his choices. “We don’t mind helping you move, if you want. We can come see your apartment and help you unpack, maybe see some of the city.”

Shane seemed to tense a bit, just giving a partial nod like he wasn’t agreeing but also didn’t want to shoot her down, either. “Maybe,” he replied. “It’s a pretty small place, compared to the one I have now, though. And there won’t be a lot of time between moving and practice starting.”

He didn’t have the schedule, yet, but knew Ilya’s typical routine pretty well. The Raiders came back a bit early for informal practices, bonding exercises more than anything, really. The Metros didn’t do that, so much as a few intermittent practices over the course of their yearly break.

Not all of the team showed up, since it wasn’t mandatory, just a few of them practicing to stay sharp and keep from going stir crazy. That’s where he had been when they- well, when he announced his departure. He hadn’t been back since and unless there was a reason, he wouldn’t.

“Oh, well, maybe a later, then?” Yuna suggested. "We can come down for the first game of the season and root for you." 

He nodded more firmly that time. “Yeah, sure,” he agreed. “I’ll let you know once I get the timeline figured out.”

“Sounds good,” she mumbled quietly, watching as he kept blowing through the stack of papers, finishing the contract pretty quickly.

Quicker than most of his others in the past, which he reviewed and sometimes filled out over several days. He tended to be skeptical of new deals, but for some reason that didn’t seem to be the case. He breezed through every page, not even checking the fine print like he somehow knew the Raiders were going to be fair to him.

Finishing the last page, Shane put the pen down and slid the papers back to her with a deep exhale of relief. “Officially a Raider,” he murmured, his voice filled with a tinge of suppressed excitement.

“You are,” Yuna noted, watching him bite back a smile at the thought of it.

· ─ ·✶· ─ · 

News broke early in the morning. Near seven, if not just before. And as expected, people were shocked. They had every emotion, really. Stunned, angry, confused, elated. It all depended on where they were from and who they supported.

Montreal was pissed and that word, betrayal, came hurtling back at him again. Raiders fans were enthused about it, already commenting on social media about how they were surely going to win the cup back this year, now.

Fans from other teams were a mix of surprised by his decision, perplexed by what caused it, and pissed that Boston now had both of them on the same team, essentially ruining everyone else’s chances for the championship.

“People are going insane; you know this right?” Ilya noted, his voice coming through speaker phone.

Shane set it on the counter in his kitchen, picking up a cardboard box and taping the end of it shut. “I’m trying to stay off the internet,” he replied honestly. He usually did, for his own sake. It made his anxiety flare if he was on it too much. “Don’t have much interest in seeing what my city is saying right now.”

“Hm, yeah, they are not happy,” he confirmed, scrolling through different sports pages, all of which had started scrutinizing the choice. “You should still see what Boston is saying, though. Fans are thrilled and wish you a warm welcome.”

Shane huffed, putting his carefully bubble wrapped appliances into the moving box. “At least one city likes me,” he murmured sarcastically. “Has anyone on the team reached out to you, yet?”

He was curious to know if they were against it or in favor of the decision. At the very least, he hoped for a solid neutral ground, wanting to come in with the opportunity to win their trust. That would be difficult if they hated him right away.

“Group chat is very active but nothing negative so far,” Ilya admitted. “They are mostly confused about the reason for it and a bit upset they weren’t aware of it until it happened. But they agree it’s going to be a good year for us.”

“Good, I just don’t want them to hate me or anything,” he explained, pausing to contemplate his packing a bit.

“No, definitely not seeing anything bad towards you, just management,” Ilya clarified, his tone implying that it was a pretty standard topic for complaint. “I’ll add you to group chat pretty soon, once things settle. They’ll like to text you properly before practice starts.”

“I’ll try to pay attention to this one instead of just muting them,” he replied, used to mostly ignoring the Metros group chat. It was too hectic for him to keep up. “Hey, do you own a KitchenAid?” he asked out of the blue.

“A what?” he wondered, sounding confused.

Shane laughed slightly, wrapping an extra layer of bubble wrap around the heavy machine. “It’s for baking, usually. I didn’t know if you had one or not,” he responded. “I don’t want us to have doubles of a ton of stuff.”

But given he didn’t even know what it was, it was fairly safe to assume he didn’t have one. So, Shane lifted the stand off the counter, placing it into the box on the floor and tucking a few other items inside of it before taping it up as tight as possible. He reached for a sharpie, labeling the box to make sure he remembered what was in it. As if the weight alone wouldn't be enough of an indicator.

“Yeah, no, I don’t have one,” he replied, stating the obvious. “And don’t worry about duplicates of toasters or anything, you can put the spares in your apartment and make it look like you actually live there or something.”

“Hm, clever,” Shane admitted, honestly forgetting about the lease he just signed. It was hard for him to think or care about it when he was only a few days away from actually living with his boyfriend for the first time.

“Yes, I am brilliant,” he retorted with faux arrogance. “You will notice this a lot once we live together.”

He was trying, and mostly failing, to act like he wasn’t equally elated that Shane was moving in. That he didn’t have to set an alarm and sneak away to the airport or worry about someone seeing them having a conversation in public. Hell, they could change each other’s contact names in their phones, now.

“I can’t wait,” Shane told him, enthusiasm coming through in his voice. “I don’t know what we’re going to do in the bathroom, though. Between my skin care and your hair products, we’ll run out of room before—”

He stopped abruptly and all the way in Boston Ilya pulled his phone away from his ear to check that he hadn’t got disconnected. “You got tired of mocking my hair care mid-sentence?” he wondered dubiously.

“Uh- no, sorry,” Shane apologized weakly. “I’m just getting a call from Hayden, is all.”

Ilya was silent for a moment. “You should take it,” he eventually replied after a moment.

Now that caught Shane off guard. Even before things had changed, he didn’t exactly like Hayden. On or off the ice. And since hearing about how he kept his mouth shut while the guys ripped into him, not to mention ghosted him when Shane tried to reach out, Ilya had been even less of a fan if that was possible.

“You think?” he wondered, a bit unsure. “He hasn’t talked to me in eight days.”

“He was shocked, probably, and felt a bit upset,” Ilya reminded him. “Just hear what he says now that he had time to process it; if he’s still and asshole, we will never speak to him again.”

Shane huffed. “Alright, I’ll text you after,” he promised, disconnecting the call to take Hayden’s.

He didn’t speak, just setting down the tape gun he was holding and bracing his hand against the counter as he took the phone off speaker and held it to his ear. For a moment or two he wasn’t even sure if Hayden had meant to call him or not. Maybe it was a fluke or some attempt to reach out that he was quickly regretting. Worst of all, maybe he expected Shane to apologize for something.

Before he could spiral, though, he heard Hayden's’ voice come through. “Hey.”

It wasn’t much, but it was acknowledgment of his existence. “Hi,” Shane replied, voice measured, like he expected the worst at any moment.

“I uh- saw the news,” he muttered awkwardly. “Three years in Boston, huh?”

“Mhm,” Shane hummed defensively.

There was another stretch of silence, and he ran his thumb over the edge of the counter, a bit anxious as he waited for his friend to say something else. Were they even friends anymore? He wasn’t sure, honestly.

“Look I…wanted to apologize for the other day,” Hayden admitted sheepishly. “I should have told the guys to lay off, I was just surprised and I couldn’t- well, that’s not really a good excuse, I guess. I just wanted you to know I don’t agree with them about you being a traitor.”

That served to ease some of his anxiety, but not very much of it, honestly. “Thanks,” he murmured. “I knew they wouldn’t take it well, I just hoped they’d be a bit more supportive.”

“I mean, you did kind of blindside us,” he reminded him gently. “We all thought you were re-signing. And then on top of that, you pick Boston? What could even draw you to that team?”

In Hayden’s mind, it could only be two things. Self-loathing, driving him to do something stupid and put himself in a position where he would be verbally abused by his new captain and team. Or publicity, since his rivalry with Rozanov might not have been cutting it the way it used to and playing for the same team would stir up new topics.

“It’s just a good team, Hayden,” he defended. “A nice city, great fans—”

“Rozanov,” he interjected, the single word being enough of a reason to stay far away from the team in his opinion. “Can you honestly take orders from him without wanting to punch him?”

God, could Shane take orders from him, he thought to himself. It was kind of the basis of their romantic life, not that he could say that to his best friend or anyone else.

“I’ll deal with it,” Shane replied casually. “I know it sounds crazy, but I know he’s a good captain. I’m just looking for a change of pace, something new after so many years of the same routine.”

It was comfortable, sure. He liked the consistency, but he was sick of the sneaking around and tired of only getting a few hours or a single day with his boyfriend for most of the year. He wanted to share a home with him, and play beside him, even if no one knew why they worked so well together.

“I guess…I can maybe understand that,” Hayden admitted. “I’m not saying I agree with the change you’re making, but you’re allowed to want something new after carrying our team for so many years.”

“You really think so?” he wondered, a bit unsure. It was what he wanted, maybe even needed. But it still felt like he was turning his back on his community after they have given him everything.

“Yeah, really,” Hayden assured him, pausing for a moment. “I could maybe…come over, if you want? We can keep talking.”

Shane pursed his lips a bit. “I’m actually packing right now,” he admitted cautiously. “I have a flight to Boston on Wednesday.”

There was silence on the other end, which for a busy house with many kids, was sometimes worse than the noise. He tapped his fingers on the counter of his kitchen, waiting for him to say something else.

“You’re really not wasting any time, huh?” he mumbled, his voice still laced with something a bit bitter. Not necessarily for Shane’s decision to leave, but the irrational part of his brain which felt like he was being left behind for some shiny novelty.

“I just wanted to get used to the city before the season starts,” Shane claimed.

“Okay then,” Hayden told him, tone kind of defeated. “I’ll be over in twenty minutes.”

He froze. “What?”

“To help you pack,” he clarified, keys jingling as he pulled them off the hook and headed for the door. “It’s a big apartment and you have a lot of stuff; you’ll want an extra set of hands.”

Hayden didn’t really give him a chance to decline the offer, not that Shane would have, honestly. The line went dead and he huffed, staring down at his blank screen for a moment. At least there was one Metro that didn’t completely hate him for his decision.

· ─ ·✶· ─ · 

By the end of the next week, Shane had mostly finished moving. His KitchenAid was perched on the counter, his shoes were in the closest on the side they’d made space for him to have, and some of his favorite paintings and awards were hung on the walls beside Ilya’s.

It felt, quite simply, like home.

Even before getting all of his stuff unpacked, there was something about it that just felt warm. Probably the fact that for the past three nights, he had fallen asleep and woken up in bed with Ilya.

He usually rose with the sound of an alarm clock of the sun in his eyes, but instead he started to wake up to kisses peppered on his cheek and deep Russian murmurs that were so sleepy it was difficult for him to even try to translate them. It felt like everything he thought he was crazy for wanting.

“Mmm, it’s still real?” he mumbled sleepily, blinking awake.

Ilya nodded, another kiss planted on the back of his shoulder blade. “Still real,” he assured him. “How many nights will you fall asleep before you realize you live here?”

Shane huffed lightly, glancing over his shoulder a bit. “Don’t know,” he admitted, inhaling deeply and exhaling. “A lot, probably.”

He had lived this moment before, in his dreams. Where time wasn’t constricting them and he got to reach into a closet for his clothes instead of an overnight bag. He just didn’t expect it to ever be real. It still, frankly, didn’t feel that way sometimes.

Ilya shifted, rolling Shane over to look at him. “Well, I will be happy to remind you just how real this is,” he promised, running a hand through his hair. “For as long as you want me to.”

He hummed in content, burying his face against his neck and closing his eyes again. Despite never really enjoying sleeping in, there was something so peaceful about sharing space with Ilya, about being suffocated by his presence physically and emotionally.

“Want it forever,” he mumbled, hand winding around him to hug him.

“Am just sorry it took so long,” he murmured back, kissing the top of his head. “Sorry for so many things.”

He wished, desperately that Shane could have his parents here. They cared about him so much, wanted to help him move and unpack, and that couldn’t happen for obvious reasons. Instead, Ilya was stuck hearing him on the phone, lying about being at the apartment he rented across town to keep up the pretense.

Hearing him mutter about a leaky pipe that didn’t exist and spotting a sunset that they had watched together hurt, in some ways. In others he reassured him that this—their relationship—was something Shane was truly invested in.

“No more being sorry,” Shane murmured, resting his head against his shoulder and looking up at him from an angle. “We’re done being apologetic. We’re here, right? We’re together.” That was all that mattered to him.

“Mhm,” he hummed in agreement, fussing with his hair a bit. “We’re together.” And that alone was a damn miracle, he thought.

Running his hand up and down Shane’s back, he closed his eyes again just absorbing the moment for as long as he possibly could. He knew this wouldn’t last. That their break would end and they would start to have a hectic routine instead of late mornings cuddling.

They would be grabbing breakfast and rushing out the door to practice, staying late for drill, traveling for long hours on airplanes and sleeping in hotels again. Just like they did individually for a decade.

Only now, they could see each other at those practices, sit next to each other on those planes, and share those hotels instead of sneaking into each other’s rooms. And even if no one knew that, it was something he was looking forward to, anyway.

“I don’t look like I’m playing pretend or anything?” he wondered, still feeling a bit weird in it.

He shook his head. “No,” he replied. “It’s perfect. You’re perfect.”

He hummed skeptically, but turned around to avoid criticizing himself in the mirror any longer. “We’re still driving separately,” he reminded him.

They might have been waking up in the same bed for a week or two, but they needed to get used to also keeping certain things secret. Like showing up to practice in different cars, preferably at separate times, too. Just so no one started thinking they were too close.

At least not this early, when the whole world still thought they were rivals. Maybe after a season or two they could drive together without it being as suspicious. That might be nice.

Ilya nodded. “I know, I know,” he responded, gently running his hand up and down his arm. “No need to be nervous; you’re just meeting the team for a bit of scrimmage.”

They weren’t really going to be in full gear or anything, just home and away jerseys to split them up for a bit of a game this afternoon. It was a ritual before the season started to get back into the swing of things before practice started to become brutal again.

“I’m not nervous,” he bit back defensively, lying through his teeth so badly it wasn’t even remotely convincing.

He looked, sounded, and acted terrified. Because he was. He was going out of his mind with anxiety, a thousands thoughts coursing through his head, most of them negative. Ilya said the team was okay with this, with him.

But Ilya was also their friend and wanted to assume the best from them. They might pretend to be okay with this and then meet him and realize exactly how much they disliked having him infiltrate their space.

Ilya hummed skeptically but didn’t call him out on the lie. Instead, he reached for his own keys off the nightstand. “I’m going to the rink early to meet up with Marlow,” he told him, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “You will be there soon after, yes?”

He nodded, still feeling his anxiety settling in his chest like a heavy weight. “Yeah, I’m leaving twenty minutes after you.”

That was a good enough space between their arrivals, he figured. No one would automatically assume they arrived together or that they even saw each other since he moved to Boston, yet. Maybe he’d fake introduce himself just for good measure. No, that was ridiculous. He couldn’t push it that far.

Ilya noticed his expression, the one he got when he was overthinking things. “Twenty minutes, then,” he repeated, trying to keep his voice casual so he couldn’t read into it at all. “Looking forward to having you meet everyone.”

Turning, Ilya left the bedroom and Shane blew out a long breath. The idea of actually being a Raider had seemed so much more simple when his mind was just filled with thoughts of having dinner on Ilya’s couch and parking in the same garage.

Now that there were all these other thoughts swirling in his head, he was realizing exactly what he was getting into. An entire shift in his social image. One he had worked insanely hard to try to cultivate to become someone kids looked up to and families bonded over watching on the ice.

The Raiders were amazing, don’t get him wrong, but they weren’t exactly family friendly compared to the Metros. They were known for starting and ending fights, getting thrown in the penalty box more than most players, and avoiding the typical publicity like open practices.

Shane supposed he should be grateful for that last one. If the Raiders did tear him apart this afternoon, there wouldn’t be many witnesses to it.

· ─ ·✶· ─ · 

Shutting his car door, he slung his bag over his shoulder and locked it. He somehow already had his name on a parking space plaque, right beside Connors. His mind, overactive and a bit paranoid, almost wondered if Ilya had asked for it to be done and how suspicious that might come across.

But he calmed himself down, realizing it was probably just something management wanted to do as a way to make a good impression. He didn’t have to worry, he told himself. No one knew anything. This was just a simple afternoon scrimmage match. Friendly and everything.

Walking into Boston’s arena felt different than it usually did, today. He wasn’t filing in with a group of teammates cursing the very ground they stood on. He was alone, wearing a yellow jersey with their logo on it. And he wasn’t going to the guest locker rooms, either. He was walking straight towards the home team-…his teams locker room he reminded himself.

Bracing himself with a deep breath, Shane pushed open the door, eyes immediately flitting around the room as some of the team stopped what they were doing to look up at him. They stared, silent and tense. He felt his heart pounding, some sort of ice breaker stuck on the tip of his tongue.

“Hollander,” Dubek muttered harshly, still staring at him, unblinking.

This was his worst nightmare, them hating him. Not even wanting him here. Making his life difficult for daring to try to be one of them—

Before he could spiral completely, their straight faced cracked into smiles and Hammersmith walked over, clapping his hand over Shane’s back. “You’re here!” he exclaimed, no malice in his voice.

He stiffened, looking at Ilya for some sort of understanding but he was just smirking to himself as he rifling through his cubby for something, trying not to focus on him too much.

“Sorry about the cold pretense,” Carmichael explained, his expression gentling. “It’s tradition to scare the new guy a bit when we meet officially. Just for fun.”

“Oh, right, yeah,” Shane murmured, huffing slightly as he relaxed a bit.

That was something that he would have liked to know before walking into their locker room feeling more terrified than he was when he thought a hit he took might have ended his career. Ilya probably left it out of their discussions on purpose, not wanting to spoil it.

“It’s nothing personal, we swear. We do it to everyone,” Hammersmith assured him, eyebrows furrowed. “How was the drive? Not too much traffic, I hope.”

“Hm? Wha- no,” he shook his head, fingers clutched a bit tighter around the strap of his bag. “No traffic, surprisingly.” He had just sat in his car for a while, zoning out as he tried to mentally prepare himself for, well, this.

“Good, wouldn’t want you to be exposed to how many horrible drivers we have right away,” Sebbin remarked, tossing his jersey over his head. “You might be running for the hills before the season even starts.”

“You are all so brilliant at being welcoming,” Ilya murmured sarcastically, glancing up at them. “How about ‘Hi, we’re glad you’re here’ or perhaps ‘Good to see you again’ before all the other stuff?”

Mockingly, Marlow straightened up. “Hi, we’re glad you’re here, Shane,” he said extending his hand dramatically. “It’s good to see you again.”

There were a few chuckles and Ilya rolled his eyes. “Группа комиков,” he mumbled to himself, grabbing his jersey off the hanger and pulling it on over a compression shirt.

Just seeing the familiarity of the gesture and hearing the fondness in his teasing helped ease some of the nerves still wound tight in Shane’s gut. So did seeing the relaxed expressions on the guys’ faces, how most of them went back to adjusting their cubbies for the upcoming season the way they did every year they came back.

Marlow huffed in amusement, lowering his hand. “Seriously, though, it is good to see you, Hollander,” he told him earnestly. “It’s nice to know we’ve got you on our side, for a change.”

No one really enjoyed losing to him. Losing in general, really. But there was a specific kind of dread they always shared as a team when it came to facing Montreal. And now, well, that fear had all but disappeared.

“Your cubby is over here, next to mine,” Victor told him, gesturing towards it. There was a sign with his name, but not much else.

Shane set his bag down on the shelf, pulling out a few things that he tended to just keep at his old rink year-round. “Thanks, St-Simon,” he muttered.

He wrinkled his nose. “Vic, is fine,” he replied casually. “I don’t usually respond if you call a pass with my full name.”

He nodded slowly. “Noted,” he responded, filing the information away. “So, uh- away jersey, huh?” He pointed at the colors on his jersey, the scheme different than the one he was wearing right now.

“Yep, still playing against you, I guess,” Vic retorted with a small huff of amusement. “The jersey looks good on you, by the way. I could be biased, though. I think seeing you in anything other than blue is a step up.”

Shane chuckled, glancing around the locker room as the knot in his stomach unwound a bit more. This wasn’t so bad, he realized. They weren’t being standoffish with him or making comments about him being out of place. They were kind of…embracing him, in a way. Exactly like Ilya claimed they would.

And given the self-confident smile he was sporting from his own cubby, Shane would say he was reveling in knowing he had been right.

Putting on just a bit of padding for the sake of safety, everyone laced up their skates and he followed them out onto the ice. The rink wasn’t even fully lit, the upper lights dimmed a bit. Which, honestly kind of made things feel a bit comfortable. There were no screaming fans or bright lights, just some guys getting back to what they loved doing.

“Okay, away jerseys will be on that side of the rink,” Ilya announced, shooing them dramatically towards the other end of it. “Everyone on my team stays here. Five minutes to strategize and Kane will referee today.”

Shane watched as Vic, Varkov, Connors, Kohn and Feller skated off to the other end of the rink, already smacking each other or whispering a little too loudly about their offense plans.

They have played six on six or even seven on seven despite the actual rules of the game if the whole team was there, but some were still enjoying their break, and there was no reason to drag them back early when practice officially started next week.

The others huddled around Ilya and Shane joined them, glancing at Marlow, Hammersmith, Sebbin, and Dubek. He knew them all both professionally and from Ilya’s stories, but it felt different to actually be conversing with them like this. Especially on their side.

“What, no goalies?” Shane wondered, a bit confused.

Dubek shrugged. “We go back and forth of whether we use them,” he admitted. “It generally works better without them, though. Like a team builder— you have to communicate better to keep the puck out of the net if it’s not one person’s designated job.”

He nodded slightly, also adding that to his new and quickly growing file of what he knew about the Raiders. “Oh, makes sense,” he murmured.

“Okay, listen up,” Ilya insisted, his voice low despite the others being too far away to overhear anything. “The plan is three on offense, two on defense. The net is never empty if the puck is in natural area or ours.”

Marlow agreed, “But if it’s in their zone, then all of us are, too. We overwhelm them to keep it there.”

“Take every shot instead of worrying about making them,” Sebbin added like it was some sort of mantra. “The more we take, the more we make.”

“And stay off the boards as much as possible,” Hammersmith noted, like it was a general reminder to them all. “Feller can get the puck out of any pile of players if he’s against them.”

It was normally one hell of a thing to witness on the ice against any other team but now, it would be like just handing them a goal if they got tangled up against the boards.

Shane just listened, absorbing the information as best he could. It wasn’t really instructions, so much as reminders about stuff they all knew about each other that made it a bit more difficult to score against each other.

A few more minutes passed pretty quickly and they broke apart, already skating into position. Ilya glanced at Shane, tilting his head towards the center of the ice, as is gifting him the face off against Feller. He suppressed a smile, making his way towards Kane who was holding the puck.

“As a reminder, the puck needs to stay on the ice as much as possible,” he stated, glaring specifically at Feller. “Coach won’t approve of anyone getting a concussion while not wearing full gear.”

They had helmets and knee pads on, sure, but not much else and if anyone shot the puck too hard or high, they could easily bruise some ribs or cause some even worse damage.

He rolled his eyes. “Fine,” Feller muttered, stick gently hitting the ice as he bent slightly. “Puck stays on the ice. No fast shots.”

With a nod of approval, Kane dropped the puck and the two of them fought for it. Shane came out victorious, immediately passing it to Marlow who sent it towards Ilya.

Shane felt a wave of peace wash over him as he watched him, skating after in an effort to keep Vic off Ilya’s back. They played on the same side exactly once in their careers, and it had been one of the best games he thought he ever had. It was a feeling that landed just under winning the cup, where he felt thrilled to look towards Ilya to pass him the puck, instead of attempting to steal it.

“Varkov, clear!” Connors shouted, skating towards the other end of the rink as Varkov shot the puck across it.

Shane raced after it, trying to beat Connors to it before they could get it anywhere near their net. Getting there first, he got slammed into the boards, shoulder hitting it hard enough to jostle the panels.

Connors paused, reaching his hand out to steady him with a squeeze on his shoulder. “You alright?” he questioned, having rammed into him a bit harder than anticipated with how fast he had been skating.

Shane barely heard him, giving a brief nod. “Sebbin!” he called, the puck nestled against the curve of his stick as he passed it before Connors noticed.

“On it, Hollzy!” he retorted, the puck gliding towards him smoothly as he kept it away from Carmichael.

Connors huffed at him, slightly annoyed. “And to think I was trying to be polite,” he muttered, giving him a small shove before skating off to try to help Carmichael recapture the puck.

Shane went around their net, stopping a few feet away from it and looking towards Hammersmith whose eyes were flitting around as quickly as the puck was. He gripped and regripped his stick, moving it a fraction of an inch at a time like he was anticipating something.

A moment later the puck came sliding back towards their goal and he reached out, stick stopping it cleanly before he smoothing hit it back where it came from in the direction of Ilya. A small smirk graced Hammersmiths lips, waving at Kohn who had shot the goal.

“Fuck you Smitty!” he shouted, middle finger flying up as he turned his back.

Hammersmith cackled, head tilted towards Shane. “Three years ago during a scrimmage, I told him I’d give him a hundred dollars if he got a shot past me,” he explained, biting back his laughter. “He’s still trying to make it happen.”

Shane huffed, teeth baring. “That applicable to everyone or just Kohn?” he wondered curiously.

He raised an eyebrow. “No one else is petty enough to care, usually,” he muttered, shrugging. “But give it a try next time we scrimmage on opposite sides.”

He gave a curt nod. “Maybe I will,” he mused as Marlow skated up, bumping his shoulder on purpose with a gesture towards the other end of the ice.

Right, they were supposed to be switching off on offense and defensive positions. Shane skated back towards the center, eyes scanning the ice for the puck and re-inserting himself right back into the game again.

It was surprisingly easy, scrimmaging with them. There wasn’t much trouble calling to them or convincing them to pass the puck to him, he wasn’t fighting for them to trust him like he thought he would be. Even when he blatantly lost the puck, no one complained over it. In fact, Dubek just shrugged and muttered something about that was the way the game worked.

Shane wondered if that easy come-easy go mentality was because this was just for fun or how they actually felt in games against other teams but figured he would find out eventually. In the meantime, he just wanted to keep getting used to the way they played, which was weirdly harmonious. No jealousy over the puck or arrogance over who technically scored it. Assists were praised just as much.

It was different, to say the least, from how the Metros interacted. He thought because they were the family friendly, held to a higher standard of morals team, that they were already communicating well enough. If anything, the rough, so-called aggressive team would be the guys who fight each other to score and argue over the puck.

But they weren’t. It was the complete opposite.

As the scrimmage ended, he expected to hear the same thing he heard from the Metros—the forced congratulations, petty comments, even technicalities called to try to invalidate certain goals.

But all he got was a bump on his helmet and a “That was fun,” from Feller.

