Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Shane knew there was no going back.

As soon as he talked to his agent, it was over. Even if his team didn’t trade him this year, it would be inevitable as soon as he made his intentions clear. His team would be stupid not to trade him when they knew they’d be losing him at the end of next year.

He knew when he made his decision what the consequences would be. Betrayal from his team and his city. A media whirlwind. Overwhelming shock and confusion from across the league. He could’ve been traded somewhere else completely, the Western conference even.

But he wasn’t, he was in Boston. And even though there was little else he could do to avoid the rest of the scandal of it all, he at least had that going for him. He wasn’t going through it on his own. He was amongst friends.

Well, sort of.

Shane was at the Bears’ practice facility the day after he was traded, management making it clear they wanted him on the ice for Thursday in their game against Ottawa. This meant that Wednesday morning Shane was up bright and early and straight over to Brighton, packed into Ilya’s least annoying car as he drove them over, Pava tucked into the very cramped backseat.

“I’ve been looking at Twitter,” Ilya said, one hand on the wheel and the other playing with the hair at the nape of Shane’s neck. It wasn’t doing much to calm the stiffness in his shoulders. “Is not so bad, most people are more mad at your GM than you. It helps that everything is so mysterious.”

“Really?” Pava asked, his head appearing from the backseat. “I see people very mad at him.”

“Not helping, Pava.”

Shane shook his head. There was no point in trying to shelter him from it, Shane knew what it would cost. If anything, he was a bit surprised at the lack of backlash towards him. He hadn’t thought too hard about it, but the very thing that pushed him out was also the thing that kept him hidden. The Voyageurs would never risk accusations of discrimination by divulging their reason for the trade, which meant they couldn’t really say much of anything, other than a bland and unrevealing statement about a “mutual parting of ways.” Shane wouldn’t complain about that, following up with his own equally dull statement cementing his appreciation for the Voyageurs and his time with the organization.

That wasn’t to say no one blamed him. There were plenty of loud voices that hated him, but perhaps an equal amount of voices that were sure that this was the fault of Montreal. In a way, they were both right.

They were early enough to the facility that they didn’t run into any of his new teammates as they entered, though the curious looks from the staff that were milling about were inescapable. Shane and Ilya walked side by side through the halls, Shane still hauling his gear in a Montreal Voyageurs branded duffel.

“This is so weird,” Shane said. “Being here as…not a visitor.”

“You can say it,” Ilya said. Shane could tell his boyfriend was trying to remain indifferent for his sake, but there was simply no hiding the giddiness from his expression. “You are a Bear now, yes?”

Yes, he was. Shane was a Bear now. And he would have to get used to it.

If Ilya had it his way, he would have followed Shane around the rest of his day. For his physical, his gear fitting, his meeting with coach, discussions about visas. Ilya wasn’t actually totally sure of everything Shane would need to do. He’d never been traded before.

Unfortunately, Shane had identified the way Ilya was trying to latch onto him like a barnacle, and had immediately kicked him and Pava to the curb the moment he reached the trainer’s room.

Fine, whatever, Ilya could be cool, he could be independent.

“Rozanov? Let me grab you for a sec.”

Ilya raised an eyebrow as he was halted on his way down the hall by LeClaire, poking his head through the doorway of his office. Ilya nodded, then quickly turned to signal Pava to continue on while he entered the room.

LeClaire was looming over his desk, flipping through some papers.

“So, Hollander.” He said, and Ilya really couldn’t read his tone.

“Yes.” Ilya said.

“The thing is,” LeClaire sighed, thumping himself down in his swivel chair. “I had planned to sit you down and ask if I’d have to worry about the two of you, but Jen just told me you’re living together? Is that real?”

Ilya shrugged. “We’re friends, Hollander did not want to stay in a hotel.”

LeClaire nodded. “Okay, well, just so we’re on the same page, you aren’t gonna try to poison his coffee, are you?”

Ilya shook his head. “He does not drink coffee. If anything, I would poison his ginger ale.”

“Please just say no.”

“No, coach.”

“Okay,” LeClaire replied, looking satisfied. He sat up a bit. “But seriously, I need you to play nice with Hollander. I don’t want this to turn into some dick-measuring competition. You’re my captain, you’re staying first line, but I’m hoping for equal ice time for Hollander. We have the two best centers in the league and we’re not gonna shit the bed here.”

Ilya nodded. “So when you say two best centers, it is me and then Hollander?”

“Rozanov. Shut the fuck up.”

