Chapter Text
The Centaurs are fifteen minutes away from the VIP departures lounge at Ottawa International when a semi clips into the back portion of their bus, its driver a limp corpse at the wheel.
Momentum topples the bus onto its side until it collides against the external fence in a screech of metal against tarmac.
A chorus of car alarms and sirens burst forth outside. An unearthly silence reigns inside, until Wiebe pulls out his tablet. ‘Right folks. Roll call before we do anything else…’
His veneer of calm appears to be holding despite the steady drip of blood from a cut in his hairline. Most of the team and staff answer to their names . Bood and Barratt struggle to speak at first.
Only Rozanov remains silent, a crumpled form pushed between two rows of seats.
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The League continues, of course, around the wreckage of a team already at the bottom of its rankings. The Centaurs’ regular games are cancelled for a month, to allow the franchise to literally draw breath and work out a way through.
Sixteen players from the regular roster are on some level of LTIR. The rest of the team are nominally fit to play and are desperate to do so.
Overnight, the first and second lines of the Kingston Storm are called up, finding themselves caught between the excitement of reaching the NHL and the inescapable grief surrounding their change of fortunes.
This makes up some of the numbers in a nominal fashion.
Other NHL teams scent an opportunity to offload players who don’t quite fit their franchise vision in the name of supporting a devastated team, at least in the short term. Motives hidden beneath apparent goodwill are for the most part ignored.
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Shane Hollander believes in the power of statistics. He can read the ice two or three plays ahead in each team he has ever been a part of.
He believes in the power of his slapshot, even if it has rarely granted him lasting friends.
He knows that his presence is only grudgingly accepted for as long as he is able to add to the score sheet.
He makes the national team for the World Juniors Champoinship, but a bad hit in the semi against Finland leaves him on the bench nursing bruised ribs for the final against Russia. He marvels at the speed and ferocity of the Russian captain, Ilya Rozanov, who is expected to go high in the upcoming NHL draft, if not first overall.
Shane is just focused on going in the first round. All he needs is a team that values his focus.
The Voyageurs select him as their first pick in the draft. Twelfth overall. Not record breaking, but good enough. He is there to work, not make friends.He closes his ears whenever chirping takes a racist or homophobic turn. Chirping on and off the ice is part of the game, as is locker room banter. He learns to brush it off.
Things change. When Fuckface Comeau suggests his mom came from a mail order catalogue, Shane remembers what his fists are for.
Two days later, he is on his way to Ottawa, arms ringed with the memory of how it took two of his team to hold him back from a charge of grievous bodily harm or worse. Comeau’s nose will never be the same.
Shane reminds himself that it felt worth it at the time.