“I’ll get that money next time,” Kohn swore, making Hammersmith cackle again as his own expression shifted into a petty grin while nudging him towards the locker room.

“Next time, we’re splitting Roz and Hollzy up to make it more fair,” Sebbin added.

That got a few cheers and Ilya chuckled, falling slightly behind them and bumping his shoulder against Shane. “Told you they would like you,” he murmured softly to him with a soft tone and even softer eyes before heading into the locker room.

Shane had to admit, he was right. The guys had been exceptionally nice to him, not even treating him like an outsider for a single moment. It was the second they were on the ice together, they were already a team who had played for several seasons. And that alone had eased every remaining fear he had about his decision to come to Boston.

Tugging off his jersey, he hung it up in his cubby, feeling a lot better about seeing his number in Raiders colors. “Hey, Sebbin?” he called to the man as he packed his own stuff with Vic between them. “What was with that nickname?” he wondered.

Sebbin stuck his head out, looking around Vic. “I don’t know, just slipped out,” he admitted, shrugging. “Didn’t your team call you that?”

He shook head a bit. “Not really,” he replied. “Usually just Hollander or Shane.” And pretty often, it was captain without his name attached. But that clearly wouldn’t work anymore.

“Hm, I would have thought you’d shorten the name given how natural it sounded,” he muttered. “I can cut it out, though, if you don’t like it.”

Shane was quick to shake his head again. “No, no it was fine,” he assured him. “Felt natural to hear it too, actually.”

A little more so than he could have even hoped for. His eyes scanned the locker room again. His locker room. His team. His boyfriend catching his gaze and giving him a small smile that no one else noticed. All of his fears, he realized, were entirely irrational. This wasn’t just a decent idea, it was a pretty damn good one.

· ─ ·✶· ─ · 

A few weeks later, practice was in full swing. The remaining players had come back from their breaks and met Shane with equal enthusiasm about his joining the team.

Hours at the rink grew brutal in terms of the drills, but they still managed to keep the tone as light as they could, joking around and smacking each other playfully even when their arms ached. Afterwards, if they weren’t too exhausted, they’d grab drinks at a dive bar a few blocks away and play billiards until someone ran out of cash.

Unlike the Metros no one teased him for not drinking during the season.

“That’s dedication, Hollzy,” Marlow once admitted, contemplating it for a moment before ordering a Ginger Ale instead of a second beer.

Shade, in response, just huffed, watching him try it for the first time in probably three or four years, and remembering that it actually tasted pretty good. To be honest, the nickname, which others started using as well, was pretty comforting to hear.

They weren’t expecting him to bear the weight of the whole team, calling him captain like it meant he had to fix everything all the time. He was just a teammate. And a friend, he liked to think.

Media outlets kept digging deep, though, into both teams. Most thought there was some sort of secret the Metros were hiding, an explanation for the captains sudden departure, but none of Shane’s old teammates made many comments. The ones they did, were usually passive aggressive and indirectly called him a traitor, a liar, or a bad friend. Maybe all of the above.

Reporters staked out the rink, which coach kept closed like usual, not wanting anyone getting in their heads with practices getting so intense. But even so, it was still tough to avoid all the questions entirely. Especially not when they were forced into press events that the team was usually known to skip

“We never have press for picture day,” Ilya muttered, his tone a mix of confusion and annoyance all at once. “I don’t like her.”

Shane glanced at the woman in the corner, taking notes on a pad while Dubek had a few photos and short clips taken for the seasons promotional videos. “She’s not even doing anything right now,” he replied.

“She will,” he stated confidently. “I can feel it.”

He furrowed his brows, watching as the photographer walked around with the camera to show Dubek, then coach for extra assurance that they were good enough. Dubek looked thrilled to finally be done with his. Individual were the worst, for all of them, really. Everyone was always just staring, sometimes heckling a bit playfully in an attempt to make the others break character.

That was another thing Shane had noticed pretty quickly—the Raiders were all phenomenal actors. Annoyed, brutish, assholes because it’s what the league wanted from them, even though together they laughed and joked like every other team did.

Hell, probably more and with better attitudes since their humor didn’t seem to center around truly insulting or attacking anyone, even the other teams.

They’d check the news, comment on some practice videos they saw from New York or Chicago and instead of calling them sloppy or muttering how weak someone looked, they noted how quick one player was and the reaction time of another. They sounded like they had genuine respect for their competitors.

Did the Metros ever do that? Not that Shane could remember. There was some idea that tearing the other teams apart verbally would help bond them emotionally.

“Hollander?” The photographer called.

He snapped his head up, realizing they were all waiting for him to take the group picture. “Oh, sorry,” he murmured, walking over while the assistant’s moved players around according to their heights and who looked best next to each other.

“You alright?” Kane wondered, shuffling a bit to the side as one of the assistants repositioned him.

He nodded. “Yeah, it’s just cold as hell in here,” he replied, rolling his shoulders as the fans blew on them. Kane huffed, nodding in agreement.

In the corner, the reporter jotted something down and Shane felt his stomach churn a bit. Maybe Ilya was right.

One of the assistants turned to her boss. “Do you want Hollander on the left or right?” she questioned.

“Left,” the photographer responded, gesturing towards the other side of Ilya. “We’ll pay homage to their draft picture.”

Ilya huffed, scrubbing his forehead. “Joy,” he murmured in annoyance.

Picture day never was his favorite day; it was all so posed and fake. It made him feel like he was back in elementary school, being touched and primped when he didn’t want anyone’s cold fingertips fussing with his hair.

Marlow moved to the right side of Ilya, letting Shane stand on the left. The photographer nodded, the lineup looking better that way in his eyes. He held his hand up, trying to get them to all pause, standing up straight.

The jokes subsided, smiles dropping into their typical expressions for a moment while the camera went off a few times, the shuttering filling the cold, quiet room.

“I’m getting a drink after this,” Kohn stated through gritted teeth, trying to keep his lips from moving as he had his head angled on his behalf. “Or better yet, ice cream.”

“Me too,” Dubek agreed, holding his breath as the camera shuttered again.

“Place downtown does a twenty scoop bowl,” Carmichael noted, getting his hair pushed a bit further to the side by one of the photographers assistants. “We could split.”

“Team reward for putting up with this bullshit,” Vic agreed. “I’m in.”

Shane’s expression faltered a bit, his attempt at keeping the straight, serious face they asked for failing. He cleared his throat, taking a breath in and trying not to smile as they quietly grumbled through their teeth for the entire photoshoot.

They weren’t his favorite, either. But he was good at them. He had been in enough promotional videos to know how to stand still or when to say his lines.

During Metros pictures, they wanted smiles or laughs that built a sense of comradery for their promos. He was almost so used it that scowling seemed impossible. But he was doing his best.

“Alright, alright, I’ve got enough,” the photographer said, waving them off to dismiss them.

Everyone immediately let out their deep breaths, unflexing their arms, letting their shoulders sag or otherwise relaxing now that he was putting the camera up. Rolling out his neck, Varkov walked over to his bag, checking his phone for a moment.

“Closes at like midnight tonight,” he announced, glancing over his shoulder. To no one's surprise, it seemed. It was downtown Boston, after all. Most places were open until midnight if not later.

There was some clamoring and agreements as everyone started gathering their stuff. Shane huffed, his smile finally breaking through as he tilted his head towards Ilya. “You want to go with them?” he wondered.

He thought about it, shrugging. “Could be interesting,” he admitted, sounding enticed. “I do feel like a reward is deserved after spending five and a half hours here.”

The only time he even had his skates on were for them to take pictures of him lacing them. The suggestion alone had him rolling his eyes and actually going through with it nearly killed him. He would have much rather just spent the day on ice and let them take their pictures that way.

“I could use it, too,” Shane admitted, nodding. “At the very least, I need to spend more time downtown.” Even after two months of living here, he wasn’t very aware of the area and needed to at least try to rectify it.

“We can drive with Connors, then,” Ilya suggested. “Minimal parking downtown and he’s the only one of these idiots I actually trust behind a wheel.”

He loved the guys, really, he did. But they were insane. Even more so than he was himself in the driver’s seat. And if he was going to die, it would not be because of something as stupid as a car crash.

Sane nodded again. They couldn’t drive together alone, but with others in the car, there was no reason for anyone to suspect anything. “Sounds good,” he replied. “Let me just—”

“Mr. Hollander!” the reporter called as he began to turn to gather his stuff.

He winced and Ilya shot him a glare that screamed ‘I told you’ louder than any choice of words possibly could. “—Let me answer that, then I’ll meet up with you,” he muttered, letting out a small sigh as he turned back around, smiling at the reporter with the peppiest grin he could manage.

Ilya grabbed his stuff, leaving with the others but Shane saw him tapping on Connors shoulder, presumably to tell him they had to wait for him. He wasn’t overly shocked that this woman wanted to speak with him, but he had hoped to escape it anyway.

After all, she got quotes from over half the team throughout the day. Maybe he could have managed to wiggle out of it if he had just slipped out a bit faster like Marlow did.

“I just wanted to grab a few quotes from you, if that’s alright?” she wondered.

Saying no wasn’t possible, even if she phrased it like a question.

“Sure,” Shane agreed, planting his hands on his hips and trying to keep a smile on his face like he was always trained to do. “Shoot.”

“Right, well first of all I know a lot of other reporters have asked this but is there any specific reason you chose to sign with the Raiders over extending your contract with the Metros?” she asked, pen gripped tightly in her hand.

He shook his head. “Nope, not really,” he told him. “Same reason I tell everyone else—My contract was up and I wanted a change of pace. I don’t have any resentment towards the team, the management, or the fans. This was just what I felt was best for me.”

“And is it, so far?” she pressed. “You certainly look comfortable in that jersey and with the team too, maybe to a surprising extent.”

Shane shrugged. “It’s a sport where things are always moving and that includes people,” he replied. “The Raiders know that and so do I. We’re all just figuring out a new rhythm and planning to do our best this season.”

She hummed, almost skeptically, looking down to jot something on her notepad. He didn’t quite like that, for some reason, but bit his tongue. Trying to correct or recant his statements always made things worse, never better.

“Do you have any current apprehensions about the upcoming season or your ability to play under Rozanov given your quite public disdain for each other?” she inquired, looking back up. “And if so, could that be a potential weak spot for other teams to exploit?”

Shane nearly scoffed, because animosity was the last thing between his and Ilya. And it showed, when they played. They were in sync, always on the same wave-length, whatever else possibly fit in the area, too.

“Rozanov is and always has been a phenomenal player and a great captain,” he responded earnestly. “I respect that, even if we’ve had our differences in the past. As for weak spots…guess the other teams just have to play us and find out for themselves.”

She nodded slowly, writing it down and underlining it a few times. “So, do you—”

“Actually,” Shane interjected, tilting his head towards the door. “I would really like to get out of here, if that’s alright. My team is waiting on me.”

The woman pursed her lips, flipping the top page of her pad over. “Of course,” she murmured softly. “Thank you for your time.”

He nodded and gave a hum that was lackluster, to say the least, before grabbing his stuff and walking out of the room. Ilya, Connors, and Dubek were there all waiting for him while chatting.

“Sorry, she was grilling me about the upcoming season,” he muttered in annoyance. “I didn’t mean to keep you waiting or—”

“It’s fine,” Connors assured him, sensing he was spiraling into a bit of a tizzy over it. “The others are going to wait for us before ordering so the ice cream won’t melt.”

“Really?” Shane wondered, sounding a bit surprised. Usually, if one person was late, no one waited around without being asked. Unless Hayden counted. But even then, he sometimes forgot.

Dubek nodding, slinging his arm over Shane’s shoulder. “Still, we should hurry,” he insisted with mock urgency. “I can drive, if you want. I always cut the GPS time in half—”

“No!” Ilya exclaimed before he even proposed the idea, shaking his head firmly as he glanced at them from the side.

Maybe he should have felt a bit jealous that another man was hanging off Shane, but he didn’t. Because it was Dubek, and he never meant any harm with his pushiness. Besides, for a man who barely tolerated affection from the Metros, Shane was remarkably alright with being shoulder bumped or having his hair messed up by the team.

Ilya liked the smile it brought him. The way he looked so much more relaxed around the Raiders. Content, even.

He knew that was a bit difficult for him, fully relaxing. Shane wasn’t the kind of guy who ever truly let his guard down unless he was completely alone of felt entirely safe. Both were rare. It came from years of being on camera, different angles trying to catch every micro expression he let slip and spin it to make him look angry, afraid, even envious or disgusted.

Shane managed his face as much, if not more than he managed anything else in life. Including his diet, which was always his way of seeking control when everything felt like it was spinning out.

That’s why Ilya had been so surprised to hear his willingness to partake in something as sugary and energy dense as ice cream. If anything, he would usually get sorbet, maybe something fat-free or low calorie. He supposed it was because he didn’t want to feel left out, but didn’t comment on it.

When they got to shop, the bell on the door chimed as they entered, the smell of cream and sugar filing the mostly empty ice cream parlor. The rest of the team was already, there pointing at the board and discussing some topic that ceased the moment they got there.

“Do any of us know how big this thing actually is?” Connors questioned after they had already ordered, taking a seat at a table while the other guys pushed some together so everyone had room to sit down.

“Eh, part of the fun,” Carmichael retorted, one table bumping against the other until he figured there was enough space. He sat beside him, planting his elbows on the table. “Besides, after that shoot, we deserve every scoop.”

Marlow nodded, humming in agreement as he wedged himself between Varkov and Vic. “What even was that?” he wondered, still a bit confused by the entire afternoon. “Coach never lets press watch during team photoshoots.”

Not the first of the season, anyway. Maybe later on, during designated press days when they opened the rink. But they had plenty of advance notice for those and always acted a very specific way in front of the cameras. Like assholes, really.

That was the easiest way to put it, because, frankly, that’s what was expected. The fights, the crude language, the lack of empathy for anyone including each other. And they were happy to provide the material to make those assumptions. They even liked the persona’s, in a way. It made them a lot easier to write off as brutish and cruel instead of clever or conniving.

“Guess Desjourney is trying to capitalize on Hollzy and Roz,” Vic commented, shrugging. “It’s not that surprising, given their history.”

“We don’t believe it for a second, by the way,” Hammersmith clarified, keeping his voice down a bit as he gestured between the two of them. “I mean sure, you’re both competitive. But c’mon, hatred? It’s an act just like our whole team schtick is.”

Ilya blinked, turning to Marlow. “Schtick?” he repeated slowly, the word sounding a bit odd with his accent.

“A deception, basically,” he explained for him. “It means you play up your rivalry for the cameras because people wanted to see it.”

Understanding dawned in his eyes as Marlow described the word. He couldn’t remember a time when that one had been used around him. At least not directly or recently enough for him to add it to his vocabulary. He quietly repeated it to himself, filing it away in his mind.

“Ah.” He nodded as he got it. “Yes, is exaggerated,” he replied, the admission sounding pretty casual. It was. The team always knew it was a ruse, even if not quite to what extent. They knew Ilya respected Shane as the best player in the league, if not one of the greatest of all times.

“I’m sorry he brought a reporter in,” Shane told them apologetically. “I know it wasn’t what you guys wanted.”

And despite talking to most of them, it somehow still seemed like she was mostly there for him. Which gave them every right to be upset with him for ruining what should have been a private, not to mention quick afternoon getting their season roster pictures updated.

Kane gave him a weird look, just shrugging. “So what?” he questioned rhetorically. “We were inconvenienced for a few hours, no big deal.”

“Yeah, besides you can just say no next time,” Dubek added, looking over Shane’s shoulder as the massive bowl of ice cream seemed to grow taller while being prepared.

He blinked, looking around the table. “Wait- I can?” he asked, sounding skeptical.

Sebbin huffed a laugh, nodding his head as he bumped Shane’s arm. “Of course you can,” he responded, nodding. “Raiders are known to be assholes, remember? We decline media all the time because we want our privacy.”

Shane looked like some sort of epiphany had washed over it. “You guys just…say no?” he repeated, still shocked. “Coach allows it? The media crew doesn’t get upset?”

“I mean, it’s not like we have a huge media team anyway,” Kohn reminded him, also shrugging. “It annoys the hell out of the reporters, but they’re used to it. They print all those bullshit headlines about us being cruel to them and that’s kind of funny.”

Coach swung fifty-fifty on whether or not he cared, really. Sometimes, when they really needed some attention, he would cave and allow a bit of press here and there. But usually, he let the team decline or accept whatever was brought up and if Desjourney disagreed, he just got over it.

Especially since even refusing an interview still impacted their reputations, in a way. The way he wanted, no less. It was good when they declined comments or refused to let people watch their practices. It built the illusion of pomp that brought fans to the rink and kept them coming while they tried to unravel the overall mystery of the team dynamics.

“That’s- wow,” Shane murmured in astonishment, wishing he had known that earlier. He would have tried to refuse whoever that journalist was instead of letting her contribute to such a tense afternoon. “I usually don’t get a choice in media; I’m just forced to do it.”

“You don’t ask for it or anything?” Feller wondered, furrowing his eyebrows. “I would have thought you liked it, given all the sponsorships and stuff you do outside the rink.”

He shook his head. “No, I kind of hate the cameras actually,” he confessed, looking down at the table. “It’s just expected that I take all the brand deals and do all the interviews. The Metros always called me a bit self-obsessed for how many I did, actually.”

Ilya wrinkled his nose. “It is not self-obsessed if you are doing it to please management,” he retorted in disagreement. “You don’t want to be plastered on walls; they want it for you and you want them to be happy. Big name draws in a crowd.”

Shane had, especially recently, become more famous as an advertisement than anything else in his career. People associated him with energy drinks, clothing lines, shoe companies, not his stats. Even in the rink, he was the name they put on merchandise and said was having a great year for jersey sales, not the one they talked about being dedicated or disciplined.

“Well, I don’t how much my opinion matters yet,” Vic told him earnestly. “But I think from an outsider perceptive, you have been a brand not a player for far too long. And I for one am excited to see the cutthroat version you were as a rookie come back out.”

“I second that,” Marlow agreed, dipping his head. “We’ll make an athlete out of you again.”

Shane chuckled slightly, feeling a strange tightness coil in his chest for a moment. It wasn’t quite out of anxiety or fear, though, like usual. It was more like the one he got when he was around Ilya. Comfort, perhaps. Or maybe acceptance?

“Oh, here we go!” Sebbin exclaimed, brightening up as a man brought over a massive glass bowl of ice cream, scoops of different flavors piled high and covered in whipped cream and cherries. “This might make all of this afternoon’s discomfort worth it.”

“Mm, what discomfort?” Kohn noted, playing along as it was set down in the middle. “I can’t even remember what happened today.”

A second waiter set down a plethora of spoons, the metal clinking on the table as the guys all reached to grab one like they’d have to fight for it or something. They were already scanning the bowl, trying to figure out what each flavor was based on the color or toppings around it.

Strawberry, chocolate, vanilla, of course. Rocky road and pecan, too. One looked like cotton candy, Shane was pretty sure.

“No one touches the Rum raisin; it’s mine,” Feller insisted, already spinning the massive glass bowl around so his preferred flavor was closer to him. “I’m calling dibs.”

“I don’t think you’ll have to worry about anyone stealing it,” Kohn retorted, already diving into the pistachio. “You’re the only one here who eats that flavor.” Maybe the only person in all of Boston, for that matter.

He shrugged, scraping his spoon against the ice cream. “Can’t tell why,” he replied, bringing his spoon to his mouth. “It’s the best one.”

There were a few grimaces, even downright disagreements as everyone started listing flavors they considered better. Mint chip, butterscotch, even Bubble gum. Shane just watched, nodding slightly whenever he agreed with one of the comments.

Ilya watched him from across the table, taking a small bite of the nearest flavor. Raspberry, he was pretty sure. Made with fresh fruit, too, since there were seeds in it.

“What’s you favorite flavor, Hollzy?” Vic questioned, gesturing to the massive bowl with his spoon that looked ridiculously small in comparison.

He paused for a moment before shrugging. “I uh- don’t eat a lot of ice cream, honestly,” he admitted cautiously, preparing for a comment about his diet the way JJ or Berkes would always make one.

They’d call it bird food or a form of self-loathing, things like that. He never told them, or anyone, technically, but he kind of agreed deep down. He just tried to pretend otherwise.

Kohn perked up a bit, fighting back Sebbin’s spoon for some of the Salted Carmel ice cream. “Do you prefer cake or cookies or something?” he asked curiously. “I make an amazing bannana bread, too, if you want something healthier than that.”

“You do?” he replied, a bit surprised.

He nodded, finally getting a bit of the flavor and bringing his spoon to his mouth. “Yeah, I have a friend who is super into healthy recipes so I always bake him a loaf for his birthday,” he explained. “It’s got yogurt, protein flour, low-cal sugar, all that stuff. But it actually tastes pretty good because I use honey for a little extra sweetness. Don’t blab it around, though. Secret recipe and all that.”

Shane huffed a small laugh, finding himself picking up the last spoon off the table. “I’ll keep it to myself,” he muttered, glancing at the bowl and reaching to try some of the Oreo flavor that looked like it had crushed pieces in it. “I typically just watch my calories pretty closely, is all. Ice cream is sort of a special thing.”

He brought a small bite to his lips, having almost forgotten how good ice cream tasted. Ilya’s lips twitched into a small, almost proud smile over it. Even though it didn’t really seem like anything terribly significant, it was important to him to see Shane try it. And even more so to see him not immediately regret it.

“Team bonding definitely counts as a special excuse for it,” Dubek replied, digging into the coconut flavor. “Then again, I think most things are a reason for ice cream. I love it,” he muttered with a very serious expression. “Best fucking dessert to exist, bar none.”

Shane laughed, gravitating towards another bite without even realizing it until the flavor was hitting his tongue again. “So, an ice cream cake for your birthday then?” he questioned.

His eyes lit up and he pointed his spoon at him. “You are my new favorite teammate, Hollzy,” he replied firmly, nodding dramatically.

Hammersmith looked around the team a bit, glancing at the window where a few people had stopped outside of the ice cream parlor and were just staring through the glass like they couldn’t be seen if they didn’t come inside. They did that a lot, actually. Which, he supposed was better than if they trampled in and interrupted their conversations.

“We’re gonna be signing shit in a few minutes,” he warned the table, leading to everyone else looking up at the spectators.

“We’re zoo animals,” Vic commented, mildly annoyed but not truly upset as he went back to the bowl of ice cream.

It was something they had all signed up for, after all. Something they also knew a lot of guys dreamed of having happen to them. People would kill to be in their shoes, and they were aware of it. They were just as grateful for the opportunity to play in the NHL as any other team was, they just acted like they weren’t.

Varkov ignored the flash of the camera going off through the glass, having gotten pretty good at focusing when there was a lot of commotion around him. “We are downtown,” he replied, shrugging. “Hard to get away from it.”

Shane glanced at the group of people outside, a small frown of confusion tugging at his lips as his spoon fell from them. “They’re all just standing there,” he noticed. “Why aren’t they coming inside or anything?”

Ilya spun the bowl around a bit. “They’re being respectful,” he replied like it was obvious.

Well, sort of respectful. He didn’t expect them to act like the entire team being in public together without a media crew or their jerseys was totally normal. It obviously wasn’t. But it was polite of them to wait for them to be done rather than intruding on their space.

“Part of the asshole thing,” Feller explained to Shane with a vague gesture of his hand. “If they barge in or crowd around, we don’t give any autographs or pictures. They know they have to be patient and courteous.”

“Plus, we stay and talk with them more when they’re nice,” Marlow added, scraping his spoon against the side of the bowl. “It’s kind of common knowledge around the city.”

It helped that it extended to the rink, too. They didn’t really have to worry about being spotted if they wanted to see the public parts of the arena they didn’t normally get to visit or they could just walk out into the lobby and parking lot before a game if they were bored and wanted to meet some people.

“No one ever oversteps or anything?” Shane wondered, taking another bite of ice cream.

Vic shrugged. “Not often,” he replied, shaking his head. “Every once in a while someone from a visiting city gets rowdy but it’s usually the other fans that call out the behavior.” They didn’t want to spoil it for everyone else because one person got too pushy and invaded their space.

“You guys basically trained your fanbase by being such jerks that they behave in order to get your autographs?” he summarized in a bit of awe. “That’s kind of brilliant.” And a bit hard to comprehend, honestly.

Usually, if the Metros were anywhere together in public, they’d be bombarded until they were blinded by cell phone lights and overwhelmed with shouting. No one would have waited outside if they were at a restaurant or something; they would have to rent the whole place out to avoid the attention.

The fact that the Raiders could just walk in and people would let them, especially downtown of all places, was astounding to him.

“I can’t believe we finished that,” Sebbin noted, finishing the last of the ice cream.

“I can,” Kane replied with a huff, leaving his spoon in the empty bowl. “And now I’m freezing my ass off.” He was actually looking forward to heading outside where it was a bit warmer and honestly, he was looking forward to meeting some fans, too. He always liked those interactions.

Everyone pulled their wallets out and Shane furrowed his brows slightly in confusion, watching as everyone threw a twenty-dollar bill onto the table and Marlow stacked them neatly together. Some even tossed multiple.

That was like at least a four-hundred-dollar tip. Jeez. Shane didn’t consider himself cheap or anything, but he had no idea the team tipped to that extent.

“C’mon,” Ilya muttered, rising to his feet as he slipped his wallet back into his pocket. “I see them getting antsy.”

There was a chuckle from someone Shane couldn’t quite discern and everyone began following him outside, the bell on the door chiming again slightly as they left. He stared for a second, watching how none of the fans crowded them or shoved pens towards them either.

It was the exact opposite, actually. They all took a few steps back, leaving a respectable distance between them and the team while talking to them. Talking. Not clamoring or screaming or shoving phones in their face. Just chatting.

Marlow shook some guys hand and a teenage boy asked Feller something and he stepped closer to take a picture with the kid. A woman held out a pen towards Ilya with a sheepish expression and he nodded, gesturing for her to turn around so he could sign her shirt. It was so casual and low-key that his brain was kind of struggling to comprehend it, honestly.

“Shane?” Dubek commented, staying behind with him. “You alright?”

“Hm? Yeah,” he replied, nodding. “I was just a bit surprised by how relaxed everyone is.” Usually, a crowd made the Metros act like caged animals.

He glanced at the window again. “They’re pretty good to us,” he agreed, looking back at him. “But I was actually talking about the ice cream.”

Shane frowned slightly, confused. “How so?” he questioned.

Dubek gave him a small look, pulling a chair back out and sitting down for a moment. “It’s none of my business, so feel free to tell me to fuck off,” he prefaced gently. “But I recognize that look in your eyes when you were contemplating eating. The language, too, when you said you count calories. You meant you restrict them, right?”

His expression darkened a bit, not quite getting defensive just get but certainly getting caught off guard. People usually didn’t equate his diet to a problem that quickly. They typically only noticed when they saw him checking something most people didn’t think about like a salad dressing bottle or cooking oil.

“It’s all sort of the same thing, isn’t it?” he retorted, shrugging as he tried to downplay it like he had in the past.