“It will be good, coach, Hollander and I have played well together before. We will figure it out, yes? We both like to win.”

LeClaire looked skeptical, but nodded. “Okay, make me proud, kid. I like this job, I’d like to keep it.”

Ilya sent him a cheesy thumbs-up before retreating back into the hallway. All in all, that went pretty well. Ilya had sort of expected a talk like that from LeClaire, just to check in. LeClaire had been around a long time, he was the only coach that Ilya had ever had in Boston, which was a rarity for most guys that had been playing as long as he had. They had a good relationship, he trusted Ilya. If Ilya could show him that he and Shane were good together, they’d be golden.

When Ilya returned to the hallway, Pava was standing there.

“Why did you wait?” Ilya asked.

Pava shrugged. “Why not? Was not long.”

When Ilya and Pava finally entered the dressing room, all eyes turned their way. Before they walked in, they had been trained on the sparkling new HOLLANDER nameplate installed in one of the center lockers, empty asides from the crisp black jersey hung up below it.

Delly was the first to speak. “Is he here?” He asked, as if he was questioning if Elvis had entered the building.

Ilya rolled his eyes as he tossed his bag into his own locker. He frowned a bit when he noticed that Shane wouldn’t be located in any of the lockers near him. “Yes, he is here, untwist your panties. He’s getting his physical.”

“Do you have his number?” St-Simon asked. “We should add him to the group chat, huh?”

“Should we change the name?” Delly asked. “Only…it seems weird to add the Shane Hollander to a group chat named ‘Puck Strong Women Get Money.’”

Well, the name was better than it was. It used to be called “Puck Bitches Get Money” until Ilya put on a podcast about second wave feminism and Marly made them change it out of fear that Noor would actually kill him if she ever saw the name.

“Why are you talking about him like he is the spirit of myth?” Ilya asked. “I am better and more legendary than Shane Hollander and yet I am still forced to hear you talk about your weird rash all day long.”

“That’s different. You’re you.”

“I will add him,” Ilya said, pulling out his phone. “Don’t be weird, he is just another incredibly boring hockey player, nothing you haven’t seen before.”

As Ilya opened up his contacts, his thumb paused as it hovered over the name.

Jane

He tapped on the name, then backspaced four times.

Shane

He added him to the group chat.

“Okay,” Ilya announced. “Don’t sell his number on eBay, please. I do not care, personally, but Hollander will give me a boring lecture about internet safety if it is my fault.”

Ilya began to tug off his hoodie to tuck into the locker, his practice jersey hung up before him. He knew it was irrational, but he had this feeling in the back of his head like Shane was never going to actually walk through that door. That this whole thing was an elaborate prank to screw with his heart.

Cloutier, who had just entered the dressing room, wasted no time at all getting straight to the meat of the gossip. “You know why he was traded, Roz? Didn’t he have an NMC?”

Ilya scratched at his temple. That was a great question. Did Ilya know the reason Shane had been traded? They hadn’t really discussed if it was something he was supposed to be aware of. Sure, they were known friends, but if Shane and Montreal were planning on keeping this locked down tight, would it be more suspicious if Ilya was one of the only people to know than if he didn’t know anything?

Fuck. They should have discussed this beforehand.

He shrugged. “I did not know he was being traded,” Ilya said. That was true, at least in that moment. “I do know that Montreal is stupid for giving him up, especially to us.” That was very true.

“This is gonna be so weird,” Connors interjected. “Played against the guy my whole career and now he’s on the same team? Might even be on my line.”

Marly gave him a look. “You’re acting like no one’s ever been traded here before.”

“Ah, fuuuuck,” Connors moaned, his head tipped back. “Carmy’s gonna leave the group chat, isn’t he? And Brownie and Janny.”

Ilya frowned. He’d be lying if he said he cared all that much about the guys they were losing. Obviously, it was sad, he’d played with Carmichael for a long time, and he liked the other two well enough. But in the grand scheme of things, if losing a few guys was what it took to get Shane here? He’d take it any day. They could’ve traded literally anyone and he wouldn’t have minded.

Well, maybe not everyone.

He did know it was a concern of Shane’s, though. He knew he’d be walking into an unfamiliar room. New guys with new rituals, new play styles, new coaching methods. And on top of that, he’d have to face it all while knowing his presence meant a fractured team.

Ilya knew his teammates were good people, while they were upset at the loss, they wouldn’t blame Shane. How could they? Who would ever be mad about getting Hollander on their team? But Ilya also knew that it would take a lot more than a few reassurances to properly convince Shane of that.