“Look, I’m not assuming I know anything about you or your diet,” Dubek clarified, holding his hands up. “I just know I used to struggle with mine pretty badly—checking calories, cutting out stuff I loved eating, trying to defend my choices even when no one asked me to. And I’ve been told it gave me this hollow look in my eyes, kind of like you were getting when we sat down.”

A look of realization flashed across Shane’s eyes. “You did?” he wondered.

He nodded. “It’s not terribly common knowledge, but the team knows about my problem. I had a really hard season a few years back, lost some weight and struggled to put it back on,” he confessed. “I always wished I had been able to talk about it sooner; maybe it wouldn’t have been so hard to bounce back from it.”

The Raiders had, obviously, supported him through it. They never teased or mocked and tried their best to be gentle with their suggestions about dinner. Desserts especially were treated cautiously, offered occasionally and with no pressure to partake while he recovered.

“I’m sorry you- I didn’t know,” he muttered softly. “I’m glad you feel better.”

“You and me both,” Dubek retorted with a soft laugh. “I guess I just wanted to say that if that is something you might think you’re struggling with…talk about it. With me or with Roz, maybe. He helped me find a dietician that I still talk to every once in a while, when I feel like I’m slipping. No pressure, though. I could be totally off base. Maybe you just prefer pie to ice cream for your sweets.”

It was a bit of cop out, a way for Shane to push him away and drop the subject without either of them feeling bad about it if that’s what he wanted to do. Honestly, with Mitty or Wilson or even Hayden, he might have accepted the out.

But something about how gentle Dubek was approaching it, the sincerity in his concern had Shane feeling like maybe it woudn’t be the worst thing in the world to have someone understand him.

“No, I-I do like ice cream,” Shane admitted, nodding slowly. “Just always makes me feel a bit…”

“Guilty?” he assumed correctly, watching him nod. “For me it was cookies. Kohn would bring them to practice, and everyone would have one while I watched and imagined what they tasted like. Sometimes, I even left the room because they smelled so sweet I couldn’t take it.”

“Yeah, guilty. And I uh- feel proud, I guess?” he added hesitantly, grimacing at how strange it sounded. “If I manage to avoid the sugar during a barbeque or something.”

Dubek hummed, something akin to familiarity in his eyes. “If anyone gets that, I do,” he assured him gently. “And I know it’s probably pretty hard to trust a group of relative strangers, especially after the years we’ve spent as rivals, but these guys have your back on and off the ice. I promise.”

Shane nodded slowly, gazing back at the window where Kohn was laughing at something a fan told him and some of the others were still signing whatever people handed them like it wasn’t even the slightest bit of a bother to them. It probably wasn’t, actually. They looked like they were genuinely enjoying the interactions as more people showed up, still trying to give the team their space.

“Yeah, I’m starting to realize that,” Shane murmured softly.

Dubek followed his gaze for a moment before his lips ticked up into a smile. “Let’s go,” he suggested, leaning forward to gently smack his shoulder as he stood up. “I’m sure the fans want to see their new Raider, too.”

He huffed lightly, getting to his feet and following him outside cautiously. He hadn’t really been overly social yet, still a bit nervous about how Boston as a whole was reacting to his choice to move here. Sure, online they were pretty excited. They wanted to win. But him as a person they ran into on the streets was totally different.

Stepping outside, almost everyone’s head turned and he gave a small wave noticing a few people getting a little excited. No one crowded him, though. No one shouted his name or started taking pictures of him.

One girl just introduced herself. “My dad is going to flip that I met you,” she told him, her voice no louder than it would be in a normal conversation. “He actually loves Montreal. It’s his second favorite team after Boston.”

He shook her hand. “I hope he’s okay with the switch,” he muttered.

“It’s the best news he’s heard all year, I think,” she joked, pushing a strand of dark hair over her ear. “Would you mind signing something for him? He won’t believe I met you otherwise.”

Shane nodded. “Yeah, sure,” he told her, taking a pen that had been passed around the team for a few minutes.

Uncapping it, he signed the hem of her shirt, sharpie staining the fabric as he swooped the letters in his name. Once done, he passed the pen back to Vic who signed someone’s phone case, his eyes flitting up to Ilya in the process. Ilya, unsurprisingly, didn’t look the least bit shocked to see people welcoming him so openly and getting excited by his autograph.

· ─ ·✶· ─ · 

It was only a few days before the first game of the season that an article dropped, the title reading, ‘Former Metro star dares other teams to “play us and find out” just ahead of first game of the season.’

Shane wouldn’t say he was furious or anything, but he was a bit peeved that his words had been twisted like that. He sounded, well, like a Raider with that kind of tone. Social media hadn’t been quiet since then. Neither had his parents or Hayden, who wouldn’t drop it, even several days later.

“I told you, I didn’t say it like that!” he exclaimed to his mom, who was standing in his apartment while his dad looked around the place. Snooped was a better word, but he wouldn’t use it out of politeness. “I mean, I did. But it was out of context!”

“Well, it doesn’t matter how you meant to say it, honey; it’s what they printed,” Yuna replied gently. “Now, it’s a few days late but if we address it—”

“What? No,” he insisted, shaking his head. “I’m not addressing anything. If that’s what people think I meant, let them.”

She raised an eyebrow, a bit caught off guard not just by reluctance to try to change the narrative but the outright refusal. He was usually just as worried as she was about his public image, always wondering if the sponsorships looked good or if his approval rating were falling.

“Wow, Boston has changed you,” she murmured softly, looking around his apartment a bit. It was small. Very small. And he still wasn’t fully unpacked, for some reason.

“No, it hasn’t,” Shane muttered quietly, shrugging his shoulders. “I just don’t care about a headline as much. I want to play; it’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

He forgot that for a while. Becoming a brand had stripped away the part of him that was, at his core, meant to be on the ice not in a studio.

His mom hummed slightly, fingertips still clutched around the handle of her suitcase. “Publicity aside,” she clarified. “Are you going to show us the guest room?”

Shane let out a slow breath, nodding his head and taking her bag from her. “Yeah, it’s down the hall,” he told her, taking her stuff that direction.

“Hm, I’m surprised this place is big enough for a hallway,” she murmured, following him. Rightfully so, too, since his idea of a hallway was a tiny, rather inconvenient corner that blocked off the view of the guest room door.

He put her stuff by the bed, backing out of the room and turning to grab his dad’s bags too. Meanwhile, she looked around a little, her gut telling her something about this whole apartment was off. Shane was clean, sure, but this place looked practically untouched.

And frankly, it was. This was only the third time he had ever actually stepped inside of it since moving to Boston.

The first was to put some spare boxes of things he wouldn’t need after moving in with Ilya, the second was when his parents wanted to facetime and see the place so he had to drive over there, and the third was right now as they planned to stay with him for the week and watch the first few games of the season.

Which meant now, instead of going home to his boyfriend, he was stuck living the apartment he technically rented for the next seven days. Ilya wasn’t exactly pleased about it, but given how much more time they got together these days, he was much more willing to share his time with them.

“Okay, that’s pretty much everything you brought, right?” Shane asked, clasping his hands together. “I know you just got here, but I promised I’d be at the rink early for an extra practice and some strategy before the first game so…”

He didn’t quite tell them he had to leave, but the message was pretty damn clear.

“Go,” David told him, tilting his head towards the door. “It’ll give me time to convince your mom that wearing a Boston shirt won’t kill her.”

She rolled her eyes and Shane huffed. “I think it might,” he admitted, noticing her lingering apprehension. “I’ll see you guys later tonight; everyone should already be expecting you but tell them who you are if they’re being difficult.”

Yuna nodded slightly, wondering exactly who all he told about their visit and what his new teammates thought about it. “See you tonight.”

He grabbed his keys, looking practically thrilled to leave his own apartment as he closed the door behind him with a bit more force than necessary. She knew things had been moving quickly for him, that practice was grueling and his new coach was a piece of work, to say the least. But he was so standoffish from the moment he picked them up from the airport and it was just so strange.

The calls they had with him since he moved to Boston were strange too, usually cut short or sometimes temporarily paused when he started to laugh or hush someone in the background. His team, he claimed, but considering how small his apartment was, it was doubtful he could fit many of them in here.

And not to be called nosey or anything, but his closet didn’t have as many clothes as it should, his favorite shoes weren’t in there either. To say nothing of his awards, which weren’t hanging on the wall. Nothing was. It was practically bare, sans the furniture it came with.

Still, she tried to let it go. She reluctantly wore a Raiders jersey for the first time in her life, which she had sworn repeatedly she would never do and stepped into their arena with her husband and as much hope as she could manage.

“It’s this way, right?” David murmured, pointing down a hallway towards a restricted area.

“Probably,” she muttered, nodding in agreement as she walked with him.

They passed one man, a security guard, who looked like he was close to telling them to leave before some epiphany dawned on him and stayed put. She guessed Shane really did mention they were coming to watch him play.

Down the hall, there was loud clamoring outside. None of the team were in the locker room quite yet, just standing outside in the corridor and laughing about something.

“No, no, no! That doesn’t fucking count, Sebbin!” Marlow claimed, pointing an accusatory finger at him. “We’re starting again.”

“I didn’t touch it!” Sebbin defended, smacking Feller slightly. “He’s lying to you and you’re all buying it.”

Yuna and David paused, stopping a bit further back and watching them from afar as the entire team stood in a wide circle around each other. Shane was standing in between Marlow and Rozanov, wearing a Raiders hoodie and rolling his eyes like he had already gotten used to their nonsense.

Shane huffed, gesturing towards the soccer ball in Marlow’s arms. “Just kick it,” he insisted, refocusing. “Not at Sebbin, though. He cheats.”

The laughter continued for a moment but as soon as Marlow bumped the soccer ball towards Varkov, it died down. Keeping the ball from hitting the ground, he tapped his heel against it and it bounced towards Kane who smacked it with his elbow in Vic’s direction. They both stepped back, leaving the circle.

Vic shuffled a bit, bending and knocking it off the top of his head. It flew towards Hammersmith who stepped back and kicked it off his knee in the direction of Connors. He made a panicked sound, hitting it off the side of his shoulder before retreating from the circle.

It shot back at Shane who stepped towards it, lifting his leg to kick it off the side of his shoe towards Sebbin. Finally playing by the rules, Sebbin left the circle after he bopped the soccer ball with his elbow towards Ilya, who bounced it on his knee for a moment while glancing around at who was left. He knocked it towards Carmichael, who hit it back towards Dubek with his head. Jumping back, he kicked it with the tip of his toe towards Kohn, who elbowed it towards Feller.

A few more moments and the rest of the guys slowly left the circle until Zadonsky was left. He caught the ball on the tip of his shoe, kicking it into the air and Shane lunged to catch it as the clamoring erupted again.

“Only four tries tonight!” Kane praised, slapping Shane on the back. “Not a bad pregame at all.”

“Better than the night we had to do it seventeen times,” Hammersmith retorted, taking the ball from Shane and tossing it at Sebbin, who caught it and tucked it under his arm.

“That was not my fault!” he exclaimed. “It’s human nature to want to use your hands when something is flying at your face.” They didn’t even wear helmets during their pregame ritual!

Ilya rolled his eyes right until they landed on David and Yuna. He physically stiffened a bit, tapping Shane on the shoulder and motioning towards them. He followed his gesture, noticing them with a look of, well, many things. Excitement, probably. Also a bit of panic since he hadn’t seen them sooner.

He pushed through the team, quickly rushing over to them. “You made it,” he noted, a bit out of breath.

Yuna nodded. “Of course, we said we’d be here early,” she reminded him, glancing over his shoulder at the guys as they began to settle down a bit. “What was all that?”

“Hm? Oh, just a pregame thing,” Shane explained with a shrug. “Everyone has to keep the ball from hitting the ground without using their hands until the entire team has gone.”

It was meant to help them get into some sort of collaborative mood or something, he supposed. He wasn’t quite sure. But it was fun. Way better than the Metros pregame rituals of screaming their energy out in the locker room.  

“Sounds…questionable,” she murmured, contemplating it. Didn’t that wear them out a bit? Should they be playing games before an actual game? The first of the season, no less.

“She means interesting,” David corrected, squeezing her shoulder.

“Uh- right, well did you guys want to meet my team?” Shane wondered, pointing his thumb over his shoulder.

They, honestly, weren’t sure. Yuna wasn’t anyway. Her husband nodded a bit quickly, though, pushing her towards them since her feet wouldn’t move on their own. They were still a bit rowdy, but had calmed down a little, too, seeing them walking over.

She was expecting some of this, the loudness and the foul language. That was pretty standard. She also expected them to force their smiles and maybe awkwardly shake her hand the way some of the Metros did in the past because she was, apparently, a bit intimidating to them.

Instead, though, Kohn was quick to wrap his arms around her in a full-blown hug.

“Oh! Hi?” she murmured, a bit surprised. “It’s…nice to meet you?”

He pulled back. “We love your son, ma’am,” he said firmly. “Or Mrs. Hollander? Do you like Yuna?” he questioned. “Mama Hollzy?”

Varkov smacked him on the back of the head. “Ignore him; he’s always overhyped before a game,” he explained. “But he’s also not wrong, we’re very big fans of your son. And you.”

“Me?” Yuna repeated as they crowded around her a bit.

Shane, she could understand. He was a brilliant player and she liked to think he was an incredible person, too. Even outside of hockey. But her? What on Earth did they know about her to receive this kind of welcome?

“You bargained for his contract with us, right?” Hammersmith muttered, nudging her son’s shoulder. “We get him for three whole years because of you.” His voice was tinged with a mix of enthusiasm and gratitude.

“Yeah, we’re thinking of putting up a statue or hanging a picture in your honor,” Connors noted. “You basically gave us the key to the cup this season.”

“Woah, let’s not get overdramatic,” Ilya interjected, gesturing to himself. “Am still here, you know? We’ve won it before; are not total losers.”

Hollander rolled his eyes again, huffing in amusement as he bumped his shoulder against Ilya’s fondly. “We’re sure as hell not losing this season, though,” he murmured, a smile tugging at his lips. “We’re gonna win it together.”

His own mouth lifted slightly, nodding in agreement. “Of course we are,” he agreed. “Have all the best players in the league on my team. …Plus Sebbin.” There was a loud cackling as Sebbin tried to reach over to hit him. Ilya laughed, shoving his hand away and tugging him towards him to throw his arm over his shoulder. “Kidding! Would not be complete without you, here.”

Shane laughed, fussing with the strands of his Raiders hoodie as he caught his mom and dad’s gazes again. Something in them had shifted from being weary to almost having a realization of sorts, but what exactly they were realizing, he couldn’t be sure.

Maybe just the fact that he was happy. That moments before a game, he was laughing. Not stressing or sitting in silence to prepare for it like he usually did, but joking and kicking a ball around with his team.

From the locker room, someone called out, “Twenty minutes before face off!” without ever leaving it.

“Ah, serious time,” Ilya muttered, unhooking Sebbin and clapping his hands for a moment. “Come on! Let’s get it together and focus,” he insisted, shooing them towards the locker rooms. “First game sets the tone for the whole season, and I want to start it off right this year!” With a win, of course. Nothing else would be acceptable.

Nodding along, they all filtered into the locker room to change into the gear and take a few minutes to actually review their game plan. Not that it was needed, after they had gone over it so many times.

Shane lingered for a moment, unsure what else to say to his parents. “I’ll uh- I’ll meet you after the game, same spot?” he muttered, still fussing with the tassels of his sweatshirt.

They both nodded. “Yeah, of course,” David told him.

With another quick smile, he followed the others into the locker room, shouting something that didn’t quite carry well enough for his parents to hear as the door slammed shut behind them. They caught the tone, though. Light, excited. Something that he never really had before.

Yuna let out a slow breath, turning to her husband. “Well, that was…wow,” she murmured in disbelief.

“I know,” he replied, somehow not needing her to say anything else to understand exactly what she was thinking and feeling.

Their son, who was dedicated to the point of obsession and so hard on himself that hockey had grown into something that made him a bit short-tempered to discuss, was laughing before a game. Not a fake one, either. A real, wide grin. Because of the Raiders.

· ─ ·✶· ─ · 

The Raiders won that night against Baltimore. They won two days later, too, against Miami.

News articles got published the moment both wins happened, homing in on the teamwork they showed and trying to spin it into some drama that didn’t really need to exist. They questioned if it was skill or luck, if Shane and Ilya were faking their collaboration on the ice or if ten years of publicly hating each other could really dissipate that fast.

Shane didn’t pay attention to most of it, but his mother read every single article.

“Is it a respect thing or a likability thing?” she wondered, pressing a paperback book on top of the suitcase she was packing up as their visit came to an end. “Because likability, I don’t understand. But respect…I also struggle to get.”

He huffed, glancing up from his phone as he texted Ilya. “Both,” he replied. “He’s not that bad, once you know him. It’s all just…kind of an act for the cameras.”

And that was true. It was an act. No one quite understood the extent of it, but he didn’t need them to. They could think what they wanted.

Yuna hummed, still skeptical. “He’s a good leader, I’ll give him that much,” she admitted begrudgingly. “And you did seem to have fun the last two games.”

“I always have fun,” Shane murmured.

She didn’t comment on the response, but she also didn’t need to. They both knew what she was thinking. Not like that. He had a good time, sure. He liked being the best, liked the adrenaline rush, liked the rules. But he hadn’t enjoyed it the way he did this week for a long time.

“Well, I wish we could stay and watch tonight’s game,” she noted in disappointment. “But we’ve monopolized your apartment for long enough, so after breakfast, we’ll be out of your hair.”

That meant he could, finally, drive home to Ilya and sleep in their bed tonight instead of on a stiff, cold mattress he didn’t even like. And even as he tried to hide his relief, it still came through pretty clear.

“Hey, I could- I mean, I could ask Ilya to join us,” he suggested hesitantly. “For breakfast, I mean. He knows downtown better than me, anyway. Might know a good restaurant.”

Yuna froze a bit in the middle of zipping up her suitcase, looking over at her son with a look of surprise. It was their last day in Boston, really just their last few hours, and she wasn’t sure if she wanted to spend it having a meal with someone she despised.

“Just…to eat?” she wondered, almost confused. “Are you trying to convince me to like him or something?”

Shane shrugged slightly. “I don’t know, maybe. He’s my captain, now. It’d be nice if you could at least be civil with him,” he admitted. “You don’t have to, though. It was just a suggestion.”

“No, no it- if you want to, then we’ll do it,” she replied cautiously, giving him a slow nod. “If you think he would want to, that is. I wouldn’t want to make him go out of his way—”

“It’s not, he hasn’t eaten yet,” Shane assured her quickly.

She glanced at the phone in his hand, realizing he must have been texting Rozanov the entire time they were talking and not, well, literally anyone else, her mind conjured up. “Alright, then,” she agreed.

Zipping her suitcase the rest of the way up, she tilted it up, feeling a lump of dread begin to form in her stomach. Breakfast with Rozanov. Was that something her son did very often? She knew he was the captain and all that, but that didn’t necessarily mean they had to become buddies.

Or maybe it did. Maybe they were trying to put their rivalry in the past. Maybe being seen with her son would give Rozanov some good publicity for a change and that’s why he was so willing to accept having him on his team.

She wasn’t quite sure. All she knew was that less than half an hour later, she was sitting across from him in a little café with a name too obscure to have found it through an internet search.

Rozanov looked…softer in person, out of his jersey. Like he was relaxed when he wasn’t in front of a dozen cameras or thousands of fans. It was strange, to say the least, to see her son go from avoiding him at events to sitting beside him at the table.

“Just water, please,” Rozanov told the waitress. “Thanks.”

Wow, she thought to herself. A please and thanks. Those were manners she didn’t know he had, especially not towards anyone in customer service.

“So, this is a nice little place,” David muttered, glancing around the restaurant. It was small but not overly crowded. The outdoor patio helped with that. “Do you come here often?”

Rozanov tipped his head back and forth uncertain how to answer. “Not too much,” he admitted. “I usually cook at home, actually. But it’s nice here, good food. One of the first places I found on my own without team recommendations or Zagat guide.”

And at the time, when he moved to Boston, that had been something he took a decent bit of pride in. It was tough to navigate the city in general, even harder when he had barely spoken the language and tended to take a teammate everywhere to help him translate.

“They have amazing waffles,” Shane told his parents, glancing at the menu. “You can get them with anything added.”

David’s eyes widened a bit at the mention of what was typically an item his son refused to eat. He often claimed it had too much sugar and there were too many carbohydrates in them. That it would take too long to burn off the calories, and he would be slow for practice if he ate any.

“Waffles huh?” he repeated, closing his menu. “I do like them.”

His son huffed slightly, nudging Ilya. “Once, when I was kid, my dad and I overfilled the waffle maker so badly we couldn’t open it,” he told him. “And even after unplugging it, it kept burning and the smoke alarms went off while my mom was on a phone call. Furious would be an understatement for her reaction.”

Ilya chuckled, lips tugging into a smile. “Oh, golden boy actually got in trouble for something huh?” he mused with fake surprise. “I didn’t know that was possible.”

Shane snorted, looking back down at the menu for a moment. “Yeah, well, I have my moments,” he clarified, sounding casual about it. Like admitting his flaws wasn’t something overwhelming and nearly impossible. It was just a fact that he wasn’t perfect, even if he had spent a decade trying to prove otherwise.

Yuna stared at him. How calm he looked and how easy it seemed to be to admit to his fallibility and share childhood memories with Rozanov. Did she ever hear him do that with the Metros? Did they know about his hockey scrapbook or his worst fears? Did Rozanov know that, for that matter?

As the waitress came back over, they ordered starting counterclockwise with Yuna and ending with Ilya who took Shane’s menu and handed it back over stacked on his own. She lingered for a moment by their table, her lips pulling into a tight, almost embarrassed line.

“Uh- you probably get this a lot,” the waitress noted. “But I’m a huge fan and I was actually at the game on Wednesday. You were- well, it was a good game, is all. I hope you guys win tonight, too.”

They both smiled, but she turned to take their orders to the kitchen before either of them could say something in response. Hm, they’d just have to thank her later or leave a nice tip. Probably both.

“That was sweet,” Yuna murmured, sipping her coffee.

David furrowed his brows. “Which one of you was she talking about?” he questioned, slightly confused.

Ilya and Shane glanced at each other shrugging at the same time.

“Probably you,” Shane assumed. “She couldn’t be a fan of mine if I’ve been in Montreal for a decade.” Roz had a pretty steady following, after all, since he had been here so long.

Ilya made a sound of disagreement. “You know the second you became a Raider, everyone flipped, right?” he reminded him. “You are big star no matter who you play for, Hollzy.”

He rolled his eyes slightly. “Now you’re calling me that, too?” he wondered.

“I thought you liked that nickname?” Ilya wondered, tilting his head a bit. “Vic called pass with it on Wednesday, and you responded to it on ice.”

Yuna’s eyes bounced back and forth between them. He did? She knew that was something the guys had taken to calling him but had no idea he was that receptive to it. She just heard it once or twice when meeting up with him after the game when the team said their goodbyes for a night. They hadn’t been wearing mics on the ice or else maybe she would have caught the name again.

“No, I do like it,” Shane assured him, nodding. “I just figured you’d stick to Shane or Hollander.”

“Могла бы называть тебя своей любимой,” he murmured, reaching for his water and taking a sip. “Но я не думаю, что вы бы одобрили это публично.”

Shane barely kept his eyes from popping out at the comment. “Probably not,” he agreed in English, staying calm. “At some point, though,” he added, his tone dipping into something that sounded almost disappointed.

His father blinked at him from across the table. “You speak Russian, now?” he wondered.

“Hm? No, I- well, I’m picking it up,” Shane explained weakly. “A lot of the guys know it because Varkov and Kovalev will talk shit to each other in private and they don’t like being left out.”

So did Ilya, for that matter. But he tried not to talk in Russian too much, not because he was being polite but because terms of endearment had always slipped out easier in his mother tongue and he never wanted to risk forgetting there were others on the team who would know what he was saying if it ever came out. It was safer to try to avoid his language for the most part when they were with the team.

“He’s very good at it,” Ilya muttered, nudging him gently. “Say something.”

He huffed, shaking his head. “My pronunciation is really not great,” he insisted. “I know what you’re talking about, not how to respond.”

“Try,” Yuna encouraged, propping her chin against her palm as she watched her son curiously.

“Uh- Я с нетерпением жду возвращения домой сегодня вечером,” Shane said, glancing at Ilya who bit back a smile.

“я тоже,” he murmured. “Pronunciation was almost perfect.”

He pinched his fingers together for emphasis and Shane shrugged lightly, tapping his fingers on the table for a moment or two. Yuna could swear she saw him taking a deep breath, like he was trying to relax for some reason. She had never particularly wished to know Russian until that specific moment, but now she did. Badly.

“Well, I’m certainly impressed,” David muttered with a tinge of pride. “Russian can’t be an easy language to learn.”

Ilya shook his head. “Is very difficult, yes,” he agreed. “All languages are, though, I think. English still has words that are uh- punchy sometimes?”

Or metaphors. He truly hated those for many years. He never knew when to believe one of them was real or when his teammates were just messing with him. Especially when they played in the South.

 “I can imagine,” David noted, nodding slightly.

The waitress came back, four plates balanced on a single tray, and began setting them down for everyone. Yuna’s eyes widened a bit at the size of the waffles her husband and son had both gotten or perhaps more so at how excited Shane looked to take it from the waitress.

She wouldn’t go as far to call her son’s tendencies to restrict himself an eating disorder because, frankly, she worried about the implications of a real diagnosis. But she suspected it for at least two years and with how much worse his limitations got, she seriously considered broaching the subject to him.

But now, well, he was cutting into his waffles like he planned to eat the entire thing. He even knocked Rozanov’s fork away when he tried to steal some.

“You got boring food, deal with it,” Shane mumbled in mock annoyance as he tried to keep Ilya from stealing his food.

Ilya just kept trying to get around his silverware, jabbing his own fork into the waffle. “Just want to try it,” he insisted, murmuring the words quietly. “Learn to share for God’s sake.”

“I share fine when I’m properly asked,” he defended, reaching to grab Ilya’s wrist and keep him from eating the piece he stole. Snatching it off the end of his fork with his teeth, he chewed a bit, talking through a full mouth. “You didn’t ask.”

They usually ate the same thing as eat other for breakfast, but for dinner if they ordered in they’d get separate meals and share. It was probably why Ilya hadn’t thought to request permission to try any of his waffle.

Ilya huffed. “You stole it,” he exclaimed in slight disbelief.

“It was my waffle!” he retorted, reaching for his lemonade and sipping it. “It’s delicious, by the way. Crispy edges.”

He rolled his eyes. “Пошёл на хуй,” he complained, gesturing to the plate. “May I have a piece of your waffle please?” He sounded a bit petty over it, like he was doing it to comply not genuinely asking.

Shane nodded, sliding his plate towards Ilya with ease to share it. “Have as much as you want,” he replied, nodding towards his plate. “Can I have some of your eggs?”

Ilya hummed, barely even acknowledging the request.

Yuna watched them squabble a bit, though unlike in the past, there wasn’t any real animosity behind it. They were laughing. Sharing. They almost forgot they weren’t alone, it felt like.

“So, um…the game tonight,” she mentioned, dipping her spoon into the fruit parfait she ordered. “Any idea what the lineup looks like?”

Ilya shook his head. “Not yet,” he replied. “But soon. Before our practice later ends, probably.” Coach would have to give it out before the hard dead line dropped, at least, and usually tried to put it out a bit sooner as a little psychological warfare for the other team.

“I might be late,” Shane added, gesturing across the table. “I was gonna drop them off at the airport.” Even if they insisted, they could grab a cab, he just couldn’t allow it. It felt wrong not saying goodbye to them there. “Probably get there twenty after?”

He nodded, finally pushing his plate back towards him and digging into his own meal. “I’ll tell him,” he replied casually.

Yuna refused to let her eyes widen again because they had already been doing that far too much all morning. All week, really. She saw Boston natives asking for her son’s autograph, thrilled to have him as a Raider, she read the articles praising how well he worked with the team, she heard the commentators complimenting how well the new jersey fit him.

Everything seemed so…picturesque. But she knew how hard coaches could be in the major leagues. Being late to practice wasn’t acceptable, especially not for something as trivial as a trip to the airport.

And yet, Rozanov wasn’t worried about him being late. He wasn’t worried about breaking the news to their coach or being yelled at over it, either. This whole thing just kept her brain spinning in circles she couldn’t quite seem to figure out.

She was pretty sure her mind didn’t settle once for the entire breakfast, not even when Ilya got up to take a phone call from Kohn. It should have, probably. But her son, started to look a little stiff in his absence, glancing up to the keep an eye on him like he’s disappear as he stepped away from the patio even though he was still in eyeline.

It wasn’t until after they paid the check—Rozanov technically, which she wasn’t sure how to feel about—that things seemed to clear up for her.

Shane pulled his jacket on, shoving his hands in his pocket. “I’ll text you when I’m heading towards the rink,” he muttered. “I know you’re not going to see it, though so I don’t know why I’m gonna bother.”

Ilya shrugged. “Because you’re you,” he replied simply, setting down a few twenty-dollar bills for a decent tip. Around 35%, he was pretty sure. “я тебя люблю,” he added, hushing his voice slightly.

Shane glanced at him. “я тоже тебя люблю,” he responded, trying to keep his tone casual, like it was just a normal way to end a conversation.

Maybe he could tell them it was some Russian goodbye he was learning about or something stupid like that. His parents had never even been to Russia, let alone knew anything about the culture or language.

But Yuna didn’t need the words to make sense of them; she heard the repetition, the slight deviation towards the end like he was editing it just a tinge. It was comfortable, sure. But Ilya was expecting a very specific response, too. A declaration, of sorts.

She watched as Rozanov turned and left the restaurant, no doubt heading to the rink earlier than necessary. He was a lot of things, but she would never claim he wasn’t dedicated. And now, she was starting to think he might be in love with her son.

The entire drive to the airport, Yuna was silent. She hummed in response when her son asked something, forced a chuckle when her husband made a joke, did everything she could to act normal. But inside, she felt jittery. Overwhelmed, even.

It all began to make sense in her head, the sudden insistence to switch teams and Shane’s certainty about the Raiders treating him right. Why he hadn’t even checked the contract before signing it and why his apartment looked like it made him uncomfortable to be in.

Shane parked, helping his dad with their bags to keep his mom from carrying anything. The airport was just as busy, if not worse than Montreal’s. They took a lot of international flights, keeping the foot-traffic from every lightning up.

“I’ll check our bags,” David muttered, dragging them towards a long line at the proper counter.

Yuna nodded, watching him step away for a moment before she reached out and gently grasped her son’s shoulder. “Shane,” she murmured, pulling him to the side, towards a quieter corner of the airport. “Can we talk?”

He frowned a bit, nodding. “Sure,” he replied skeptically, noticing the drastic shift in her expression. “About what?”

She inhaled, glancing around them like she was trying extremely hard not to blurt out everything that was on her mind. “Look I- I could be completely wrong, here,” she prefaced. “But everything about your decision to move to Boston and join the Raiders, is it…because of Rozanov?” she questioned softly.

Shane’s face flashed with a mix of emotions, most prominently surprise and, strangely enough, relief. “I- what?” he wondered, sounding caught off guard.

Yuna got the sense that while he wasn’t willing to blatantly advertise it, he was hinting at this for a while, hoping they would notice without needing to be told. Maybe she had just missed the signs he needed her to see a whole lot sooner, like how uncomfortable he felt when a nice girl flirted with him or how he subconsciously angled his body towards Rozanov throughout breakfast.

Hell, even inviting him to breakfast at all had clearly meant something. It might have been called an attempt for them to get to know their son’s new captain, but she was pretty damn sure it was more for them to meet their son’s boyfriend.

“Honey, I’m not going to force you to admit anything,” she assured him, blowing out a slow breath. “Just- can you answer one question for me?”

Shane hesitated, pausing. “Okay,” he responded, his voice barely audible above the clatter around them in the busy airport.

Yuna took a moment, almost unable to even believe she was asking him this at all. “You don’t…live at that apartment, do you?” she whispered.

He practically froze, tension coiling in his shoulders as he mouthed the word, ‘no’, unable to even say it out loud.

She sucked in a deep breath, wrapping her arms around them. “Oh, Shane,” she muttered, squeezing him tightly. She didn’t really know what else to say to him. “Sweetheart, you could have said something,” she muttered. “Your dad and I- we could have made this so much easier for you.”

She could have helped him move. Really move, to wherever he was actually living here in Boston. And maybe she wouldn’t have monopolized him so much, or actually asked Ilya about himself over breakfast and gotten to know him better. Not just as a good player but as someone who her son clearly cared about enough to want to introduce them, even if was under pretense.

He pulled away from the hug, rubbing his eyes. “I’m sorry—”

“No,” she interjected, not even letting him apologize for a single moment. “You have nothing to be sorry for, okay? I should have known. I’m your mom, it’s my job to know who you are and I- I didn’t.”

“Of course you do, mom,” Shane insisted. “You do know me, just not…all of me.”

Yuna squeezed his arm, nodding. “I want to, though. I want to know who you are and who you love,” she assured him, her face twisting as she tried not to cry. “He’s gotta be pretty special to give up everything for.”

Her son got that look in his eyes, perhaps one she never really connected the dots too, before. One he got whenever Rozanov became the topic of conversation. She always thought it was avoidance, like he didn’t want to discuss it. But now she knew she’d been misinterpreting it this whole time. It was only ever fondness.

“That’s just it,” he explained, shaking his head. “I don’t feel like I gave anything up, I feel like I- I got everything I wanted.”

Her shoulders sagged in sudden relief as the pieces all settled into place so well. His attitude, his eating habits, his whole routine was different. And that was intentional. He told her months ago, this would be a good thing for him and she had been skeptical about it at the time. But clearly, she shouldn’t have been.

“That’s all we want,” Yuna promised him. “We want you to be happy and to love hockey instead of feeling like you have to play it because it’s expected because you- you have always done what’s expected. You deserve to do what you want, for a change.”

No matter what that entailed or who it was with.

· ─ ·✶· ─ · 

That night, the Raiders won again. Three for three in the first few games of the season. And when Shane got home and his parents called to congratulate him, he didn’t leave the room to keep them from hearing Ilya on accident. He didn’t exactly announce he was there, either. But he figured small steps were better than none at all.

And over the next week, he got a bit better about dropping him into conversations, mentioning certain couple-like activities as casually as he could. They developed a pretty steady routine where Ilya did most of the grocery shopping and cooking, whereas Shane cleaned and preferred doing laundry.

Throwing every color in existence into a washing machine and hoping for the best didn’t quite cut it for him, after all.

They lost when traveling to Vancouver but won in Indianapolis and blew New York out of the water on their own rink. Which meant, overall, they still only had one officially loss two weeks into the season. It was a solid start, to say the least.

“I think we deserve a night to ourselves after that game,” Kane admitted, towel drying his hair in the locker room as the arena started to empty out with mostly pleased fans.

“Isn’t every night a night to yourself?” Carmichael retorted, a teasing lilt in his voice as he nudged past him to get to his own locker.

Kane gave him a soft shove as he chuckled, along with a few other teammates. “I meant all of us and you know it,” he countered, rolling his eyes as he reached for a clean shirt and tugged it over his head. “I’ll buy the first round for everyone aside from Carmichael.”

“If my drink is paid for, I’m in,” Hammersmith agreed easily, nodding along as he packed his bag up. “We haven’t really gone out this season, so far.”

Granted they were only six games into the season, but they usually went out around the third just to kick off the season right. He supposed winning so much right off the bat kind of was the celebration, recently, though.

“You’re so easy, Smitty,” Sebbin muttered, laughing under his breath as he laced his shoes up, balancing on one leg. “You’d get an elective surgery for fun if it was already paid for you.”

He shrugged, not disagreeing. “If it gave me a sick scar, sure,” he claimed casually, zipping up his duffle. “I go where the wind blows.”

There were a few more chuckles and Shane shook his head wearily, eyes flitting up and down between the room and his phone as he sent a text to his mom. She was no less strict about checking in now that he was in Boston as she was when he lived in Montreal. Especially since he’d gotten into a bit of a spat with the referee over a penalty he didn’t think he should have had.

But that was neither here nor there.

“What about you?” Vic wondered to him, fussing with his socks as he sat on the bench nearest to their cubbies. “Want to join?”

Shane hesitated, thinking of a polite way to decline. “Clubs and bars aren’t really my thing,” he admitted apologetically. “I don’t drink during the season and it’s kind of tough to be as enthusiastic as everyone when you’re not drunk.”

He shrugged. “Fair enough,” he replied, pulling his shoes on. “But, for the record, we’re never drunk when we go out.”

He scoffed, a disbelieving expression tugging at his lips unintentionally. “No offense, Vic, but I’ve seen videos of you guys celebrating,” he reminded him with a knowing glare. “It’s like a frat party on steroids.”

Vic’s jaw dropped, the comment a bit out of character but very much appreciated. He liked that Shane was getting more comfortable with them, even if it meant taking a few jabs. “I’m serious!” he exclaimed, glancing at the others for some support. “Guys, tell him we don’t get drunk when we go out.”

Varkov nodded, confirming what he was saying as the truth. In fact, Shane watched as all of them nodded. Not just one or two, but the whole room. Convincingly, no less. None of those overexaggerated or joking nods they gave to be funny.

“He’s telling the truth,” Dubek clarified, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “We stick to a pretty strict two drink limit during the season unless it’s a long weekend or a holiday.” Sometimes they also went over limit on someone’s birthday, too. But those were pretty much the only times.

“Seriously?” Shane questioned, putting his phone down on the shelf in his cubby. “But you guys are always so…” he trailed off, grimacing slightly as every word sounded too crass to accuse them of.

“Hammered?” Marlow offered up. “We give that illusion, yeah. It’s mostly a lot of pent-up energy that gets more hectic the later we’re out,” he admitted, shrugging.

“We don’t push two drinks because losing control in public could be bad press,” Varkov explained with a vague gesture of his hand. “And we don’t want to risk stupid drunk injuries or hangovers if we have travel days or practice.”

Shane glanced at Ilya like he was seeking confirmation about it and wasn’t just being teased. The Raiders didn’t really pull off elaborate pranks, though. At least not between each other. He was pretty sure they wouldn’t joke about something like this.

“It looks chaotic to the public because we like it too,” Ilya assured him, his hand in his hair as he scrunched some of his curls that were damp from the post-game shower he just took. “We have fun because we like each other, not because of alcohol.”

“Well, a little alcohol,” Kohn replied, pinching his fingers for emphasis. “Kane is paying, remember?” They couldn’t just let the opportunity pass him by.

“We’ll keep it low-key tonight, in case you choose to join us,” Vic promised earnestly as he finished gathering his stuff up. “Totally optional, though.”

Shane hummed softly, meeting Ilya’s gaze again for a moment. He just shrugged, as if silently conveying that it was his choice. If he wanted to go out with the team, they’d go. If not, they could stay home together and make dinner and watch a movie like they usually did.

“I’ll uh- I mean maybe I can join for a little bit,” he eventually told them, a bit hesitant. “As long as drinking isn’t mandatory or anything.”

Feller wrinkled his nose, shaking his head. “Of course it’s not,” he replied. “People think we’re crazy, it doesn’t mean we are.” Pressuring someone into drinking wasn’t their style, especially not if it was clear they didn’t like doing it.

Shane’s shoulders slouched back a bit, almost relieved in a way a few of them noticed. Including Ilya, of course. He noticed everything these days. It was both an exhilarating and slightly off-putting habit, frankly.

He thought that was the end of it, as they filed out of the locker room, all heading to their cars for the night. But it wasn’t. The second he got home, somehow several minutes after Ilya despite leaving a few minutes earlier, the topic got brought up again.

Shane barely had the chance to set his bag down on the table in their bedroom before he was being questioned about it, the slight relief in his expression from earlier still lingering in Ilya’s mind even after half an hour of traffic.

“Did they pressure you?” he questioned, changing out of his t-shirt into something slightly more appropriate to wear outside of the house. “Metros, I mean? Into drinking when you didn’t want to?”

He let go of the strap of his bag. “Jeez, at least let me put my stuff down before you start the interrogation,” he teased lightly.

He could tell by the expression on Ilya’s face, though, that he wasn’t in much of a teasing mood. That to him, someone trying to convince him to drink when he typically hated the feeling of inebriation was a very big deal. Not one he could sweep under the rug very smoothly.

“Am serious, Shane,” he insisted, turning to look at him completely. “Did they ever make you feel like you had to drink?”

“No, I- not really,” he replied, toeing his shoes off. “I don’t think so, anyway.”

Ilya raised an eyebrow, not entirely sure if he believed him. “You don’t think?” he repeated skeptically. “That does not sound like a convinced answer.”

Shane shrugged, eyes drifting to the shirt he had on for a moment, getting a bit distracted by the silk before he met his gaze again. “They never forced me or anything,” he clarified. “It was just a very…all or nothing environment, I guess.”

He leaned against the dresser, folding his arms. “What does that mean?” he wondered, brows knitting together tightly.

He didn’t exactly need any new reasons to hate the Metros. He already had a list that was several miles long after the years he spent playing them. Their country loved them and frankly so did the United States, for some reason. But to him, they were even bigger posers than the Raiders. Only his team were good people pretending to be otherwise and the Metros were the exact opposite.

“I guess it was just- I had to drink a lot or not at all,” Shane explained, gently. “They didn’t really like that when I did drink, it would only be one because I wasn’t fully emersed or whatever.”

They liked to be stone-cold sober or completely drunk and nothing in between.

If he had to pick one, Shane always picked sober, too afraid of what might happen if he lost control entirely. He could blurt something out that was meant to stay private, he could trip and be taken out of the season, he could just turn into a emotional mess because too much alcohol made his head spin and he hated how it felt.

“That is bullshit,” Ilya told him firmly. “You know that, right?”

He shrugged. “I get it, though. I wasn’t really trying to be apart of the team or anything, just kind of watched them.”

He shook his head. “Doesn’t matter,” he clarified, tone just as unwavering. “You are part of the team whether you have Ginger Ale, Vodka, or some fruit beverage with a little umbrella and they should have treated you like it.”

Shane’s expression softened slightly, the conviction in his voice sinking in slowly. “Is that your way of assuring me I don’t have to drink tonight?” he wondered.

“You already knew it was optional, am just reminding you,” he replied earnestly, uncrossing his arms to put his hands on Shane’s waist. “Whether you have water all night or a sip of a drink or a full one, it doesn’t matter as long as you drink what you want to. And have fun, obviously. That part is important, too.”

He huffed slightly, nodding slowly as he leaned into him. “I’ll try to remember that,” he murmured, eyes fliting back down the shirt he had on. It was, quite frankly, making him want to stay in tonight. But he had already told the team he’d go and he felt bad about backing out at the last minute. “Want to help me find something to wear?”

Ilya’s eyes lit up. “Something that shows you are not confined to suits and gym clothes all the time?” he clarified, already lunging at the opportunity. “I thought the day would never arrive.”

Shane rolled his eyes as Ilya let go of him to rifle through their closet for something that would look nice. He didn’t fully understand what was going on frankly, not overly involved in the social aspect of Ilya’s life.

They talked about the team before he joined it, sure, but he never really questioned where they celebrated wins or what they did because he feared getting jealous if there was some pretty girl involved or something like that. He never really allowed himself to consider what it might feel like to join that atmosphere.

Probably because it filled him with the same type of dread he got when the Metros wrangled him into going out late at night. It was loud and disrupted his schedule, it was usually overly crowded and led to him getting incredibly antsy, especially because he was the only one sober. He felt like a babysitter for a group of guys who wouldn’t even remember what happened the next morning.

But he tried to push those memories and preconceptions away like he had done with the others he formed about the Raiders. They hadn’t just been surprising him the past few weeks but exceeding any fragile hope he had about his decision to move to Boston.

And they kept doing it, too.

Like Vic promised, it was a bit low-key. Still loud, still dark with flashing lights but not so overly obnoxious he couldn’t hear what anyone was saying or see the steps in front of him.

That was in part due to the fact that they were upstairs, where the lights were one solid color, even if they were a bit dim. He glanced over the railing, at the lower level which was significantly louder and brighter as he walked with Sebbin and Marlow towards a pretty wide, circular table.

“I got those little taco things they do,” Carmichael muttered, gesturing to the food sprawled across the table while already biting into one.

Shane huffed, taking a seat. “I didn’t know we were having dinner,” he joked just loud enough to be heard over the music.

Sebbin reached over him cautiously, grabbing an appetizer. “Part of not getting drunk is making sure the alcohol doesn’t hit our stomachs before food does,” he told him, shoving the entire thing into his mouth and chewing for a moment. “Learned the hard way that Feller will lie about eating if we don’t get snacks.”

“I don’t lie!” he exclaimed defensively, raising a finger and talking to Shane directly. “I forgot one time to eat before drinking and they’re never going to let me forget it. Don’t fall for it.”

Shane stifled a laugh. “I don’t know, sounds like something you might do,” he replied, picking up one of the tiny tacos for himself and biting into it.

He hummed slightly, surprised that the food was actually pretty good. He probably shouldn’t have been, though. It was Boston, after all. Every restaurant he had tried so far had been pretty good. He had been talking with Dubek, too, more often about his diet. Or the leeway he was trying to give himself with it.

He didn’t quite consider it recovery because that would imply he had an eating disorder in the first place and he wasn’t ready to fully admit it, yet. But he was trying to loosen up and felt like it was getting easier, especially with the team’s support.

He didn’t outright explain anything, just mentioned very briefly that he had some of the same problems as Dubek. They seemed to understand pretty well what he meant, even though they never pressed for details.

“Have as many as you want,” Kohn told him, nudging his arm gently. “We’ll probably order half the menu before getting the tab.”

“Speaking of the tab!” Kane came back to the table, a tray he managed to coerce away from a waitress in his hands. “The alcohol is on me, not the food,” he clarified, setting them down. “I made no promises to pay for your third and fourth dinners.”

There were a few chuckles as everyone grabbed their drinks off the tray, most of them ordered with specific people in mind because he had learned what they liked over the years.

“You’re a real philanthropist, Kane,” Varkov muttered sarcastically, raising his glass to him. “Always willing to put your credit score on the line for the team.”

“Ha. Ha.” he retorted dryly ignoring him as he picked his own drink up and sipped it for a moment before he gestured to the tray. “I got you a Ginger Ale, Hollzy,” he told him. “I’d drink it fast, though, because Connors might pour into his whiskey if you wait.”

Shane laughed slightly, reaching for the can and popping it open to take a sip. “Thanks,” he told him, the small gesture of getting him his preferred drink even amongst all the alcohol meaning more to him than most of them would understand.

Ilya understood it, though. He knocked Shane’s ankle under the table softly, giving him a small, nearly indiscernible smile from across the booth which he returned just as quietly.

“Why do you make me sound like an alcoholic or something?” Connors questioned, furrowing his eyebrow as he stole the lime off the rim of Marlow’s Margarita. “I’m an opportunity seeker,” he clarified, gesturing to the table. “I exploit what’s offered to me.”

“Oh, is that what you call it?” Ilya wondered, barely suppressing a laugh as he sipped his Vodka. “Here I thought it was just theft. Can’t account for your two drinks if you keep sipping on other peoples.”

He shrugged, not denying the accusation but not agreeing with it, either. “Alcohol is to me what money is to Hammersmith,” he clarified, raising his glass for a moment, the ice clinking around.

Hammersmith scoffed, raising his own and gently tapping it against Connor’s glass before taking another sip of his drink. “Sure, buddy,” he replied with a chuckle, head bopping from side to side to the beat of the music.

Shane nudged Vic’s shoulder softly, pointing across the room for a moment. His head turned, eyebrows furrowing but he stood up anyway, grabbing a soft taco off the large plate before following him through the club.

Was it even a club? The internet reviews weren’t sure and neither were the people who visited, he was pretty sure. It was kind of a mix between one and a bar. Relaxed enough that it wasn’t suffocating to breathe and impossible to move but too upbeat for anyone to fall asleep.

“What’s up?” Vic questioned, wiping the edge of his mouth as he finished his taco. “Wanted something other than Ginger Ale?” That was the only reason he could think of for why they were heading towards the bar right now.

Shane shrugged, still sipping on his drink. “Thinking about it,” he admitted as they navigated towards it. Things weren’t as crowded as he assumed, thankfully, so, it seemed like Vic really had kept his word about the night being low-key.

“You know there’s no pressure, right?” he reminded him, hand reaching to grab his arm and halt his steps just a few feet away from the bar. “You don’t have to drink to be fun. We want you here because you’re our teammate and our friend, regardless of whether you drink.”

He nodded, the hesitation in his chest subsiding slightly. He rarely drank, mostly just because he hated how it made him feel. And when it came to the Metros, he hated it even worse because it felt like he either had to be entirely invested or left out completely.

But here, it felt like he could stick to soda all night and they wouldn’t bat an eye over it.

So, maybe one drink or hell maybe even half of one would be alright to indulge in. He had been indulging in more sugar recently, after all.

“I know,” Shane prefaced. “I just think alcohol might be…I don’t know, another thing on my list, if that makes sense.”

It wasn’t a literal list and definitely not that he really told people about, even if the team did know he was struggling with his relationship with food. It was more of a vague outline of everything he restricted himself from having, seemingly unnecessarily. And maybe it didn’t have to be.

Vic nodded, seeming to understand what he was getting at even without much being said. “Okay,” he replied supportively. “If you want a drink, we’ll grab you one.”

“Maybe uh- like a shallow one,” he added. “So I can mix my soda into it, like Kane was talking about.” Sure, that hadn’t actually been intended for him, but it did sound kind of good now that he was thinking about it.

He nudged him towards the bar. “Shallow one it is,” he agreed, leaning his arms against the counter and signaling to the bartender.

When the man passed him the glass, Shane poured the rest of his soda into it, diluting the drink a bit and swirling it around before taking a sip. He hadn’t had alcohol in so long he kind of forgot the way it burned the back of his throat, if he was being honest.

Regardless, the flavor wasn’t nearly as bad as the stinging was. Probably because he wasn’t trying to drink something entirely stiff just to please JJ or Drapeau.

Sitting back down at the table, no one commented on his drink, even though they noticed it. It wasn’t a big deal, really, whether he drank or not. It wasn’t what made or ruined their night. As long as no one went overboard with their inebriation, it wasn’t anyone’s business who drank what or how much of it.

“Where did Kane and Connor disappear to?” Shane asked, glancing around.

Ilya stuck his thumb over his shoulder, motioning to the crowd of people on the floor below them, barely visible through the balcony around them. “They like this song,” he replied flatly, like it was pretty standard to lose them. “Can’t keep them in their seats when it comes on.”

“Ah,” he muttered, having another small sip of his drink and twisting a bit to search the crowd for them. “Makes sense.”

Even if the place wasn’t packed to the point of suffocation, it was busy enough that spotting them was a bit like playing Where’s Waldo. Still, he was pretty sure he could spot the shirt Kane was wearing, the shade of blue pretty obvious even as the lights changed colors down below.

“Oh! Someone take a picture,” Kohn suggested, snapping his fingers in realization. “It’s our first night out with Shane; we have to document it.”

He grimaced slightly, laughing. “Please don’t make me pretend to be drunk like you guys do,” he pleaded slightly as Feller pulled his phone out.

“Alright, it’ll be uh- whatever stage of drinking we’re in currently,” he replied, flagging down a waitress. “Buzzed? Tiddly?”

“What the fuck is tiddly?” Ilya questioned, blinking in confusion.

“It’s British,” Marlow told him, sipping through his straw. “Means tipsy or something like that.”

Shane watched as Marlow pulled the tiny umbrella out of the glass and tried to sneak it into Sebbin’s hair without him noticing. He did, of course. But he also didn’t yank it out, just pushing further behind his ear as he

“Why are you using British words?” Ilya asked, looking disgusted by the vocabulary, maybe even offended. It was hard enough for him to learn English in Boston of all places when he first moved; they didn’t have start confusing him with other versions of the same language, too.

Feller shrugged. “Why not?” he retorted, passing his phone to the waitress and immediately jumping on the Vic at the end of the booth.

He leaned on him so hard, his drink nearly spilled as he laid further back to try to make room for him not to fall off. As Vic pressed into him, Shane laughed, lifting his drink a bit higher to keep it from sloshing as he tipped backwards against Dubek.

“Sorry,” he apologized, still chuckling a bit as he accidentally forced him back a bit.

Dubek rolled his eyes fondly, willingly trying to lean into Carmichael as the man tipped towards Ilya who just threw his arm around Marlow.

“At least act like you like us, Sebbin,” Marlow insisted, pulling further into frame.

“Yeah, I want to be in the picture,” Hammersmith replied, squishing himself against him as to not be cut out of the photograph.

Varkov just moved out of the booth walking around it and leaning over the back to be included without as much hassle. He sipped his drink, idly poking at Carmichael to try to annoy him. Not that he even really noticed it.

Vic tipped his head to the side, trying to talk to Shane amidst the chaos. “I told you,” he reminded him. “We don’t get drunk, just seem to always unintentionally act like.”

It was a mix of being away from the rink that allowed them to cut loose and the energy they gave each other that always magnified further and further as the night went on that had them acting so differently. Well, alright, maybe not that differently.

“Yeah, that part is starting to make sense,” Shane muttered, halfway through another laugh as the waitress took a few pictures for them, most of which Ilya were scowling in just because he could.

As she handed Feller his phone back, he attempted to straighten up, letting Vic sit back up in the booth. He set his drink down now that it was finally safe and reached for another Taco.

“Thank you very much,” Feller murmured to the waitress, pulling a twenty-dollar bill out of his wallet and handing her the tip for taking the time to oblige their request.

“Damn, I could have taken it for you and made some cash,” Varkov murmured, leaning even further forward between Marlow and Sebbin to set his drink down on the table.

He pressed his hand into the edge of the booth, hopping over the back of it and expecting them both to move before getting crushed.

They did, of course. Quick enough they accidentally nudged Ilya a bit too harshly and caused his drink to splash over the rim. He glared at them for a moment before grabbing a napkin and passing it to Carmichael, who he had spilled on.

“If you’re going to be obnoxious, do it downstairs,” he requested, shooing them away with his hand dramatically. “Tons of clumsy idiots down there.”

“Wow, now that there’s no camera on us, you’re back to being an asshole,” Kohn joked, sipping on his drink.

“Yes, I despise each of you,” Ilya confessed sarcastically, pointing at the menu. “Someone order more food, yes? Feller is about to eat the last taco.”

Even if they weren’t starving, the night didn’t feel complete without munching. It might have honestly been his favorite part of every time they went out. Besides, once the others came back, they’d be plenty hungry and an empty table wouldn’t go over very well with them.

“On it,” Vic replied, grabbing it off the table and jumping back up to get someone’s attention.

Watching him wander off, Shane turned to the rest of the table. “I think I’m gonna try to find Kane and Connors,” he admitted, setting down his own drink a few sips shy of finishing it.

Ilya raised an eyebrow, a mix of surprise and pride warring on his face. “How strong was that drink?” he teased, glancing down at it.

He knew it wasn’t very strong, frankly. Probably less than half a drink. Which was fine. He just wasn’t expecting Shane to immerse himself so fully he was willingly suggesting going towards the more crowded section of the place. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t glad to see it, though.

Shane kicked him under the table, just hard enough that he laughed over it. “I can like music too,” he retorted, nudging Dubek. “Want to come with me?”

He shrugged, finishing his drink off quickly. “Might as well,” he replied, following Shane as he stood up from the table. “Last one to find Kane has to be on his team for scrimmage.”

Shane huffed, shooting Ilya one last glance before he headed downstairs with Dubek to find the others. He watched, of course, eyes tracking his for as long as they could before they disappeared into the crowd of people. Even so, Ilya could see find them if he focused.

· ─ ·✶· ─ · 

The days following Shane’s departure from the Metros had been rough for them. Some players took it harder than others, pretending he didn’t exist to them anymore or insulting him to the team at every given opportunity. It was hard not to be pissed off when they had been betrayed so brutally. Made to look like fools in the process, no less.

They were facing media like never before, being asked about the reason he left and scrutinized by the fans for losing him. It only got worse when they started seeing pictures of Shane in his Raiders Jersey, the post about officially updating their roster to include his number had been expected but hurt worse than they thought it would.

And if seeing him as a Raider in his first few games had been a slap in the face, then seeing him partying with the team outside of the game was a fucking punch to the gut. One none of them ever thought could bruise so badly.

“It’s barely the first few games of the season,” Mitty mumbled in annoyance, grimacing at his phone as he sat on the bench in the locker room before an early morning practice. “How can they already be staying out late to get drunk?”

Wilson shrugged, pulling his shirt off and reaching for his jersey. “Winning makes them even more obnoxious than they usually are,” he surmised, tugging it over his head and fussing with the material. “My question is how the hell did they drag Hollander with them?”

Drapeau scoffed as he tied his laces on. “He doesn’t even drink,” he added, tone laced with bitterness. “He should be home with a fucking salad or something.”

Berkes chuckled sardonically. “Probably part of their plan to plaster him everywhere until everyone forgets he was ours first,” he complained, running a hand through his hair. “Did you see that bullshit picture of the team outside some ice cream shop a while back? How much do you want to bet it was staged?”

“Oh, it had to be,” JJ agreed, nodding. “What are the chances they all just randomly went out in public and actually believed they wouldn’t be noticed? I bet media set it up to back up that article about him ‘figuring out a rhythm with the team’ or whatever it was he said.”

Hayden furrowed his eyebrows, just staring down at his phone in the corner of the locker room as he tried not to pay too much attention to their conversation. He scrolled through the pictures online, mostly posted by Feller and then reposted by everyone on the team, including their main social media page. And even Shane, who notoriously never reposted anything unless it related to his sponsorships.

He looked so…immersed in it. The dynamic, that was. He was laughing, a drink in his hand as they all squeezed together around the table for a few pictures. It didn’t even look like sparkling water or something non-alcoholic in a nice glass. He was actually drinking.

And singing too. With Kane, Connors, and Dubek to some song that was so loud the music could barely even be heard through the phone’s speakers. It was mostly just him leaning into Kane, who was bouncing around like a ball of energy who hadn’t just won a pretty intense game of hockey.

“Drunk Hollander was never that fun with us,” Berkes muttered, leaning over Mitty’s phone as he kept scrolling through the pictures and videos from last night. “He usually got all mopey and shit, then went home with Hayden.”

He glanced up when he heard his name, humming in affirmation. “Yeah, alcohol makes him sleepy, usually,” he murmured, tone a bit contemplative, like he was trying to figure out why he wasn’t acting that way with the Raiders.

Clicking through the end of Feller’s stories quickly, he paused a few from the end and let them play again. The team was filtering out of the…bar? Club? He wasn’t even sure where they could have been. Regardless, they left, still just as hyperactive as they walked through the parking lot.

Shane stumbled over the curb, laughing as Varkov dragged him upright again and patted his shoulder firmly with a smile tugging at his lips. They looked absolutely hammered, to say the least.

Half of the team was bouncing around, still enthused even though it was at least one in the morning and the other half were shoving each other around harder and harder in the background while Feller gave a recap of the food. Apparently, the tacos were amazing, the mozzarella sticks decent, and the bruschetta was overly healthy.

Shane leaned over Feller’s shoulder a bit, bumping him slightly. “Don’t forget about the French fries,” he reminded him, pointing at the camera. “They were seasoned with the good stuff.”

Hayden barely even caught his voice, the volume on his phone so low it was hard to make much out. He was pretending not to care about seeing his best friend hanging out with the same guys they used to make fun of, but honestly had no idea if it was working.

Wilson apparently had a good enough set of ears to hear what was being said, too, since he leaned closer to Hayden with a wrinkled nose. “Since when does he consume anything fried?” he questioned, scoffing.

“Yeah, didn’t he once say French fries were an unhealthy carbohydrate or something?” Comeau questioned. “And that eating them would mean he had to run an extra half hour the next morning?”

Mitty laughed, nodding as he remembered that night. “Then he pulled out those stupid apple slices and ate them instead,” he recalled, rolling his eyes. “Fucking bird food, man. At least we don’t have to accommodate his ridiculous diet anymore.”

“Not that he’s even on it anymore, apparently,” Berkes grumbled, tossing his phone into his bag. “Boston got him off that micro-whatever it was called pretty fast. Ice cream, French fries. He’s probably trying to bulk up so he doesn’t look so tiny compared to Marlow and Rozanov.”

“Oh, please don’t say Satan’s name,” JJ pretended to plead, holding his hands up like a prayer. “I can’t think of him and then go smile for the cameras, it’s too difficult.”

Wilson laughed, grabbing his gloves from his cubby. “Fair point,” he mused with a smirk. “Someone has to keep the league looking respectable while the Raiders gallivant around and curse out every reporter who comes near them.”

Hayden’s jaw ticked quietly enough, no one noticed it as he clicked out of Feller’s social media and opened his texts. Shane used to be at the top, messages so frequent that the only person he texted more often was Jackie. He had rapidly slid to the bottom, though, right beside the spare babysitter they used when the one they liked wasn’t able to make it.

He wasn’t sure why he felt the need to text Shane. It wasn’t like he knew the whole team was talking shit about him behind his back. If anything, texting him out of the blue might have actually made it more conspicuous than anything else.

But still, he sent a quick message—something about seeing Feller’s post and being glad he looked so happy. A mostly true sentiment, even though it kind of made his chest ache with a strange sense of jealousy to see him become friends with the Raiders so quickly.

Once the text went though, he clicked his phone off and slid it into his bag. “C’mon,” he muttered, tilting his head towards the door. “People expect the team to actually show up to the practices they come to see.”

There was a chorus of annoyed groans; early practice was the last thing anyone was interested in having right now. They followed him, though. He was the captain now, after all. They couldn’t exactly say no, even if none of them really wanted to face a crowd after the shit show of a game they had had the night before when they played and lost against Baltimore.

· ─ ·✶· ─ · 

Shane truly liked being able to decline the media. It wasn’t that he was cruel about it or took joy in refusing to comment when they approached him outside of practice, it was just nice not having to sit and smile for them all the time.

He still chose to give a few interviews, mostly after games. Partially because it felt weird not to and also because his mother borderline threatened him into it in the name ‘controlling the narrative’ as she put it. Still, he found himself being a lot more invested in their questions now that he only did one a week or so.

That’s why when their media coordinator asked about keeping a mic on him during the game he hesitated but eventually agreed. On the condition that he didn’t have to do post-game interviews for the following week, of course. They agreed and he allowed himself to be put in what most players considered a pretty uncomfortable position.

It wasn’t his first time having the mic on him during the game and wouldn’t be the last, either, probably. Still, the others were a little cautious around him. That was typical. No one wanted to say something out of pocket or spill team secrets in front of millions of people watch their game on television.

“I’m sitting on the other side of the bench,” Kane muttered to him, patting his shoulder before sitting as far away as he possibly could from Shane.

Ilya rolled his eyes. “Can’t keep your mouth shut around a mic for one night?” he teased, earning a gloved middle finger from his teammate. He laughed lightly, nudging Shane beside him. “You are the plague tonight,” he informed him. “Very avoidable.”

He huffed, nodding. “I kind of figured that part out already,” he admitted, glancing at the clock.

They were only a few minutes into the first period of their game against Asbury, but ever since their media team hooked him up with a mic pack under his jersey, the team had been cautious. They were trying to find that space between staying jerks for the cameras and also not pushing too far to the point people actually got mad at them. It was a fine line to walk, to say the least.  

Desjourney tapped Shane on top of his helmet just enough to grab his attention before gesturing towards the ice. “Take over for Hammersmith,” he told him.

He perked up immediately, reaching for his stick as he saw Hammersmith skating over to the bench. Tightening his grip on it, he stood up and braced himself against the edge of the rink, just waiting for the moment he could hop over it.

Hammersmith skidded to a stop, out of breath. “Go get ‘em, Hollzy,” he muttered as coach opened the door to let him into their area.

Shane just jumped over the ledge, skates hitting the ice with a soft sound as he took off towards the other end of the rink.

He’d been watching the puck from the bench, acutely aware of where it had been the whole time. For the most part it was with his team, which was a good thing. Now, they just had to make sure it actually made it into the net.

“Hard around!” Varkov warned him, dropping the puck behind their own net.

Shane was quick to keep it close, skating around to the front of their end zone and crossing into the other team’s side. “Marly!” he shouted, shooting it towards him as a player caught up and tried to crowd him.

It was just a bit too late, though, and the puck had already disappeared into Marlow’s care. The player didn’t fully back off, but loosened slightly, his attention split between the two of them as equally as possible.

Marlow tried to get puck closer to the other team’s net but didn’t get terribly far as one of their players slammed into him. An annoyed sound escaped his lips as he gritted his teeth against his mouth guard, trying to pin the puck down.

Someone else skated up, attempting to help their teammate and he felt an elbow jabbing into his ribs hard enough to feel it through the padding he wore.

“Watch it,” he snapped, pushing back against the player as he kept the puck nailed to the wall to keep them from getting it.

“Give it up, Marlow,” the man retorted, referring to the puck as he shoved him harder to try to get him away from it to get the disc out from behind his stick. “That’s our puck.”

“I didn’t see your name on it,” Marlow replied sarcastically, pushing them over the edge.

That was, quite frankly, not a very difficult thing to do in hockey. Emotions ran high all the time with how much adrenaline they had coursing through their veins. And the Raiders were known for starting disputes and causing trouble. It was expected to the point other teams would fight them over chirps that no one on the team ever took very seriously.

Of them broke away from the boards, going after him and Marlow couldn’t say he was surprised by it. The other player got the puck away from him at last as he was forced away from it, but Shane slammed into the man before he made it anywhere.

Tripping, the man hit the ice and the puck slid away from all of them as Shane yanked at the player attacking his teammate. “Get the fuck off him!” he shouted, pulling him away and giving him a harsh shove.

The player skidded a bit back but came back for another hit, this time against him. Marlow tried to stop it but wasn’t fast enough and he winced as the man’s glove connected to the side of Shane’s helmet, jostling it.

“Fuck you, golden boy!” he spit back. “You think wearing a Raiders jersey makes you one?”

Shane didn’t even respond, just threw a punch right back, effectively starting a brawl between them. The rest of both teams stopped entirely as the refs skated over, trying to break them apart. That was easier said than done, as they were tangled in a mix of limbs that were tough to distinguish from each other.

“Cool it, Hollzy,” Carmichael called, tugging his arm back from throwing another punch, managing to get his attention when the refs were failing. “He’s not worth it.”

Huffing loudly, Shane reared back and gave his teammate a small nod as if to assure him he was done and Carmichael could let go of him. He looked pissed, frankly. Maybe even furious. It was a look he rarely had around them, so far. And probably one that was pretty uncommon in general.

Shane was always known to be someone who didn’t really start fights. He barely got involved with them if benches cleared, either, more concerned with trying to keep everyone out of the penalty box. Around the Metros anyway. Clearly, that mentality had shifted.

Or maybe it was always how he wanted to react and he just never allowed himself too, busy trying to maintain his brand as a family-friendly player and a good role model. Carmichael wasn’t quite sure and didn’t really care if he was being honest.

Anyone who threw fists for them was their brother, after all.

“Sorry,” he murmured apologetically to them.

Carmichael shrugged, nudging his arm. “Don’t apologize for protecting your team,” he told him earnestly. “See you in a bit.”

Shane scoffed, nodding slightly as he followed the ref to the penalty box. A place he rarely visited, usually.

Unhooking his helmet, he set it on the bench and stared at the other player in his box across the ice. At least he hadn’t been taken there alone.

The minutes of his penalty ticked down slower than they would in any other circumstances and he waited patiently to be let back on the ice. Alright, impatiently. His leg was jostling the entire time.

But even so, he stayed on the bench instead of standing and banging on the glass the way he was tempted to when he saw the other team trying to rough up Kohn out of nowhere.

When he did finally get out of the penalty box, the first thing he did was skate back over to Marlow who was trying to get a shot off the other team’s goalie. He was pretty close, too. If only the other players weren’t doing such a damn good job of blocking his shots.

Kohn and Connors were trying to keep them occupied, at the very least making it more difficult for them to keep track of Marlow and he and Carmichael passed the puck back and forth to each other while waiting for an opening.

Shane whistled, gesturing towards them and Marlow passed him the puck. He tried his best to break up some of the stagnant positions they had been forced into, taking the disc a bit further away from the net on purpose to try to lure some of the other team’s players into following him.

He knew he couldn’t make the shot. There was no chance it hell he’d get it through them. He wasn’t really trying to, though. He just wanted to get them away from their net to actually give Marlow or Carmichael a fighting chance of scoring.

With another sharp whistle, he passed it back to Carmichael. “Shoot it!” he shouted, unable to see very much aside from the behemoth of a man in front of him.

Shane did, however, hear the sound of the groan’s collective frustration ringing out. When they were in their own rink, that might have been a gut-wrenching sound but while they were at another arena, it was practically music.

Their goal music played a second later and Shane caught sight of Carmichael skating around to click his helmet against Marlow’s before coming towards him, as well. “Thanks for the assist,” he muttered, bumping his head on Shane’s appreciatively.

He clicked his tongue, shrugging like it was no big deal. “Gotta pull my weight around here,” he joked. “Especially after being cooped up in the penalty box.”

Carmichael grimaced, rolling his eyes. “Don’t sweat it,” he assured him. “That asshole deserved to be roughed up, anyway.”

Shane’s eyes widened and he smacked him gently, gesturing to himself. “Still have a mic on, dumbass,” he reminded him with a huff of laughter.

Apparently, with all the excitement they forgot about the fact that everything he was saying and everything the mic picked up from the others was being played live. Not to mention recorded for everyone who had the game taped.  

“Oh, sorry, let me just say it closer,” he replied seriously, leaning into him to repeat himself even louder and more clearly. “The asshole deserved it!”

Shane shoved him away, laughing. “You are so getting quoted in an article next week,” he muttered, shaking his head exasperatedly. He wasn’t even sure what kind, just knew at least a few of what they said tonight would wind up being used online.

Carmichael shrugged. “Eh, so what?” he wondered, skating over to the face off as Marlow set up in the middle of it. “I’m colorful, they should be used it by now.”

“Colorful? Is that what we’re calling it?” he wondered, tone tinged with amusement as he lowered his voice to focus on the game. “I like it.”

Shane redirected his attention back towards the face off, giving Marlow a small nod of assurance as the ref dropped the puck and he fought for it. Losing it, the other team escaped with the disc, and they automatically fell back towards their own goal to try to protect it before they tried to get any shots in.

He crowded around another player, trying to sweep the puck away from him and failing at it as the man passed it towards someone else.

“Slot the net Hollzy!” Connors yelled at him, urging him to swap positions and be where he wanted him at.

Why he wanted him there, Shane wasn’t sure. But he listened to him, anyway, skating closer to their goalie and propping himself into a position their defensemen usually took. His eyes flitted around him, mind going a mile a minute as he tried to keep up with the play.

A few seconds later, the puck came barreling towards their net and Shane blocked it as fast he possibly could, shooting it back before even thinking to aim it anywhere specific. The player who shot it had already skated past, but another teammate grabbed the puck for a moment or two.

Shane watched Marlow slam the man against the boards, stick fighting to grab the puck back. He passed it towards Kohn, who let out a whistle. “Switch!”

Connors skidded towards Shane. “Play it back to their side,” he muttered to him softly, bumping him in the arm gently to get him to head towards Kohn as he passed the puck back and forth with Carmichael.

With a small nod, Shane left his spot. Making his way back towards the others, he stayed on the other side of the ice, eyes bouncing around to the others as he tried to align himself with them.

He tapped his stick on the ice, catching Carmichael’s attention as the other team tried to grab the puck back before they crossed out of the neutral and into the other end zone. Carmichael passed it across the ice, trying to get some of the guys to lay off him.

Shane snatched it, glancing at the net and then at Marlow, who had raced to position himself just beside the opposing team’s net. “Marly!” he shouted, puck already in motion as he passed it towards him.

The players nearby broke off. They tended to do whenever they saw the puck disappearing and as they did, Shane tapped the ice again while inching a bit closer. Marlow caught the puck, skating around the net like he was planning to shoot it before changing course at the last minute and passing it back to Shane.

The disc slammed against his stick, breaking up the inertia for barely a second before it was flying off the curve of the wood again. Shane shot it towards the net, watching the goalie reach to stop it. And it did hit the man, technically. Just not hard enough.

The puck skimmed the top of the goalie’s glove, flying just over it before hitting the back of the net and Shane could swear he heard Marlow’s enthusiasm before he heard the official sound of their goal ring out. Regardless, both were nice sounds.

Marlow skated over, gloved hand finding Shane’s arm and giving him a firm shake. “A goal and an assist in the first period?” he wondered, slightly out of breath. “Good night for you, huh?”

“I’d call it luck but I’m not that modest,” he kidded as he caught his breath. Sparing a glance over his shoulder, he could see Desjourney calling him back to the bench. “Looks like I’m getting a break,” he added, bumping his helmet against Marlow’s quickly before he headed over to the team.

He didn’t really feel like he needed one, having already spent a few minutes in the penalty box. That was a break in itself, for the most part. But he could tell from the fact that he was the only one standing that Ilya was the one taking his place and he, quite frankly, looked antsy for his turn.

It wasn’t intentional by any means, but the way he was tapping against the edge of the barrier came across as impatient as Shane skated over to him. “Same team and yet we are never on the ice at the same time,” he joked, hopping over the ledge at last. “Maybe next period, yes?”

“Hopefully,” he replied, raising his arm and tapping against Ilya’s lightly before he entered the Raiders area, taking a seat on the bench and reaching for his water bottle.

Shane watched as Ilya caught up with Carmichael and Marlow, muttering something between them before he bent down for the face off. He chugged his water in the meantime, eyes just flitting around to keep track of the puck in case coach happened to put him back in before the period concluded.

“What’d he say to you?” Vic wondered, moving over an inch to give him extra space on the bench. “The uh- asshole, as Carmichael put it.”

He huffed slightly, wiping his mouth as his heart rate started to come back down. “You heard that from all the way over here?” he replied, a bit surprised.

“It wasn’t hard, what with the yelling of it and all,” he replied as he scooted forward a bit and interlinked his hands while watching the game. “I’m just curious, since you don’t rile up that easily.” At least, he never used to be.

They kind of liked this side of him, honestly. Vic did, anyway. The part of him that got upset, that became protective and didn’t let the other team walk all over him, that was. It was how he used to play long before he had to inhibit himself and become someone who didn’t promote violence for the sake of being someone kids looked up to.

Shane shrugged. “Nothing worth bringing up with I’m attached to a mic,” he told him, voice tinged with something akin to frustration or perhaps restraint.

Vic could tell he really did want to talk about it and was just biting his tongue, the way he was expected to. Sighing, he leaned over, silently slipping his hand around Shane’s back and flipping the mic pack off for a moment.

“There,” he murmured, tone laced with self-satisfaction. “Now they can’t hear.”

Shane’s eyes widened a bit. “You can’t do that, Vic!” he exclaimed.

“Why not?” he replied, sounding like he would need a pretty good response if he was going to actually flip it back on. “They’ll probably just think it’s interference for a few minutes. I’ll turn it back on before they actually notice.”

Even if they did notice, they couldn’t do anything about it. Coach wouldn’t yell at them for it since he never liked having them mic’d up, anyway, concerned about their behavior for some reason. And the media team couldn’t bully them back into it, either. Not when nearly everyone on the team was in favor of leaving it off.

Shane let out another huff, disappointed in himself for bothering to be surprised by the action. “Look, I really was only trying to get him off Marlow,” he admitted, shoulders rolling slightly. “Then he said some shit about the jersey not making me a real Raider and…yeah, I punched him back.”

It felt good, too. To just give in to the feeling of wanting to defend himself and his team instead of trying to settle things civilly. He used to have a motto about getting even though the scoreboard not fights, which the Metros constantly quoted in a mocking tone.

Shane, quite frankly, agreed with how stupid it was but didn’t have any choice aside from abiding by it.

Vic took his eyes off the game for a moment, just long enough to glance at him better and get a read on how that had made him feel. He supposed he kind of already knew, given he served time in the box for the fight. Still, that wasn’t the kind of comment that rolled off the back easily.

“He’s not wrong,” he told him simply.

Shane blinked, his heart dropping for some reason. “He’s not?” he repeated.

“The jersey doesn’t automatically make you a Raider,” Vic affirmed, shaking his head. “Commitment and loyalty to the players does. And you don’t have to worry about either, believe me.”

At the end of the day, the Raiders were a brand. They were an organization and label that was over one-hundred years old. It was the players that brought it to life, though. They were the ones that made it what it was and kept it alive by breathing life into it with each game they played.

Shane clicked his tongue softly. “I doubt many people would agree with you on that, right now,” he mused, taking another sip of his water.

He bumped into his shoulder lightly. “Hey, I just told you—You’re a raider, Shane. That means we don’t listen or care about other people’s perceptions of us,” he reminded him firmly. “Besides, we’re a lifetime membership kind of crew. Once you’re one of us, it doesn’t matter if you’re traded, sign with another team, or retire. You’re still family.”

Regardless of what the Metros seemed to believe these days, Shane was a loyal person. He was there to pick someone up for practice when their car stalled, to bring them an ice pack if their arm got bruised too badly, to call them and pretend to have an emergency to help them out of an awkward situation.

He was always at the rink early and usually the last to leave, too. He was neck and neck with Ilya in terms of dedication, to say the least.

“Mushy,” Shane muttered, shoving him back playfully.

“Eugh, I’m trying to be nice,” Vic retorted, rolling his eyes. “You want me to turn your mic pack back on or just wait to see how long it takes the media crew to figure out their tech isn’t the problem?”

He chuckled, shrugging. “We can let ‘em sweat a bit longer,” he admitted after a moment of contemplation.

That probably would invalidate the deal he had made with the team and also result in him going back to giving one or two interviews a week again. But it was worth it to have some peace for a bit. Feeling like he could relax again, at least marginally, he turned his gaze back to the ice, watching Ilya glide across it like it was as easy as breathing for him.

· ─ ·✶· ─ · 

After the game, Shane stood in the back of the hotels elevator and listened to the clamor of some of the guys on the team recapping their favorite moments from it. His tussle was up there, of course, right next to Feller ‘accidentally’ launching the puck so hard it got lodged in the goalie’s mask.

That was, in his opinion, way more interesting.

“Ooh, wait! First thing tomorrow we’re grabbing breakfast before the airport, right?” Dubek questioned, his hand covering the sensor to keep the doors from closing as he, Kane, and Varkov got off on the fourth floor.

“For sure,” Feller agreed, nodding his head. “We were gonna try that restaurant a few blocks away that Hammersmith found during intermission.”

That was apparently his new thing, this season. Instead of constantly losing to Carmichael in poker, he preferred to search for local places to eat in the cities they were visiting.

Content in the response, Dubek muttered a quick “Yes!” in satisfaction under his breath before clearing his throat. “Uh- I meant good night. See you guys tomorrow.”

Kovalev hummed skeptically. “Uh huh,” he retorted, watching him let go of the sensor and allow the doors to close behind them. He stepped into the newly freed up space they made by leaving the elevator and leaned against the wall, yawning as the day began catching up with him.

Even though he had gotten a decent amount of sleep, it never seemed to feel like enough when they were travelling. The jet lag always hit him worst out of anyone on the team and by the team he got over it, they were back on the plane heading home or to another city.

“Tired?” Marlow questioned, his own sleepiness starting to kick it as well once the majority of the team had already disbanded to head to their rooms for the night.

He nodded, blinking slowly. “I’ll be awake for breakfast but I’m sleeping the entire flight back to Boston,” he murmured as the bell dinged and the doors opened to the fifth floor of their hotel.

“This is us Kov,” Connors reminded him, giving him a small nudge as he got off the elevator.

He was looking forward to getting some sleep, too. So much so that he made it a few feet down the corridor before he realized he was walking alone. Glancing over his shoulder, he could see Ilya holding the door open and glaring at him, gesturing to Kovalev whose eyes had closed completely.

“Forgetting something?” Ilya questioned, raising an eyebrow as he nodded towards his teammate who was nearly asleep.

Connors’ shoulders deflated in exhaustion and Marlow huffed, moving to pull Kovalev off the wall. “C’mon, I’ll tuck you into bed before I head to my own room,” he teased, jostling him awake a bit to keep him upright until there was an actual mattress underneath them. “I’ll be up in a bit, Feller.”

The man just nodded, chuckling as he watched the three of them wandering down the hallway for a moment before the elevator closed again. They stood in silence for the most part, the doors opening a short moment later on the sixth floor. Why they were all so spread out, no one was quite sure. Booking errors, apparently.

“Goodnight guys,” Feller muttered, giving a weak, fatigued wave goodbye as he got off and headed towards his room.

The doors closed again and Shane looked towards Ilya. “And then there were two,” he mumbled softly, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“Mhm, just two,” he mirrored, nodding slightly. “Want to come tuck me into bed, too?” he joked.

He rolled his eyes and if he had the energy for it, he might have smacked him for the comment too. Instead, he just hummed, waiting for the doors to open again on their floor. “Tempting,” he muttered, playing along.

When the elevator finally stopped at their floor, they stepped off and made their way down the corridor towards the end of the long hall. Ilya took out his copy of the keycard, opening the door first and walking in before holding it a bit longer for Shane.

The second the door closed behind them, he was groaning, tossing his bag on the chair in the corner. “Was such a long day,” he complained, rolling his shoulders like it might help expel some of the tension that had accumulated in his muscles.

“Yeah, but a good one,” Shane added, setting his own stuff down much more gently before toeing off his shoes. “Vic said I was apart of the Raiders family, tonight.”

He glanced up, a slightly ironic expression playing across his face. “You didn’t already know that?” he wondered, confused.

He scoffed, reaching for the nearest pillow and throwing it across the room at him. “Of course I did, it was just- I don’t know, it was nice to hear it so overtly.”

There was no assumption that he could gleam as much by paying attention to how they treated him or acted around him. It was just a clear statement, just like the one Dubek gave him a while ago. He didn’t have to work for their friendship; he already had it. A lifetime membership to their circle, even if he swapped teams again.

Though, he honestly couldn’t see himself leaving willingly.

Ilya caught the pillow, lowering it as he let out a soft hum of understanding. “They are not overly sappy very often, but they will always have your back,” he assured him. “So will I.”

His eyes softened, stepping closer to wrap his arms around his neck. “Thanks,” he murmured. “For sharing your team with me and your house, and…your life, I guess.”

A small huff of amusement slipped past his lips before it turned into a smile. “Thank you for wanting me to share it,” he replied softly, leaning in to capture his lips in a gentle kiss. “Never thought I had a life worth being envious of, honestly. But now- well, how could I wish for more?”

The trophies were great, don’t get him wrong. The awards and the cup were the third most important thing in his life, but even so, they still fell short compared to his devotion to his team and his love for Shane. Hockey had given him his family and for that he would love it eternally, but the ice wasn’t all he lived for anymore and there was no contest about which he cared about more.

“Do you want to take another shower?” Shane mumbled against his lips, breaking their kiss for a split second before he was already leaning back in, not even giving him time to answer.

Their post-game one was rushed, at best. And not nearly as satisfying when they purposely stayed on opposite sides to keep from accidently staring at each other.

He nodded, hands sliding lower down his back to get a firmer grip on him before he lifted him off the ground. “Definitely,” he rasped, Shane’s weight settling against his arms securely as he walked them towards the bathroom. “I deserve something nice after barely even playing with you all night.”

Shane laughed, shaking his head as he pulled away from the kiss, fussing with his curls. “Can you even go one day without an innuendo?” he questioned dubiously.

Ilya’s face contorted as he feigned confusion. “Innuendo?” he repeated, pretending like he had no idea what it was. “Never heard that word in English. No idea what it means.”

He just scoffed again, lips tugging into a smile as he leaned back down to kiss him again. His back pressed to the glass of the shower as Ilya haphazardly opened the door and turned the water on, refusing to put him down or break the kiss in the process. Then, it was just a matter of time until both of them had shed their clothes, leaving them sprawled across the tiles.

· ─ ·✶· ─ · 

The next few games went similarly to their first few and Shane was more than pleased with how their season was starting out. He knew that logically, it was because the Raiders were great players, competitive and driven to succeed.

But he also liked to think it had something to do with their attitudes, too. How none of them were in the game to please the press or the public. They were only ever trying to make each other and themselves proud.

If their games had been going good, Shane would say his personal life both with the team and with Ilya had been great. So good, in fact, that it almost made him forget about his old team for a few full days in a row.

Until there was a reason to bring them up, that was.

“Have you seen it?” Marlow wondered, running a towel over the top of his head as he tried to cool down from the last-minute practice coach demanded in preparation for their game on Friday.

“Seen what?” Shane wondered, still a bit out of breath as he chugged some of his water, trying to cool down enough that a warm shower wouldn’t make him faint.

He passed him his phone, the screen already open to a news article. “Comeau got sent to the hospital half-way through their afternoon game against Portland,” he explained. “I didn’t watch the footage, but the article said he took a pretty hard hit to the head without a helmet on.”

He felt his heart plumet, eyes scanning the text but not really comprehending much of it. “I- no, I didn’t see that,” he muttered, passing the phone back to him and immediately digging through his bag to find his own.

“Calling Hayden?” Ilya questioned, watching him open his phone as fast he possibly could. It wasn’t surprising that it would be his first reaction.

No matter how tense things were between him and the Metros these days, Shane was first and foremost a compassionate person. The kind of player who could put aside his feelings for the sake of ensuring someone was safe even if that person hadn’t spoken to him in weeks.

Shane lifted his head, nodding. “Yeah, I wanna check in,” he responded, hitting call before he could even process it. “I’ll be in the hall, guys,” he added as the line began to ring.

“Take your time,” Hammersmith assured him. “We’ll try to keep in down in here, for you.”

Whether or not Shane actually heard that, none of them were quite sure. But regardless, they went about their business a bit quieter than usual. Okay, a lot more, technically.

Usually, they were rowdy enough to be heard, even through the door or down the hall. But they moved so gently, practically murmuring to each other instead of speaking, trying not to let the sound carry outside of the room and distract him.

Outside, Shane paced the hallway a bit, his phone ringing too many times for his liking. Things with Hayden were honestly still tense, he had to admit. They didn’t clear things up as much as he would have liked to, when he came to help him pack his things, and they hadn’t really called each other much since, either.

Things were fragile between them, at best. And about to shatter, at worst.

Still, Hayden picked up like Shane hoped he would.

“I figured you’d call,” he murmured. “Didn’t think it would take this long, through.”

There was a distinct bite in his tone but Shane ignored it, pausing his pacing for a moment. “I was in practice,” he replied. “I didn’t even see the news until a second ago. How is Comeau?”

“Stable,” Hayden replied earnestly. “They suspect a brain bleed but we’re waiting on his doctors to actually read the scans and tell us.”

He blew out a breath of relief, running his hand through his hair and leaning against the wall to steady himself as his nerves settled. Well, lessened, anyway. They were certainly still their. Head injuries had always been a big deal in this game. One concussion too many and it could end a career.

“Marlow said he wasn’t wearing a helmet when he got hit?” Shane wondered, confused. “How the hell did that even happen?”

“Marlow needs his eyesight checked,” he retorted sharply. “Comeau got bashed into the boards and his helmet got knocked off, then he tripped over the other teams stick and hit his head on the ice.”

It was freak accident, really. Nothing malicious or planned. The other player even apologized as they carried Comeau off the ice. Not that it had meant much to any of the Metros or helped ease their worry about their teammate.

“I didn’t say he read the whole article, just summed it up for me,” Shane explained, feeling a bit defensive over the way his friend had said Marlow’s name like an insult or something. “Is he allowed to be near a screen? Can I talk to him?”

“He’s uh—” Hayden hesitated for a moment. “—no, sorry. I don’t think he can.”

He paused, letting the silence fill the space for a moment. “Can’t or won’t?” he asked bluntly. When he didn’t respond right away, he got the feeling he had his answer but wanted to hear it anyway. “Hayden, did Comeau refuse to talk me?”

There was some rustling, the sound of him getting up from a hospital chair followed by the sound Comeau’s door closing while he stepped out into the hallway for a but more privacy. It was tough, trying to not piss off a sick man or his friend all at once.

“It’s not personal,” he muttered walking off to find a vending machine or something. “He just said he- he didn’t want to bother you after practice.”

“Don’t fucking lie to me,” Shane spat with more venom than either of them expected, feeling his frustration flare. “I know when you’re not telling me the truth. What did he actually say when you saw me calling?”

Hayden sighed. “He said ‘I don’t want to talk to that traitor’, technically,” he admitted, already regretting his choice of honesty.

He was silent for a moment longer, just staring at the floor while his mind raced. He was worried, is all. That’s why he called. And he hated to admit it, but now he was fucking pissed.

His own so-called friend was still calling him a traitor as he repeatedly tried to reach out to each Metro individually the first week he was in Boston? They were still acting like he had personally betrayed them all by signing to a team they didn’t know the first thing about aside from hating them? How the fuck was that fair?

“Wow that…is cruel, is for you guys,” Shane confessed with a sardonic laugh as he scrubbed his face.

“Even for us? What is that supposed to mean?” Hayden wondered, getting equally as defensive right back.

“Oh c’mon, Hayden,” he retorted, pushing off the wall to pace again. “I gave you guys everything. My blood, sweat, and tears for ten fucking years. I covered for everyone’s mistakes, I pushed for them to be better, I won you multiple goddamn trophies!”

“Now, wait a minute—” he insisted. “We earned those cups, too, you know? It wasn’t like we were just slacking off while you carried us to victory or anything.”

Maybe not directly, but he scored more goals than any of them ever had, even the oldest guy on the team with added years of experience. He was the face of their team for a reason and it wasn’t just his looks.

“I drove myself into the ground!” Shane exclaimed, trying to get it through his head. “I was fucking starving myself to try to stay on that ice for the Metros. And now that I’m finally playing this game for myself and not a group of ungrateful, undedicated, selfish assholes you want to play the fucking victim? You want to act like I abandoned you just because I couldn’t put up with it?”

The constant quips and chirps about his diet, his personal life, his fucking personality that they didn’t realize hurt him. Badly. To say nothing of the neediness and the blame. The way everything good was their achievement and every single loss was his because he was the captain and the buck stopped with him no matter who was truly to blame.

He put up with it because he didn’t feel like there was another choice; that was his group. He was where everyone wanted to be and even if it was killing him, he would have been an idiot to try to leave. But he had done exactly that and every single day that passed he grew more grateful he finally had the courage to because it was one of the best things he had ever done for himself.

“Shane—” Hayden tried to interject.

“And I still tried to reach out, too,” he added in disbelief over his own stupidity. “I texted everyone, I apologized because you were my family and I didn’t want to lose that. But I didn’t do anything wrong, Hayden. I’m not some villain you get to blame because none of you can handle your own emotions and I’m done trying to get you guys to see that.”

Shane didn’t even bother telling him that he hoped Comeau felt better. If the guy couldn’t be bothered to hear it directly from him, then he didn’t need to hear it at all. He just hung up the phone, clutching it in his palm tightly as he felt his anger begin to subside into sadness.

If anyone had been betrayed in the situation, it was him. His family gave up on him long before he left to become a Raider; he just didn’t know it until that moment.

· ─ ·✶· ─ · 

Shane was playing harder than usual. It was pretty clear to everyone, even the fans in the highest seats of the arena, which had been packed consistently since he moved to Boston. And while not everyone knew why he was hyper focused, the team did.

They had overheard most of his conversation and despite not mentioning it, they sure as hell discussed it amongst themselves. To them, his crash out was rather reasonable. He had, after all, carried them to the championships on multiple occasions. To say nothing of the time he spent working his way up to captain and the dedication he gave them off the ice, too.

He was at every wedding, birthday, or relative’s funeral, they asked him to attend, always with a gift or a few words of support. It wasn’t like he had cursed his team out and left or purposely tried to screw them over before the start of the season. He simply chose to sign with another team.

The Metros were, simply put, overreacting. But the Raiders didn’t care. Hell, they were benefitting from it. From the spiteful, pissed off version of their captain they had abandoned who seemed to be playing against Wichita like every second of the game could be his last on the ice.

Marlow watched as Shane slammed himself against the boards, trying to snatch the puck before a ref dared to call it icing. He had shot back down the center before the other forward even got to him and was gone before he could turn around.

Ilya was the first to reach it, shooting towards Kane who didn’t even think before smacking the puck as hard as he could. The goalie lunged to catch it but he missed, the puck hitting the top corner of the net before the clock ran out in the second period.

Kane turned towards Ilya; a mix of relief and confusion sprawled across his face as his captain skated. “I’m fucking defense,” he reminded him. “How the hell did that get passed to me?”

He shrugged, glancing around the ice to place everyone on his team. “Shane was too far, Marlow didn’t have the angle,” he replied. “Varkov was keeping someone off my back.”

Ilya frowned at the man as he mentioned him, noticing Varkov rolling his neck from being a bit too abrasive with the other team. Shane skated over from the other end, joining them as they exited the ice for the intermission.

They were up now. Well, had been and continued to be. An extra goal never hurt, though. And somehow, Shane still wasn’t calm. He sat down in the locker room, taking a breath as he watched Kane get tapped for a quick interview.

“What? No, I don’t want to,” he complained in between drinks of his water. “It’s intermission.”

“When you score the goal, they want to hear you talk about scoring the goal,” Ilya reminded him, patting him on his back hard enough he could feel the impact through his gear as he began shrugging it off to get a bit of a breather.

He huffed, grabbing a towel and dousing it in fresh, cold water before wrapping it around his neck. “You passed it and screamed at me to shoot it so I did!” he exclaimed. “There wasn’t much thinking behind it.”

“Same as usual, then?” Hammersmith mumbled, earning a few laughs as Kane grumbled something else under his breath and left for the interview.

It wasn’t like they were ever very long or for that matter terribly interesting, either. But the fans liked them and they had all put up with it at some point or another. Lord knows Ilya had done hundreds over his career and any chance he had to actually rest during intermission instead of trying not to pant over a microphone was a blessing to him.

He sat beside Shane who was tugging off some of his padding to try to breathe a bit better for the next few minutes. “You alright?” he murmured.

He nodded unconvincingly. “Fine,” he replied. “Just wanna win this, is all. Keep our momentum.”

Glancing back up at the clock, he squinted, waiting for the seconds to tick by faster. He didn’t want or need to take a break. In fact, he was pretty sure it would only inhibit him. He had been so focused, and intermission could ruin it if his heart rate dropped and he started getting comfortable.

Ilya hummed. “Is seventh game of the season,” he reminded him gently. “We don’t need to play like our lives depend on it when we’re up by two right now.” The season was long and grueling, there was no reason to exhaust themselves before they even began playing the harder teams in the league.

“Getting cocky is how you get blindsided,” he retorted, bouncing his knee anxiously in an attempt to stay in motion until their intermission ended.

“Shane,” he stated, reaching over and setting his hand on his knee in front of everyone, trying to settle it. No one noticed or read into it, but he tensed anyway, keeping the touch brief. “You don’t have to prove anything.”

He turned to look at him, his leg staying still even after his hand left it. “What?”

Ilya lowered his voice. “You do not have to prove anything,” he repeated slower, heavily enunciating himself to make sure it was crystal clear for him.

Shane seemed to hear that one a bit better, his shoulders sagging slightly as his words set in. “I know,” he murmured.

His glare harshened into something only someone who truly knew him could give. It was the kind he reserved for times when he knew, with absolute certainty, that Shane was deflecting. That he didn’t believe something that was already true and well-known to everyone else but him.

“You do not have to be player of the game every night or set records to prove to anyone that you were the heart of the Metros,” he assured him. “You don’t need to prove they’re suffering without you or that you’re doing better without them. Everyone knows this.”

Ilya knew he was afraid of people thinking he made a mistake by joining the Raiders. That maybe he left a prominent team and great position for no good reason. And with him officially cutting ties to the team, sans Hayden in very small increments, he wanted everyone to know they were a weaker team without him. He just couldn’t admit it without feeling like an asshole.

He huffed, pressed his hands against his face. “Do they?” he wondered, not quite sure if that sentiment was shared by as many people as his boyfriend seemed to think.

Ilya nodded without hesitation. “Yes,” he stated firmly. “And you are already demonstrating that just by playing the way you normally do. Stop killing yourself out there and just enjoy the game.”

Shane rubbed his arm, where he had purposely slammed into the boards to stop himself instead of even trying to slow down.

Maybe Ilya was right. He left the Metros to enjoy hockey, not feel this anger that was currently swelling inside him.

Sighing, he stood up and stretched his arms over his head, humming softly. “Speed Poker before intermission ends?” he questioned softly, shrugging as he suggested it.

Ilya glanced at the clock, checking how long they had before they needed to be back on the ice. “Alright, until we have two minutes left,” he agreed, reaching for them out of his cubby. He chucked them across the room, hitting his teammate on the head. “Dubek, deal the cards!” he shouted.

Bending over, he snatched the cards, pulling them out. “You coulda’ just asked, Roz,” he replied, already shuffling them. “No need to get violent.”

Shane huffed, extending his hand with the palm open and waiting for his cards to be placed in them. Maybe playing poker in between periods wasn’t the wisest choice when they could be strategizing, but they would get to the stressful stuff later in the season. Right now, they were ahead and Ilya was right, loving the game would keep them there.

In the meantime, the stress of only having fifteen seconds for a turn in poker would keep Shane’s mind busy as the intermission clock ticked down.

And it was indeed stressful, with yelling and countdowns and a distracting amount of laughter as some of the guys who weren’t playing peeked at everyone else’s cards. There wasn’t even time to read into anyone’s facial expressions or mumbling like in a normal round of poker, too busy just deciding whether to call, check, or fold altogether.

“Pair of eights beats a pair of six!” Carmichael shouted, throwing his hand up. “I win again!”

“Thank God, we don’t do this for money,” Kovalev muttered with a huff, patting Carmichael on the back. “Good game, man.”

Shane clicked his tongue, a bit disappointed to have lost but even so, he could still feel his nerves settling a bit. Even with the chaos, the team still functioned like one, congratulating Carmichael instead of complaining about losing.

That was the most refreshing part of the Raiders dynamics, Shane thought.

They teased when it was actually light-hearted, never crossed boundaries, and always tried to be good winners around each other. On ice was a separate story, of course. But that was publicity, nothing more.

“Alright, we’re all proud of your victory but we have another game to win, now,” Ilya reminded them, thumb pointing towards the door as the intermission clock began to get dangerously low.

They clamored, putting their padding back on and getting a few more sips of water in before heading back out onto the ice. Shane took a deep breath as he did, reminding himself he could still play to win without losing his love for the game.

Desjouney seemed pretty thrilled about his attitude for the most part, though, sending him out for the face off as the third period started. He bent down, letting his nerves wash over him and escape rather than storing them.

He saw the puck drop and raced to get to it first, just trying to get it to Ilya or Marlow before the other team did. Hitting it toward Marlow, he passed it back to Kane who skated it around the back of their net and towards Varkov.

And just like that, his blinders were off. He remembered he had a team and could work with them instead of racing around the ice on his own, with the intent of getting everywhere faster and harder than the others.

Minutes ticked by and the score remained the same static number they had been at. 5-3. It was better than letting the other team score, at least, even if he wished they could snatch another goal before the game ended soon.

Shane winced, seeing his shot bounce off the post of the goal instead of hit the net. The puck hit the ice, and another player from the other team grabbed it, trying to get it out of their end zone and towards the Raiders instead.

Shane raced after him, noticing Ilya on the other side, trying to grab the puck with his stick.

The rest happened fast. Too quick for his mind to fully process, if he was being honest. All he knew was that in between trying to get the puck back and skating into their end zone, Ilya had somehow got slammed against the boards. Hard. And it wasn’t a clean hit.

Shane skidded to a stop, the puck slipping past him as he reached out on instinct, grabbing onto the players jersey as shoving him back against the board while Ilya grabbed his side. The others caught up, crowding around as the player shoved him back and Shane felt himself throwing a punch before he could fully comprehend it.

The other team tried to pry him off their teammate and Marlow shoved one of them to get their hands off Shane, too as Ilya yanked them away from his boyfriend too from the other side.

The other player persisted, face inches from Shane’s as he screamed at him. “That was clean!”

Shane, to his credit screamed back, “No, it wasn’t you fucking idiot!”

The whistle blew as the refs dragged them apart from each other, both of them being ushered across the ice and towards the penalty box. Good, Shane thought. If he wasn’t getting a penalty for that hit, he would at least make sure that he got it for some roughing.

Sitting on the bench in the penalty box, he pulled his helmet off and caught his breath, leaning forward to keep his eyes on the game. It restarted on the Raiders side of the ice, Ilya taking the face off as he raced the puck to the other end of the rink.

Shane hit his stick against the glass, shouting through it at him to take the shot before the other team crowded around their goal too much to let him get a clear angle. He watched him do exactly that, shooting the puck the moment he saw an opening and landing it directly in the net.

The screamed and Shane could admit he did too, standing up quickly to pound on the side of the penalty box as his team rose to their feet too on the bench beside him. Skating all the way around the other teams net as the goal sign lit up, Ilya glanced at Shane, giving him a small nod.

Desjourney clicked his tongue. “That kills the penalty,” he muttered, shoving a tablet in Shane’s hands as he took a seat on the bench next to him.

“I’ve got ninety seconds,” he muttered. “It won’t be unfair for long.”

He nodded once, curt and final. “It better not be.”

They reset for another face off and Shane looked down at the tablet in his hands, studying the live film on it as the commentators went to town on the game from their perspective. He lifted the headphones to his ear, tilting one side to hear it without putting it on completely.

‘Whatever bad blood these two had seems to be ancient history by now,’ their commentator remarked. ‘Not only did Hollander jump in and rough up McGinnis for that check against Rozanov but you can see him still cheering from the penalty box. There definitely wasn’t an ounce of regret as he got hauled off the ice.’

‘Exactly, you can just tell that was personal to him from how fast he snapped, letting the puck slide right past him in order to go after McGinnis. And I mean, we get that, don’t we? You don’t get away with that kind of behavior, especially not against the Raiders captain,’ the other replied, agreeing. ‘The whole team is notoriously defensive over Rozanov and clearly that extends to Hollander despite not being apart of the lineup for very long.’

Shane huffed slightly, keeping his eyes on the clock as he listened to their commentary. It ticked backwards quickly and he passed the tablet back to Desjourney, pulling the headphones off and hooking his helmet back on.

The second his penalty ended, he was back on the ice, finding Marlow and crowding beside him to try to keep the other team from getting a clear shot at their net or goalie. He stayed in their way as much as possible, just eating time up as the last minute played out.

Periods always felt faster when Shane spent part of them watching from the box. Though, he wasn’t exactly known for landing himself in it all that often. It was a newer experience; one he found himself starting to make a habit since it was multiple games in a row now.

Still, as the clock buzzed to signal the end of the game, with a 6-3 score, he skated to a slow stop and leaned against Kane lightly. “Good game, man,” he muttered, bumping his helmet against his.

“Back at you,” he replied. “I especially liked the entertainment.”

Scoffing, he bumped his head against Marlow too, then Varkov’s, Kohns, Connors, Hammersmiths, Vic’s, etc. Pretty much the whole team one by one until his head was practically vibrating from at the jostling against the hard shell of his helmet.

Following them off the ice, Ilya gave him one last bump, his a bit lighter compared to the others. “That was very attractive,” he whispered to him, voice barely audible over the teams clamoring and the sound of the fans still cheering.

Nudging him back, Shane urged him towards the locker room to get off the ice.

They filed into the locker room, making a few more comments over putting away another win or noting small details of each other’s plays. Another habit they had, to try to acknowledge each other even when the media liked to try to focus on one of them per day specifically.

“That was a good save earlier, Varkov,” Feller noted, nodding at him as he tugged his jersey over his head and unhooked his padding. “Kept the game from tying in the first period.”

“Says the guy who stopped a puck with his body on accident,” he retorted, gesturing to his arm. “Think it’ll bruise?”

He shrugged. “Guess we’ll find out.”

Shane watched, untying his skates on the bench as they passed compliments around. With one skate off, he felt a tap on his shoulder and turned, seeing the media coordinator beckoning for him to come into the hallway for a post-game interview.

He sighed wearily, nodding after a second. “Give me a minute,” he muttered, bending back over to finish untying the other side of laces as well.

“Good luck with the wolves,” Vic told him, ruffling his hair as he pulled his stuff out of his cubby and headed towards the showers.

He hummed, figuring he’d need it if the snippet of the commentator’s discussion was any indication of the kind of questions they’d ask. Pulling on his regular shoes, he wiped his face and neck down, sticking to his jersey. There was no point in getting his other clothes dirty before he got to take his post-game shower.

Shane bumped Ilya’s arm on the way out intentionally, mouthing something to him with a glare as he followed the coordinator out. There were a few reporters, all buzzing with more energy than he honestly had himself after that game.

Clearing his throat, he stepped in front of them, the bright lights of their camera’s flashing in his eyes as he tried to get his vision to adjust to them quickly. There was microphone in his face before he even got a pick a reporter to answer.

A woman with blonde hair was first, her head tilted curiously as she asked, “McGinnis claims that check against Rozanov was entirely fair, do you believe that?”

Shane scoffed, shaking his head. “No. Not for a second,” he told her, planting his hands on his hips. “Rewatch it and you’ll see he went for the head on purpose, Roz just managed to move out of the way.”

That hadn’t kept him from getting checked at all, but it at least prevented him from a much worse hit than the one he took to his ribs when he hit the boards.

“Follow up question,” she called before he could take a different question. “Was there a moment you decided to defend Rozanov or were you just looking for a fight?” He had been playing pretty aggressively all night, after all. Some guys just wanted an outlet regardless of who they went after.

“Neither,” he replied with a slight frown. “I don’t fight unless I have a reason to and protecting my team is one of those reasons. I didn’t decide to, it’s what you do if you teammate is in trouble. Especially if the refs aren't doing their job and calling penalties that deserve it.”

She withdrew her microphone as another reporter, a man with short brown hair leapt in with another question. “Last week you got thrown in the penalty box for defending Marlow as well,” he noted. “Given your emerging pattern, do you think the other guys would also do the same for you?”

Shane nodded immediately and firmly. “Yeah, of course they would,” he stated.

There was no doubt in his mind they would, if the opportunity arose. It probably would, at that, but for now people were still avoiding starting fights with him. They had always done that for the majority of his career, actually.

He supposed it was the reputation he had cultivated as a polite player that made them think twice, not wanting to get called out if they got physical with him. Not that he ever took it half as personally as the fan always tended to.

“You work so well with the Raiders that a newer fan to hockey might think they’ve been your team this whole time,” another man noted, slightly impressed. “Is there something that makes that connection work?”

Shane tugged his lips to the side, thinking about it before he shrugged slightly. “I guess it’s just trust and respect, honestly,” he admitted, not sure what else to say. “We try to play for us first and foremost and it makes a world of difference.”

It wasn’t about making the fans proud or pleasing management; Ilya wanted to win. The guys wanted to win, too. They all wanted that for themselves and each other, not outside sources that made each loss feel twice as devastating as it normally would have been.

A red-headed woman piped up, “You play Montreal next week, is there any apprehension about seeing the team?”

He was quick to shake his head again. “Not really, we’ve had a strong start to our season,” he reminded them. “Hopefully we’ll keep it up no matter who we’re up against.”

Sure, the personal aspect didn’t make it easier, but he wasn’t expecting it to make it more challenging, either. They knew him, at one point. Knew how he played and all his tells. But he had been learning new things since joining the Raiders and doubted even a decade of teamwork would help them figure out his plays.

“By now you must have heard about your former teammates injury,” she added, tone softening slightly out of respect. “Have you been in touch with Comeau since his accident?”

Shane blinked for a moment, his mind racing to decide whether or not he should lie about the phone call. For a second, he almost did. It was the polite thing to do to protect everyone’s reputations. But then again, the Metros hadn’t had much loyalty towards him, so he figured he wasn’t required to have it for them, either.

“Uh- no, I haven’t spoken with him,” he admitted earnestly, shaking his head.

Her eyes widened, like he had surprised her with that answer for some reason. “You said you haven’t reached out to him?” she tried to double check, microphone inching a bit closer to him to make sure it picked up his words correctly.

“No, I said I didn’t speak to him,” he clarified. “I reached out the moment I found out about it. It’s a horrible thing to have happen to any player, especially so early in the season. I’m wishing him a fast recovery.”

And that much was still true. He never wanted to see anyone on his old team or any other team get seriously hurt. He knew from experience that it was terrifying, not to mention gut-wrenching in an emotional aspect to lay in a hospital and know people relying on you couldn’t anymore.

“You’re saying he couldn’t or wouldn’t speak with you then?” a different reporter asked, now joining in on that specific topic after realizing it was a bit more interesting than the standard ‘yes, we spoke, he’s doing well’ answer that everyone expected.

Shane shook his head, bending closer to the microphone for emphasis. “He wouldn’t speak to me, that’s correct,” he told them. “I tried, but was told he refused to accept my call.”

The blonde woman from before chimed back in, “Have you kept in touch with any of the team since deciding to sign with Boston instead this year?”

He made a so-so gesture with his head, huffing slightly. “Uh- not really,” he confessed looking more exasperated than anything else. “Pike and I still talk, technically. But no, the rest of the team hasn’t spoken to me since I told them about my decision.”

He could practically see them doing that mental math in their heads, even though it was pretty tough. He signed at a different date than he made the decision too, and no one knew the exact day his relationship with the Metros came to a full stop. It was at least two months ago, though. If not longer.

The man with short brown hair was shoving his microphone back towards him as another question popped into his head. “They refused to comment on it but amidst your departure there were rumors of your former teammates calling you a traitor for walking away from them,” he mentioned. “Can you confirm or deny those in any way?”

Shane hummed, nodding. “Oh, yeah, they definitely called me a traitor,” he affirmed without hesitation. “As well as a liar and backstabber, before entirely refusing to speak to me.”  

And maybe that was a bit cruel to reveal, but it was the truth. It had all been said and a bit more if he was being honest. Before completely ghosting him, some bothered to leave a parting insult, which he technically still had buried somewhere in his texts.

Not that he cared enough to show them to anyone, it was just his own way of reminding himself why he shouldn’t reach out each time he got the urge to try to fix things.

“What’s it like having so much animosity build between you and the Metros so quickly?” the red-headed reporter questioned.

He huffed a bit, shrugging. “I mean, honestly? It’s one-sided,” he told them indifferently. “They were like my family and I’m always going to love Montreal for everything it’s given me; I wish them the absolute best this season.”

He had hoped they felt the same about him, but if they wanted to feel victimized and claim he was the reason why they had been a wreck during the first few games, then that was fine with him. Maybe a joint enemy would unite them like it had when they spent their days tearing into the Raiders before games.

“Do you have any plans to make further attempts to mend this rift with the Metros?” she tacked on, voice tinged with curiosity.

Shane shook his head immediately. “No, I won’t. The Metros were a big part of my life and they’re why I am where I am, but they’re also in the past,” he admitted, pointing over his shoulder with his thumb. “I’m focusing on my future, and it’s got an R on it, right now.”

The media coordinator waved his hand, signaling he’d only let one more person ask a question before wrapping things up. Thank God for that, frankly. Shane was getting a bit tired in front of all the lights.

One last reporter piped up, the question relatively tame as they asked, “Do you have anything to say to your former teammates in anticipation of the upcoming game against them?”

He thought about it for a moment. “Just that they should bring their A-game, because we plan to,” he replied. “Thank you guys,” he murmured to the reporters, stepping away.

The media coordinator kept them away, shielding Shane as he headed back to the locker room to finally start recovering after that game. He wanted to check on Ilya’s ribs, too, after seeing him clutch them earlier. But knowing him, he’d claim they were fine no matter how bad they hurt.

He’d probably have to seduce him later at home in order to get him to ice them.

· ─ ·✶· ─ · 

Shane sat at the kitchen counter, watching Ilya scrape some eggs onto two plates in the morning before their game against Montreal. He scrolled through his phone, the headlines looking relatively similar to how they had since their game against Wichita.

Stuff like Metros under fire after former player reveals cruel parting words from teammates. and Hollander exposes teammates malicious opinions about his decision to leave the Metros during post-game interview, was everywhere.

Some were a bit more dramatic than others, but all in all, they tended to say the same thing. And for the most part, were alarmingly accurate for websites that tended to spin everything a player said into something else.

He watched in real time as the fans rallied behind their behavior, agreeing they had every right to feel betrayed. He also watched as fans of pretty much every other team in the league came to his defense saying that no matter who he signed with, they had to respect his choice.

“Put your phone down and eat,” Ilya muttered, plate clinking in front of him as he set down some French toast, fruit, and eggs for breakfast.

He hummed, setting his phone on the counter and grabbing his fork. “Bossy today,” he replied, stabbing a strawberry on the edge of the prong.

“You like me that way,” he retorted, leaning against the counter as he cut a piece of his French toast with his fork. They sat in silent for a moment or two before he spoke up again. “Sooo, how are you feeling?”

Shane shrugged. “It’s a game like any other,” he replied, scooping up some eggs on his plate. “Just have to play our best and make sure we don’t lose on our own ice.”

The past few days, they had beat Florida, lost in Dallas, then won against Carolina. To say they had been having a good season would be a massive understatement. They had only lost two out of twelve games so far, which was more consistent than almost any other team in the league currently.

Especially the Metros who were either winning big or crashing hard in their games. They had five out of twelve wins, including their most recent against Ottawa. But frankly, they were starting to clean up their act a bit offensively speaking and he worried they might have gotten their shit together just in time for tonight.

What a humiliating way it would be to lose if they allowed that to happen.

“We won’t,” Ilya retorted confidently, shaking his head. “Guys already agreed we’re winning this one for you specifically.”

He huffed in amusement, lips twitching. “Thanks,” he murmured, cutting into his own French toast. “I just hope I’ve got my head on right, tonight, you know? I don’t wanna choke out there.”

He nodded in understanding. “You love the game, yes? You love our team, too?” he questioned, shrugging. “Then you are already in the right frame of mind, just have to stay there. Don’t let your history with them control how you play.”

Shane bit back a scoff, stabbing his plate a bit too hard as he took another piece of French toast off it. “Oh, trust me, our history is driving this game,” he responded bitterly. “Just not in a good way.”

Ilya watched him closely, humming with a tinge of skepticism.

He knew tonight would be, uh- interesting, to say the least. He wasn’t worried about how Shane or the rest of the team would play, though. They were solid right now. Good defense and amazing offensive plays throughout the first few games.

What worried him, was how Montreal would play. Not if they were good or bad, necessarily, but if they were fair. He had, frankly, already worried about that before Shane’s interview reopened the controversy of his departure from the Metros.

But now he was even more concerned with how many articles were floating around and how much of the community was turning on the team. He didn’t want them taking it out on Shane, blaming him for their bad publicity just because he was honest about what happened between them.

That sinking feeling in Ilya’s stomach never quite lifted throughout the day, only worsening as the hours passed and they left the house to drive to the rink. Separately, of course. Throughout an early practice and a late lunch with the team, the knot loosened and tightened periodically depending on how distracted he was.

But the moment he sat on the bench in the locker room, tying on his skates, he felt it for sure. Constrictive and nearly painful with how hard it felt for him to breathe. He wondered if this was what Shane’s anxiety made him feel like and if so, he was astounded that he managed to live like this so long.

“You ready Hollzy?” Vic wondered, standing next to him at their cubby’s as he checked his phone for a moment before setting it down and giving his teammate his full attention.

He shrugged. “I don’t have a choice, do I?” he mumbled with weak sarcasm.

“Not really, no,” he replied gently, lips tugging to the side. “Look, just remember you can love the Metros without respecting what they stand for, anymore, okay? People change all the time.”

Hammersmith nodded his head in agreement. “We’ve all lost teammates, that doesn’t mean anyone who walks away from our team isn’t our friend just because they chose what’s best for themselves,” he stated. “We still talk to the guys who were traded or who decided to sign with other teams.”

They had all left on good terms, with disappointed goodbyes even when they were the ones choosing to leave willingly. And why wouldn’t they? The team loved each other; they were a family. No matter who came through those doors and who walked out of them, that wouldn’t change.

The fact that the Metros could dismiss Shane so quickly from the group he practically built from the ground up wasn’t just astounding, it was disrespectful in Hammersmiths opinion.

“I met up with Price over break,” Carmichael reminded them with a shrug. “He’s doing great in Buffalo.”

Not that he wasn’t looking forward to destroying his team on the ice next week, when they played in New York. But he wasn’t gunning for the man with some personal vendetta or anything. That was how this game should be, he thought. Rivalries, sure, never true hatred.

“I traveled with a few guys who left our team willingly when I was gone,” Kovalov added, nodding. “It’s not difficult to respect them even if they’ve changed teams.” They were still good people, and they had history from playing together even if was only two or three seasons.

“Point is, if the Metros can’t support you as a Raider, they were never your friends to start with,” Marlow told him, shrugging. “A real team wants you to succeed no matter where you play or who its with.”

Shane felt something settle in his chest as a wave of realization seemed to wash over him. They were right, after all. The Raiders had shown him more trust, respect, and compassion in a few months than his old team had for a full decade. He didn’t need to go out there feeling like a former Metro, just trust that everyone on his team knew he was a Raider.

Nodding slightly, he strapped his helmet on. “Yeah, you guys are right,” he murmured.

“Of course we are,” Feller quipped, shrugging as he patted him on the back. “Why don’t we go show them how you play when you’ve actually got a good team, huh?”

With a huff, Shane’s lips lifted into a smile. “Let’s do it,” he agreed, following Ilya out of the locker room.

Hitting the ice for warmups, it seemed like the arena was already packed. Not that it was unusual for them to sell out the place these days, especially tonight, but the fans usually trickled in. They got snacks and walked around during warm ups, then took their seats for the face off.

Not tonight, though. It felt like every seat was already filled and no one dared to get up even though the game hadn’t even technically started yet.

Skating around their half of the ice, Shane’s eyes flitted towards the other side where the Metros were practicing a bit harder than he usually saw them try. He almost felt a bit happy about it, that they felt intimidated enough to need to put the extra effort into it.

“Thinking of Italian for a late dinner,” Kohn mumbled as they warmed up. Sure, they had all had a group lunch like three hours ago, but by the time they finished playing and left the arena, they’d be hungry again. He would be, at least.

Sebbin laughed slightly, gently gliding around the ice with a puck. “I’m getting Mexican,” he replied. “Nothing beats the taco truck by my apartment when I’m starving at ten pm.”

Varkov hummed, nodding as the puck got passed to him. “I want Indian,” he added. “Extra spicy curry with a side of rice from the good place downtown.” They practically knew his order by now with often he was there.

Shane listened to them discuss the random meals they planned to eat for dinner once they finished the game, barely concerned with the other team at all, and it brought him an odd sense of comfort to know how unbothered they all were. He thought about what he and Ilya would have when they headed home. Probably Chinese, if he had to guess. That always seemed to sound good.

Ilya broke away from them for a moment, skating over the bench where Desjourney had called for him. He perched his gloves on the side of the railing, talking with him for a moment before glancing over his shoulder. Coach pointed at Shane specifically and Ilya nodded for a moment, then shook his head, then nodded again.

If Shane had been a bit closer he might have been able to hear what he was saying, but since he didn’t want to look overly conspicuous, he just stayed with the others and occasionally glanced over there as the two of them talked. It felt, admittedly, like a much longer conversation than it actually was.

Skating back over, Ilya reached for Shane’s arm, nudging him even though he already knew he had been watching them. “Coach wanted to know if you would be in the right place for opening faceoff,” he told him.

Shane glanced at Desjourney, then at the Metros and back to Ilya before he nodded firmly, once and only once. “Yeah, of course I am,” he assured him firmly.

His lips twitched as he tapped his arm in approval. “Good,” he replied, reaching out to take the puck from him and slide it over to Kane. “That’s what I lobbied for.”

With a huff, he watched Ilya skate back over to the goalie, muttering with him for a moment like he always did. He seemed to enjoy his routine of individually talking to everyone as they warmed up, giving small suggestions about their game or a few compliments if that’s what he felt like they needed to boost their spirit before the game.

Tonight, though, it didn’t really feel like anyone needed to be given a pep talk. They were antsy to get the game started, to play and beat Montreal.

When warmups ended, they got their wish.

Shane skated towards the middle, lights flashing for a moment to signal the start of the game. He saw Hayden coming to meet him, bending down slightly. He stared at him, looking like wanted to say something for a moment.

Eventually, though, he decided to bite back whatever comment was planning to make. “Good luck,” he murmured instead, blowing out a breath.

Shane kept his eyes on the ice, not his friend. “Don’t need it,” he retorted.

The puck dropped and he caught it first, smacking it away from Hayden before he could even fight for it. Slipping past him, Marlow caught it immediately, heading directly into the Metros side of the ice.

Shane followed him, eyes on Mitty and JJ who were trying to snatch the puck back. He slammed into Mitty, pushing him against the board to keep him away from Marlow who spun around JJ before he got too close. He shot the puck towards Drapeau at the net, just missing as it bounced off him.

Ricocheting back, Ilya swept it up before Hayden got to the puck, passing it to Shane who shot again. This time, it made it past Drapeau, hitting the back of the net. The sign behind it lit up, the familiar red confirming his goal.

The crowd roared and Marlow bumped his helmet against Shane’s. “Nice one Hollzy,” he praised with his lips tipped upwards into a smile.

JJ grimaced, glancing between them. “Hollzy?” he repeated, tone mocking.

Shane ignored the comment as Marlow skated off to say something to Vic and Feller. He wasn’t really sure how public that nickname was or not anymore, but if they were shocked by it, that wasn’t his problem.

He raised his arm, bumping it against Ilya’s. “Thanks for the pass,” he murmured as both teams reset for another faceoff.

He shrugged. “Figured it’d do you good,” he replied, heading into the circle to take the next faceoff himself.

Bending, he met Mitty’s eyes as a small smirk crossed his lips. This puck would be too easy to win, he thought, stick inches from the ice while waiting for the ref to drop it.

It fell after a moment and he was quick to smack the ice, stick getting caught against Mitty’s for a split second before shoving it away and passing the puck towards Shane who JJ was crowding around a bit too closely.

He passed it to Feller, puck flying through the air to reach him in the corner. Catching it with the end of his stick, he past it towards Marlow who got slammed into the wall by Wilson, losing the puck to him.

Above the ice and even above the crowd, the commentators were enjoying the game, their usual discussion of play statistics put on the back burner while discussing the teams instead.

‘We’re less than a minute into the game and it’s Raider one, Metros zero in the thirteenth game of the season,’ one announced. ‘This team has already been on fire this season so far, but I would argue that this is probably the most anticipated game yet. People are dying to see how Hollander copes on the ice against his former team.’

‘With that shot against Drapeau, I’d say he’s coping pretty well,’ he other noted, laughing a bit. ‘Of course, a great assist from Rozanov to make that goal work out as efficiently as it did, too. The pair have been absolutely racking up points by working together as well as they do.’

He nodded in agreement. ‘There was definitely some apprehension bout Desjourney’s decision to put Hollander on first line with Rozanov and Marlow the first time he did it,’ he remembered. ‘But clearly that was the right decision and even though it’s still early in the season, I honestly can’t see him changing their specific lineup right now.’

‘Well, that would be foolish, if he did,’ was the response. ‘The three of them have such a great rhythm out there, especially when their defensemen do such a great job of manipulating the other team. I mean, you see it right now in the way Vic is just annoying the hell out of Wilson to keep him off Hollander.’

Vic crowded the man, never doing anything against the rules like tripping or grabbing him, but skating so close that he was blocking Wilson’s view of the ice. Hollander moved around them, his shoulder smacking into JJ but he stayed upright long enough to clear the puck.

He would rather get called out for icing than let them take the puck willingly.

“Feller, it’s long!” he shouted as he stumbled, eyes finding JJ already skating away from what was technically a clean hit.

In an instant, Feller was on it, trying to beat him to the other end of the rink before the refs tried to call the penalty. He hit the boards at the same time as JJ, both of them getting stuck against them as they both tried to scrape it back towards them.

Hayden crowded around too, trying to help JJ but it didn’t matter. Eventually, Feller came away with it, either way. He always did. It was practically his own personal superpower.

Stick slamming into the edge of the puck, he shot it all the way across the ice through the air, directly towards Ilya who was seemingly waiting for it. He caught the puck, immediately discarding it to Shane who only made it a few feet towards the net before Mitty’s stick was in his way, trying to grab it back.

Tripping over it, he tumbled forward, headfirst into the boards hard enough to shake them.

Ilya’s eyes widened, glancing at the nearest ref who either didn’t notice or didn’t care enough to call the penalty. He would have gone after Mitty in heartbeat if Marlow hadn’t beat him to him, starting a fight before Shane even had the chance to try to stand up.

Shoving Mitty away from Shane, he shouted at him for the tripping, only getting a few words out before he was tackling him back. Pushed onto the ice, they slipped and Vic tried to separate them before things got too out of hand. They couldn’t risk letting the Metros score on a power play right now.

Shane stood up, watching the referee intervene and push both of them away from each other. He glanced at Ilya, slightly frustrated but he just mouthed something to him, shaking his head like he was silently telling him to let it go. Marlow was making a point and Shane didn’t need to blame himself for it.

He blew out a breath, grabbing his stick off the ice and glaring at Mitty without saying anything as he skated over to the bench, taking a seat for a moment.

‘And we’re seeing Hollander going to take a breather on the bench, now. Maybe get his head checked real quick after that hit he just took,’ the commentator noted. ‘Meanwhile it’s seeming like Marlow is going to be penalized for roughing and Mitty will also be given two minutes for tripping.’

Shane scrubbed his eyes, blinking harshly for a few moments down on the bench, muttering something under his breath. Desjourney tried to get him to take his helmet off, wanting their doctor to at least make sure there wasn’t a delay with his vision. Shane refused, though, shoving his coaches hand away a bit.

“I’m good,” he insisted, keeping his helmet on. “Just need a second.”

With a huff of annoyance and perhaps respect, he nodded, tapping on Hammersmith who quickly hopped over the ledge, taking his place as they reset for another face off. Down a player wasn’t nearly as bad when the other team also had a disadvantage, but Ilya still would have preferred not to lose Marlow, even if he knew it was for a good reason.

He could see Hayden’s eyes flicker to Shane as he sat on the bench, chewing on the edge of his mouth guard. “Don’t fucking look at him,” Ilya insisted, bent down for the faceoff.

“Excuse me?” Hayden mumbled, eyes darting back to him.

“You heard me,” he retorted, his tone clipped. “He’s not your teammate anymore; he’s mine. If you think Marlow is a problem to your game, wait until you see what I will do to your team if you hurt anyone on mine again.”

He scoffed, dipping his head as he tried to focus on the game. Something about Ilya’s words still rang through his head though, sounding so definitive that he didn’t want to risk seeing what he was actually referring to when he said that.

The puck dropped again, and Ilya stole it before he could comprehend how quickly it happened.

That seemed to be the theme of the game, if he was being honest. The fact that had scored at all against their goalie was actually kind of impressive. Or it would be, if they weren’t still losing 2-1 at the end of the first period thanks to a rather angry play produced by Marlow once he was let out of the penalty box.

It was like the whole team was letting him have it, passing the puck to him as soon as possible, letting him shoot against Drapeau with a little under a minute until the clock ran down. After that, they were just eating time, wasting seconds to keep the Metros from even getting the chance to take a shot.

The clock buzzed as the period ended and Hayden watched as they circled around the bench, muttering amongst themselves for a few seconds before heading into their locker rooms. And maybe he was just hallucinating it, but he could have sworn he heard one of them mention the words ‘poker’ and something about ‘wearing a crown’ before they left.

Following his team off the ice, Hayden blew out a breath as he entered the guest locker rooms.

He’d been in them dozens of times before, of course, but there was something different about being in them without Shane. About knowing that he didn’t currently have that feeling a player always got when they were reevaluating their game at intermission after spending the first period losing.

“They threw us on defense before we even reached their half of the ice once,” Wilson complained, throwing his gloves onto the bench in annoyance.

“What the fuck was that Hollzy shit, too?” JJ wondered, rolling his eyes. “Did you hear all those passes they called with it?”

Drapeau nodded, huffing as he leaned against the guest cubby he was using. “Mitty shouldn’t have even been penalized; it was accident,” he retorted. “Marlow’s a fucking guard dog, trying to stir shit up for no reason.”

Hayden just drank some of his water, trying his best not to let his anger get the best of him. Because accident or not, Mitty did trip Shane and it was a penalty. And Marlow overreacted but it was damn clear why.

“I hate their ‘teamwork makes the dream work’ attitude this season,” Berkes noted with a mocking tone. “Rozanov was practically giving his team those shots like a farmer dishing out his animal’s food.”

“Enough, guys,” Hayden insisted, sick of their whining. “Stop bitching about the fact that we’re losing and start playing like we actually want to win.”

It was easier said than done of course. He wasn’t an idiot; he saw exactly how in sync they were playing a few minutes ago. Hell, he probably spent more of the intermission thinking about the Raiders game than he had his own.

Mostly because it made him cringe to think back to the way Wilson and Mitty had lost the puck because neither called it and they smacked into each other while Feller skated off with it.

Still, he tried to clear his head before the second period. Tried, being the operative word there. Because whatever chance of actually clearing it he had disappeared the moment he saw Shane leaving their locker rooms while laughing so hard about something he had to hold onto Ilya to keep from tripping.

What hurt more than seeing them being teammates was how blatantly obvious it was that they were friends now, too. Shane and the same man who taunted him, who insulted the Metros, who their team bonded over hating. It felt wrong.

The Metros coach sent JJ to the faceoff to start the second period while Marlow took it for the Raiders. On either side of him, Ilya and Shane glanced at each other, giving a small nod, almost like they were expecting something very specific to happen.

What that was, Hayden wasn’t quite sure.

He glanced back at the face off where the puck dropped and Marlow hit his stick against the ice in one motion, not moving it. JJ took the puck as he made no attempt to steal it. Hayden looked back up, confused, and saw the Raiders already skating towards their own goal.

Something felt off about it in his gut, but his mind was just trying to keep up with the game and racing into their endzone where they were all crowded around the net. At least, he thought they were. He hadn’t counted, just saw enough Raiders jerseys to think the whole team was there.

JJ passed the puck to Berkes who Vic skated past without trying to stop him from passing the puck to Hayden. He had an open shot. Despite every Raider being in front of the net, none of them were clustered tight enough to block him.

The right angle and he’d score.

But he didn’t.

The puck bounced off the net, towards Shane who caught it and turned, shooting it across the ice. Hayden’s face furrowed, head twisting to try to see what the hell he was doing. In his mind, that had to be an icing penalty since there was no one over there.

But as his eyes caught up, he saw Feller standing in the neutral zone, an inch away from the line.

Catching the puck Shane shot towards him, Feller twisted, keeping the puck in motion and aiming it at Drapeau who lunged to catch it and missed. The crowd deafened Hayden’s ears as he tried to figure out what just happened.

“What the fuck was that!” JJ exclaimed to no one in particular.

He wasn’t sure how something so shoddy could have worked. Or how none of them seemed overly astounded by their own luck, almost looking smug about it. Like it had been planned that way.

Shane bumped his forearm against Ilya’s, grinning at him. “Nice play,” he murmured with a tinge of pride in his voice.

He shrugged, gesturing to the goal they had scored while five of their players were in the opposite end zone. “Gotta keep them interesting,” he replied cockily, smirking at Hayden as he passed him.

The crowd hadn’t quite calmed down, and he doubted they would for a bit longer, but either way, they set up for another face off. There was something almost ludicrous about all of them having to skate to the other end of the rink for it since that’s where the goal had been scored, even if none of them were over there.

Feller wasn’t either, technically. He sixty-four fucking feet away from the goal.

Vic bumped Feller’s helmet, beaming with pride. “Knew we picked the right man for that,” he murmured. “No one makes a puck fly like you do.”

“And to think you accuse me of needing to play with the puck on the ice more often,” he retorted with an arrogant expression, raising his gloves as he reset for the face off.

The next face off, the Raiders actually fought for it. That’s why they won. And frankly, if they hadn’t tried to win it, Hayden was pretty sure JJ would know better than to take it a second time. There was no way they would get away with that kind of play again. At least not against the Metros.

Feller passed the puck towards Ilya, who took the shot against Drapeau and missed it. It slid into the corner and Berkes grabbed it, passing it to Hayden who shot it towards the far end of the rink, wanting it out of their end zone as fast as possible.

Shane went after it and Wilson raced after him, trying to get to the puck before the ref could call them out on icing. He glanced over at his former teammate, his stick outstretched to try to reach the puck first.

Slamming into the boards at nearly the same time, Shane felt one of Wilson’s hands jostling him a bit, trying to push him away. He pushed back with his shoulder, trying to trap the puck before he got it out. Wilson, clearly pissed, used both hands to shove him and Shane knew from how much force he used that he didn’t give a damn about the puck anymore.

Wilson lunged at him, but before either of them fully comprehended it, Ilya was appearing in between them. He shoved Wilson away, forearm pressing into the base of the man’s throat as he slammed him against the boards with an expression that could only be described as furious.

Wilson pushed back of course, knocking Ilya towards the net. He felt the bar hit him, but it didn’t stop their tussle even as the referees pulled them apart. Wilson shouting something at him, calling him insane for quite literally going for his throat.

The referee put his hand over Wilson’s chest, pushing him further away from Ilya to keep them from starting something again and he reluctantly went with the ref to the penalty box. Ilya glanced at Shane for a moment, eyes catching his with an indiscernible expression before he turned and let the other referee guide him towards the penalty box, too.

Passing Hayden, who was skating to a stop, he pointed directly at him. “I fucking warned you, Pike,” he reminded him. “Tell your damn team to play fair or I’ll keep them from playing at all.”

The ref gave Ilya a shove and he snapped at him, too, before throwing his hands up defensively and entering the penalty box with a mostly willing attitude.

Hayden blinked, watching it play out for a moment before his eyes scanned the ice for Shane who was nodding at something Marlow was telling him, looking as pissed as his captain was. He skated over hesitantly, bending down for the face off and Shane did the same.

“I’m sorry about Wilson,” he clarified. “That wasn’t okay.”

“I don’t need your apologies,” Shane retorted bitterly. “Just shut your mouth and play the game.”

Hayden let out a breath, the pit coiling in his stomach a bit tighter over his defensiveness. He watched the puck drop, trying to get to it but failing as Shane snatched it, immediately shoving past him with a hard smack against his shoulder.

From the penalty box Ilya was watching the game with concentration, his eyes focused on Shane who was following Marlow as he naturally stepped into the captain position on ice like he did every time Ilya got thrown in the box.

He wouldn’t exactly call it a good thing that each time they got penalized, the Metros also did, which effectively cancelled each other out. But he would still take it over them having an advantage any day of the week.

Even once Ilya was out of the penalty box, they didn’t score for the rest of the period.

They came close, but Drapeau had seemingly gotten his shit together at some point because he wasn’t letting their shots get past him, even if the rest of the Metros were sloppy enough that they were outshooting them by double right now.

It was aggravating, to say the least.

As the clock ran down and the buzzer rang out, Ilya huffed in annoyance. He skidded to a stop, looking up at the rafters and letting the lights blind him on purpose for a few moment while catching his breath. They had been so close to that goal, too. A few more seconds and they could have had it.

Vic bumped his shoulder. “Come on,” he murmured. “Let’s grab some water.”

Looking back down from the rafters, he nodded, leaving the ice. They were still up, 3-1, if nothing else.

Entering the locker room, Ilya glanced around, finding Shane already chugging his water like he had spent the week in a desert without it. He knew the feeling, frankly. He was dying for some water, too.

Shane extended his own bottle before Ilya was even all the way across the room, still catching his breath after the last few minutes of the second period. They were a bit more brutal than they had needed to be, for some reason.

“Thanks, for earlier,” he murmured, pulling his towel around the back of his neck to try to cool down a bit quicker.

Ilya shrugged. “Knew from the way he was skating that he was going to pull something like that,” he admitted.

Or maybe he had just been expecting it out of all the Metros and was just finally proven right. There was no way to know for certain, really.

“I thought he was going to rip my head off for sure before you showed up.” Or at the very least give him a concussion. “You came out of nowhere,” Shane huffed, a bit astounded.

Truthfully, Ilya couldn’t recall a time since they were playing the championships that he had gotten anywhere that fast. That he had genuinely been screaming at himself in his mind to move even quicker, even if he tore something or risked tripping.

But at that moment, he just needed to be there, in between them, keeping that man from starting a fight that he knew Shane could have finished but didn’t need to.

“I just wished we did better during the second half of that period,” he admitted, sounding a bit disappointed.

Shane nudged his arm. “We’re up by two,” he reminded him. “And we at the very least blew their minds with Feller’s goal.”

He huffed, nodding in agreement. “Understatement,” he muttered, tipping his head towards Feller in appreciation. It had been a spectacular goal. “But I still want more goals and points.”

Shane, in his opinion, deserved that. He didn’t want to win with a few goals over Montreal, he wanted to fucking obliterate them. He wanted them to see exactly what the rest of the Raiders season was going to look like and feel terrified for the next time they had to play against his team.

“Like you said a week ago—” Shane took his water bottle back from him, fingers brushing. “—Stop killing yourself out there and just enjoy the game.”

It was the best way to win for them. Not when they were stressed and panicking about technical stuff, but when they were just having fun. Hockey was called a game for a reason, after all.

Ilya rolled his eyes, lips tugging into a smile as he nodded. “I am a very wise man,” he mused, reluctantly, blowing out a breath as he started to cool down both physically and emotionally. “So, then, poker or charades?”

“Charades!” Marlow shouted from across the room before anyone had a chance to chime in. “I’m not losing to Carmichael again two intermissions in a row.”

“Cowards,” Carmichael replied, unbothered as he balanced his plastic crown on his head regardless of the game they were playing.

Huffing, they set up for a brief game. One with slightly different rules, just like how they adapted poker to be playable in such a short amount of time. It was a bit harder, mostly because the teams always wound up stacked in some way or another, even though they drew names randomly from slips of paper.

They still enjoyed it though. It was a good way to clear their heads for a few minutes and still stay in motion, so their muscles didn’t get cold waiting around for the third period to start.

When the game did restart, Ilya found something about the horrible energy around the Metros pretty satisfying. He didn’t know what had happened during their intermission that was so terrible, but they looked both pissed off and reclusive all at once.

The smirk on Ilya’s face probably worsened it, frankly, not that he cared.

Hayden watched as Rozanov muttered something to his teammates and they all nodded, bumping their forearms against his like some kind of promise or deal as they broke apart to set up for another face off.

“Уничтожьте его,” Ilya said to Shane specifically with a knowing look.

Shane nodded. “Я буду,” he replied, gaze lingering before he bent down in front of Hayden in the middle of the ice.

Hayden narrowed his eyes a bit, his concentration flitting between Rozanov’s protective glare and Shane’s concentrated one. “You speak Russian all of a sudden?”

His eyes flitted up at him, giving a half-assed shrug. “Have for a while,” he admitted, lowering his stick as much as allowed, waiting for the ref to drop the puck.

It fell, and their sticks clattered as Shane managed to pry it loose, passing it towards Marlow who was a bit less protected. He supposed they were banking on him relying on Ilya for some reason, given a few of their past plays.

Marlow shot the puck long and Ilya managed to lose the Metros crowding around him, skating towards the corner where it was discarded before Berkes could get there. That was one of the problems with being a big man, he was also a slower one.

He skated away with it, Berkes on right beside him trying to snatch it. Focus divided between what was going on behind and in front of him, he barely noticed Mitty in time to switch directions, stick covering the other side of the puck from his attempt to grab it.

Ilya turned sharply and Berkes ran into his teammate, grabbing onto Mitty to steady himself. “Tailgaters,” he muttered in annoyance as he skated around them and shot the puck towards Drapeau.

It hit the edge of the net, bouncing in just before the goalie could try to stop it.

Ilya pumped his fist into the air, feeling a rush of relief wash over him. That was the goal he’d been trying to get all night so far. Don’t get him wrong, he had no problem assisting Shane or Marlow, even Feller if need be. But he still wanted a shot or two for himself, as well. Individual points still counted in Hockey, after all.

Vic bumped his head against his captain. “No assists?” he wondered in mock annoyance. “Don’t even need us out here, huh?”

“Of course I need you,” he replied, slapping the side of his arm. “You’re my shield to keep me from getting body checked every five seconds.”

Huffing, he gave a quick congratulation and skated off for the next face off. Ilya set up, too, nodding towards Marlow to take it.

They stayed at a pretty consistent 4-1 for the majority of the third period too as players came and went off the bench throughout it. Connors made it off the bench for a bit, taking over for Shane for a bit and Carmichael went out in place of Ilya, too.

They sat on the bench, side by side, eyes glued to the ice as they muttered to each other every once in a while. It was pretty clear they didn’t actually want to be sitting out, but coach had pulled them and they couldn’t exactly go against his wishes even if they wanted to.

“They’re in our end zone too much,” Ilya commented, shaking his head in irritation. “They’ll score with how many shots we’re letting them take.”

Desjourney rapped his knuckles on top of Ilya’s helmet as he stood behind him. “Commentators get paid to comment, you get paid to play,” he reminded him.

He rolled his eyes. “And yet I have time to comment because I am not busy playing,” he retorted, gesturing to the ice. “Is offensive to keep us both here.”

One of them was bad enough, but him and Shane together on the bench felt they were being punished for something they weren’t even being told about. And he could tell by how Shane was bouncing his knee that he wasn’t comfortable sitting here there. Every time Hayden or JJ got too close to their net, his entire body lurched like he could somehow stop them from getting any further.

“You’re sitting here so you can play the end of the game,” Desjourney replied, putting his hand on Shane’s shoulder. “I want a strong finish.”

He nodded slightly, understanding the logic, even if he wasn’t a fan of it. He sat there, watching as players came and went, the Metros also seeming to have a similar theory as they pulled Hayden out after a while.

Shane stared at him from their bench, a mix of emotions he could figure out swelling inside of his chest. He was, compared to the others, playing fair. And well, too. A stubborn part of him wanted to see that, wanted his friend to do well and feel bad about their current situation. The other part of him was still pissed at the rest of the team so much so that it extended to Hayden just because he kept associating with them.

Vic entered the Raiders bench area and Varkov hopped the ledge, taking over as defenseman for him. On the other side, Theriault pulled JJ out, sending Taylor in his place.

“I don’t like all the switching,” Shane murmured under his breath, growing uncomfortable as the minutes ticked down and he waited for the moment Desjourney would eventually let him back on the ice.

“Me neither,” Ilya agreed, just as antsy as he watched the game continue. Some might call the bench a ringside seat of sorts, but he didn’t want the second-best seats or any for that matter. He wanted to be in the game.

He resisted the urge to reach over and squeeze his hand, knowing that was pushing things too far in front of everyone. Instead, he spread his legs just slightly, pressing the side of his leg against Shane’s. He breathed out slowly, trying to stay invested in the game as he felt Shane nudge his leg back gently.

“I want you both out there when the clock hits three minutes,” Desjourney muttered.

They glanced at him, nodding, then shared a look between themselves. There was no telling exactly what coach wanted in those last few minutes, but they were pretty sure he was expecting something showy, even if it wasn’t a goal.

The clock ticked down, big red letters moving slower than they ever had before as the sound of skating cutting up the ice rang out amidst the players shouting at each other to pass or clear the puck. Shane felt himself getting even more antsy, standing up and pressing his hand to the edge of the rail like he didn’t plan to waste a single second of the time coach gave him once he got back into the game.

The moment they saw Connors and Carmichael approaching them, Ilya and Shane were hopping over the edge, finally getting back on the ice.

They exchanged a glance, skating away from each other as Shane went after the puck Feller had ahold of and Ilya headed towards Marlow to try to coordinate the best he could. Mostly to tell him they weren’t eating time anymore, that coach expected them to do something with the last few minutes, even if there were only three of them left.

Feller skated the puck around their own net as Taylor tried to grab it and Shane slammed him into the board, keeping him off his teammates back as best he could. He wasn’t sure at one point coach made it so they were defending their own defensemen, but that’s how things had seemed to work out the last few minutes.

With a groan, Taylor skated off, back to the Metros bench and JJ came back on the ice.

“If we’re doing something, we need to do it fast,” Shane told Feller, skating beside him towards the net. “They’re putting Hayden back in the game, too.”

Feller glanced up at the bench, trying not to let the changes get to him, even though they admittedly had been doing that a bit.

“Passing it,” Feller muttered, gliding the puck towards Shane as he saw JJ approaching.

Grabbing it, Shane broke away, looking around for his options. Which, he honestly didn’t see many of. Hayden practically snuck up on him, stealing the puck with a quick glance that might have been apologetic if it weren’t for the fact that they were losing.

Hayden headed towards the Raiders goal, getting cut off by Varkov who shoved him into the boards and tried to get it away from him. Feller was on them in a second, stealing it away, even as Mitty tried to help Hayden keep it in Raider’s end zone.

Feller shot it into the neutral zone and Shane got to it quickly, keeping it away from JJ by passing it to Marlow with a harsh smack.

He felt the impact before he heard the crack, his stick snapping in half after a few too many aggressive hits all night.

Marlow froze, unsure what to do as Shane glanced around like he was trying to figure out in the blink of an eye how much time he needed to get a replacement stick and how that time stacked up to the dwindling clock.

Before he had time to even try it, they both heard Ilya shouting at them.

“Pass it back!” he screamed at Marlow, already in motion and heading towards Shane at the same time Wilson was.

Marlow’s brain probably wasn’t thinking as fast as he needed it to, but he listened and shot the puck back towards Shane without hesitation anyway. Ilya skated past him, shoving his own stick into Shane’s arms before giving him time to think about it.

Shane tightened his hand around Ilya’s stick, barely tapping it against the ice before the puck slammed into the curve of it. A different curve. Not the one he was used to or liked to play with. But that didn’t really matter right now.

Out of the corner of his eye he could see the number on the back of Ilya’s jersey as he body checked Wilson, keeping the man from trying to steal the puck back. The clock on the wall ticked down and without thinking, Shane took off.

There wasn’t time to pass it back to Marlow or to wait for Varkov to cover him; he just had to try to take one more shot before the game ended. Even if it was a long one. Skating down the middle as fast as he could, Shane came to an abrupt stop a few feet away from the Metros net, ice kicking up as he shot the puck as hard as he could.

Drapeau leapt for it, reaching at the perfect angle to catch it but moving a little too early.

The puck flew over his head, slamming into the back of the net and lighting up the goal sign a bright red just before the clock ran out. Shane sucked in a deep breath, two or three seconds passing before the buzzer rang out, signaling the end of the game.

He dropped his head, huffing a laugh for a moment and he shook it in utter disbelief.

Shane felt the impact as Marlow came up behind him, nearly tackling him to the floor. Varkov, Feller, and Ilya weren’t far behind. He got crushed by them as their bench cleared and the others joined him on the ice to also bump helmets and get in on the clamoring.

“That was fucking crazy, Hollzy,” Connors told him, knocking him on the back.

He just looked at Ilya. “No, he was fucking crazy!” he exclaimed, lifting his stick. “Why the hell did you do that?”

“We were going to run out of time! I couldn’t turn around fast enough to catch the puck and Marlow didn’t have anywhere else to shoot,” he defended, taking his stick back into his own grasp. “Is good stick, no?”

Shane just laughed in disbelief, wrapping his arm over Ilya’s shoulder to keep from having his legs give out after the exhaustion and shock crashed over him all at once. “I like my own better,” he retorted.

“Yours is being picked up in pieces by referees, right now,” Feller told him, pointing across the rink at the larger chunks of wood that were being grabbed.

Shane chuckled again, his gaze drifting away from the referees and towards the Metros, who were already leaving the ice without even bothering to congratulate any of them. That was a pretty shitty thing to do, but he didn’t really expect much else from them, either.

Hayden lingered a moment longer than the rest of the team, but still turned and looked away, leaving the ice to head back to the locker room. Shane looked back at his own team, forcing a bit of a smile back onto his lips. That had been a good play and he knew it. A great game by anyone’s standards.

Even coach looked happy, which was pretty tough to achieve.

Filing back into the locker room, Shane felt more slaps and nudges against his back. There were a few comments for Ilya, too, still questioning how his brain managed to move fast enough to decide to give his stick away rather than go after the puck himself. He shrugged most of them off, just repeating himself.

“Is called trust!” he insisted as he ran his hand through his curls, damp from the game and compressed from his helmet. “I trusted Shane to make the goal for us. Clearly, I was right.”

“Would you trust me enough to pass me your stick if mine broke?” Sebbin wondered, tugging his jersey off and unhooking his padding.

Ilya tugged his lips to the side. “Do not ask questions you don’t actually want to know the answer to,” was his response.

Sebbin’s mouth dropped open in mock offense, huffing. “Roz, I’m gut wrenched,” he claimed, clutching his chest. “Physically ill over your lack of faith.”

“Mhm,” he hummed, rolling his eyes. He glanced over at Shane, who wasn’t exactly thrilled about the win. Even with a 5-1 score, there was still something about the game that had his heart aching a bit.

Shane untied his skates, taking his time as he pulled them off. He knew what the Metros were doing right now and it was blaming him. For their heads not being in the game, or their passes getting disrupted, or his presence on the Raiders stacking the odds. They always found a reason to blame the other team or the ref or the ice. Anything but the way they played.

“Looking forward to your Italian food?” he muttered, looking up at Kohn for a moment.

He nodded. “Oh yeah, getting a massive piece of tiramisu after that game,” he replied. “You planning on ordering in when you get back home or stopping somewhere?”

“Probably ordering in,” Shane responded, shrugging. “I don’t think I have the energy to order in person without making up a new language in the process.”

Kohn chuckled. “Fair enough,” he agreed, patting his arm. “Get yourself some sustenance, though. You deserve cheesecake or something after that game.”

He walked into the locker room for a quick shower and Shane hummed, hauling himself to his feet and putting his gear into his bag. His phone, beside his bag, lit up and he reached for it. Hayden’s name popped up on the screen, a single message popping up on it—Can we talk?

Shane stared at the text for a moment before typing back, telling him he’d be waiting by the storage closet down the hallway. He finished packing his bag before slinging it over his shoulder.

“Heading out already?” Dubek asked, noticing him darting towards the door.

Shane turned, nodding his head. “I’m dead tired,” he admitted, sounding a bit weary. “Just want to head home and sleep until nine for a change.”

He huffed a laugh as he accepted that answer and Shane glanced at Ilya for a moment, mouthing something to him before heading out of the locker room. There were already reporters waiting if he went in one direction and hoping to avoid them, he walked the other direction before they noticed him.

Hopefully, he wouldn’t be in too much trouble for skipping the post-game interview they were probably going to have him do. He had scored two of the five goals, after all, and it was his former team they beat. But they could yank Ilya or Feller out, instead, he figured.

Approaching the storage closet, Shane dropped his bag on the floor and leaned against the wall, sighing heavily as he shut his eyes. He really was exhausted after that game. He couldn’t fucking wait to go home and go to bed.

Footsteps echoed from the opposite direction and he opened his eyes, spotting Hayden’s figure in the dim lighting. “You came,” he murmured, almost surprised.

“I asked you to meet, remember?” he replied, setting his own bag down next to his on the floor.

Shane shrugged. “Could have been fucking with me,” he noted with a sardonic tone, almost like he expected him not to show. To just waste his time like the team had done so many times in the past.

“Stop,” Hayden mumbled, shaking his head. “You can hate the team, okay? I get that, I really do. I kind of wanted to knock them around a bit tonight, too. But me? Shane, you’re like family to me.”

His lips quirked and he glanced down. “Wish I believed that.” Truly, he did. He wished beyond anything that he could.

It wasn’t that Hayden had done anything in particular to make Shane feel abandoned by him. Sure, there were comments about his diet or his personality that never felt right, but compared to the stuff the others said, it was always tolerable.

It was the fact that he never stood up for him, that made Shane pull away. That while JJ, Wilson, Mitty, Berkes, and the rest of the team called him a traitor, he kept his mouth shut. His silence hurt.

“You never answered my calls after what happened with Comeau,” Hayden murmured, trying to prove that he really had tried. “I texted, too. Even talked to Yuna.”

His gaze snapped towards him. “You talked to my mom?” he questioned. “About what?”

He gestured weakly at his entire body. “About you,” he replied meekly. “About you moving to Boston.”

Shane’s eyes widened, suddenly looking a bit panicked. “What did she say?” he demanded. “She- just hockey right? She told you it was a good contract?”

Hayden furrowed his eyebrows a bit, confused about his sudden defensiveness. “Sorta, yeah,” he replied hesitantly. “She said you were going through some stuff that no one knew about and that being here was really helping you.”

He knew, now, about Shane’s problem with food. It was something he had sort of noticed but never really realized the extent of until the phone call where his friend yelled at him about starving himself. He felt like an utter idiot for not seeing it sooner or doing anything to help him with it.

“Oh.” Shane leaned back against the wall, looking a bit relieved that she hadn’t accidentally mentioned anything along the lines of his relationship with Ilya.

“I- look, I know I tried to be supportive quietly by helping you move but I should have been more supportive publicly, too. Regardless of what the team thought,” he added, pursing his lips slightly. “Yuna said you were doing better here and with everything I saw tonight, I agree with her.”

“You do?” he asked, squinting a bit.

Hayden nodded. “Yeah, you look…lighter when you were playing,” he muttered earnestly. “Sort of like you did when you were younger, all excited for the game and laughing. Until stuff got intense, I mean.”

He huffed slightly, rubbing the back of his neck. “That was uh- unintentional,” he admitted. “The guys just get protective and then I feel like I’m to blame for it and- I’m sorry that I told you to shut your mouth.”

He shrugged. “I deserved it,” he replied honestly. “And it’s good that they’re protective, you deserve to have a team like that, who fights for you. Metros didn’t do that as much.” Or at all, really.

Shane wasn’t the type to fight very often so they mostly figured he wouldn’t want anyone to start anything on his behalf. Hayden had still done it a few times, like when Marlow sent him to the hospital and he attacked him before a ref pulled him back.

He could have done it more, though. Could have made sure everyone knew Shane couldn’t be roughed up without consequences and was a player worth losing several minutes to the penalty box for.

“Yeah, they’re good to me,” he confirmed, nodding softly.

“Even Rozanov, apparently,” Hayden noted, slightly impressed. “That last goal was, well, it made our loss far more humiliating for starters. But it was also kind of incredible. A lot of those goals were.”

His lips quirked slightly. “Thanks,” he muttered quietly.

“No, seriously, what the fuck was that with Feller?” Hayden questioned a bit more banter fading into his voice, mind still reeling from it.

Shane let out a chuckle, feeling another fraction of his frustration dissipate. “Just something we came up in between rounds of poker,” he admitted.

His eyes widened. “Wait- I heard you guys correctly, then, when someone mentioned poker before intermission?” he wondered, mouth falling open a bit. “Is that actually what you guys do during breaks while the other teams are trying to rearrange their game plans?”

Shane nodded, clarifying it was speed poker for more efficiency and Hayden let out a disbelieving huff, that bordered on hysterical. He scrubbed his face, trying to process how relaxed of an environment their locker rooms must be in order to play games during intermission instead of talking shit about the other team or panic over plays.

“That’s insane,” he stated decisively. “I kind of need to know what the hell else happens during intermissions now, is there also Gin or Uno?”

“Just poker and charades, usually,” Shane replied. “Carmichael somehow wins almost every hand so we got him a plastic crown; he takes it very seriously now.”

“Because nothing screams serious quite like a grown man wearing a plastic crown,” he noted, huffing again. “Man you- they sound like the team you deserve.”

He wished the Metros could have been that team, but after Shane left, he started to realize exactly how rose-colored his glasses had been the entire time. The guys were, in a way, still his brothers. But they weren’t the saints he always considered them to be. And they sure as hell weren’t very loyal.

“I know it’s crazy, but I- I really do love it here, Hayden,” he told him. “I forgot why I liked hockey, couldn’t even go to practice without dreading it. And now, well, practice still sucks—it’s harder here than in Montreal—but the guys make it fun.”

“You don’t have to convince me it’s great,” he assured him, a small, saddened smile tugging at his lips. “I saw it all night long.” He paused, reaching for his bag as he realized how late it was getting. “I just hope…maybe next time we play in Boston we can hang out without the forty thousand witnesses.”

Shane scoffed slightly in amusement. “I’d like that, yeah,” he agreed. “I could show you around, if you wanted.”

Hayden nodded in agreement. “I’ll hold you to it,” he responded, reaching an arm out for a tentative hug. When he wasn’t immediately pushed away, he took it and gave him a quick embrace, patting him on the back. “Answer my calls, too. Please.”

“I will,” he promised, pulling away from the hug.

· ─ ·✶· ─ · 

Unlocking the door to his house, Shane slipped inside and locked it. The lights were out in the kitchen but he could hear the television still playing from within the bedroom. He peered through the door, watching Ilya pout at the screen as he laid in bed, the remote perched under his chin.

It didn’t take him very long to notice Shane, though, immediately lowering the volume on the television. “There you are,” he murmured. “Where have you been? Your text was vague.”

Something along the lines of needing to fix something and telling him he’d see him at home.

“I was with Hayden,” he confessed, sliding his shoes off by the door and setting his bag down beside Ilya’s. “We were trying to work things out.”

To his credit, Ilya didn’t look as disgusted by the mention of his name as usual. Winning always put him in a nicer mood, after all. “And?” he wondered. “Did you talk things over and realize he is slightly more tolerable Metro than others?”

Shane nodded slightly, leaning against the dresser. “Yeah, I think so,” he replied. “It’s not like we’re back to best friends or anything but…we might get back there.”

Or hopefully someplace a bit better than that, honestly. To a place where Shane could actually be himself around Hayden and not worry about some secret slipping out or being judged over aspects of his life he couldn’t control.

“Good,” he responded with a remarkable amount of sincerity. “You should be able to keep in touch with at least one of your old teammates.”

Even if he wasn’t a huge fan of Pikes, he knew how much Shane had always relied on him and how much he considered Jackie and the kids his own family. He wasn’t cruel enough to want him to lose out on that, even if he did think some of the comments Pike had made in the past were less than acceptable.

“Have you eaten?” Shane wondered, his stomach growling slightly. He had been exhausted the entire drive home but now that he was shrugging off his hoodie, he began to remember how long it had been since he last ate.

Ilya shook his head. “Was waiting for you,” he admitted, sitting up a bit more in bed. “Go shower, I’ll get the food.”

“Don’t you mean the takeout menus?” he muttered, crossing the room towards the bathroom.

“Nooo, I mean the food,” he repeated, getting out of bed. “I ordered Chinese and picked it up on the way home. It’s in the fridge.”

He blinked, pursing his lips. “Oh.”

Ilya hummed, shooing him towards the door with his hand as he left to go warm up the food for both of them. Shane bit back a smile, closing the bathroom door behind himself and turning on the water before he tugged his shirt off.

Washing off the dirt, sweat, and frankly, every negative part of the day that was still clinging to him, Shane could hear the television in the bedroom begin to play again. It was the same broadcast as before, the one Ilya always recorded so he could watch their own games back and critique it from a different angle.

Getting out of the shower, he changed into his pajamas and walked back into the bedroom. “What’s it going to take for you to shut that off?” he wondered.

Ilya hummed dramatically, lifting his head from where he rested it on his hand. “My boyfriend, in bed with me,” he replied.

Shane pulled back the sheets. “Done and done, then,” he replied, crawling into bed and kissing his cheek for a moment. “Do you want to watch the Great British Bake Off while we eat?”

His eyes lit up slightly. “There is new episode!” he remembered, smacking Shane’s leg softly. “You are you are so smart. I cannot believe I forgot about that.”

He shook his head, disappointed in himself as he clicked through their streaming channels and clicked on the latest episode. Settling the remote down, he pulled the reheated food off the side table and passed one to Shane.

“Extra Chicken?” he asked, already taking a bite.

Ilya nodded, scooting over a bit until their arms were touching. “I wouldn’t dare forget,” he replied, turning to kiss Shane’s shoulder briefly. “Love you, you know that?”

He hummed, tilting into him more as the opening of the episode played out. “I love you too,” he murmured, leaning over to kiss his lips for a moment.

Pulling away after a second, he turned, sighing as they lay there. It wasn’t anything special, in retrospect. Just a cheesy show, soft blankets, and some takeout food after a hard-won game. But for some reason, it felt that way to Shane. To be in love and be able to make it work despite how many factors made it feel impossible had to be something extraordinary, he thought.