“Okay,” Ilya said, tugging on his helmet. “I’m sure you will have plenty of time to gawk at Hollander on the ice. Let’s go, now you have no excuse if we play like shit.”

Shane took to the ice thirty minutes after the rest of the team.

They were largely split into groups at that point, working on individual skills. Ilya was working with Pava on his onetimers. They all knew the primary point of this practice would be to get Shane up to speed with their powerplay structures and defensive strategies, and at least get him somewhat used to playing with his new linemates for tomorrow’s game. As far as Ilya knew, Shane would be taking over the second line, he’d fit in well with Newf and Connors.

Heads turned on swivels as Shane skated by, straight towards Ilya.

Ilya blinked, absolutely stunned at the sight of Shane in black and gold. He shifted his hips a bit in an attempt to adjust himself. Holy fuck. He’d never considered that he might need to train himself not to get a hard-on every time he played with Shane. He could already imagine all the ways he’d be reopening the hole in his wall later this evening. He’d have to tell Pava to charge his headphones.

Shane skated up with a grimace.

“You are moving like cowboy,” Pava remarked.

“Yeah,” Shane admitted. “These pants are tight as hell. I haven’t had to break in a pair in like, years. My gloves too.” He reached up to adjust his helmet. “I usually get a custom bucket, but that won’t come in for at least a week.”

Ilya dragged his eyes up and down Shane’s form. Hockey pants weren’t exactly known for being the most flattering, but that was besides the point. Shane could wear a paper bag and still get Ilya going. In fact, he’d love to see him in just a paper bag.

“What are you staring at?” Shane asked, but he had a spark behind his eye.

“You should be careful, Shane Hollander,” Pava said ominously. “Team is looking at you like supper.”

Ilya watched as Shane turned to look over his shoulder. Lo and behold, the rest of the team seemed to slowly begin gravitating towards the man. Most of them snapped their gazes away unconvincingly once they noticed Shane’s attention.

Ilya rolled his eyes, something he guessed he was going to be doing a lot over the next few weeks. “Okay, everyone, take a knee,” he called out, gesturing his team over. The way they fumbled across the ice at his urging reminded him a bit of his kiddos at camp.

Shane furrowed his brow as he watched the assembly, and nearly two dozen grown men (Pava included) kneeled before them. He turned to Ilya and raised a brow.

“Okay,” Ilya started up again, standing over the crowd like Christ the Redeemer. “Everyone listen up, I am only going to say this once. Everyone, this is Shane Hollander. Say ‘hi, Shane Hollander.’”

Shane gave Ilya a look of disbelief. “Okay, we don’t need to—”

“Hi Shane Hollander,” the team chimed back at him.

“I know what you are all thinking. ‘Wow, he is so famous, wow, he is so good at hockey, wow, he is so handsome.’ It is true, I am. Also, Shane Hollander is here.”

Shane rolled his eyes. “Fuck off.”

“Ah! You bully me? Your captain? Wow, day one and I am already being shown such disrespect from my…eh, what is the word?”

“Teammate?” Marly chimed in.

“No, idiot, I know the word ‘teammate.’”

“Inferior?” Doherty said.

“Eh, closer.”

“Subordinate?” Pava asked.

Ilya snapped his fingers. “That is it. How do you know ‘subordinate?’”

Pava shrugged.

“Ah, it’s okay, I like it when you are mysterious, Pava. Anyway, the point is, please do not be weird around this man,” he said, gesturing to Shane again. “It will go to his head. Most of you have played him a million times now, yes? Do not embarrass me by making him think we suck.”

“G’wan b’y,” Newf chimed in. “Takes no genius to see this team’s got the arse out of ‘er, God love ya cotton socks. The b’y’s our best chance to get ‘er scald.”

St-Simon turned to Newf with an incredulous look. “I swear to god you have to be making this shit up. I’ve played with you for six years and you keep pulling out new shit I’ve never heard.”

“He is saying the team is bad, but Shane Hollander is help,” Pava interjected.

“Have you secretly downloaded Newfoundland Duolingo and not told me?” Ilya asked.

“I do not know what this is,” Pava replied.

“Watch it, me duckie. It’s Newfoundland and Labrador,” Newf chimed in. “They always forget Labrador.”

“Can we practice now?” Shane asked, nearly begging.

“Yes, yes, but before this, I must tell you something important,” Ilya said, turning to Shane with a serious look.

Shane’s brow furrowed in concern and curiosity, as if wondering what he could have to say in front of everyone.

Ilya paused for dramatic effect before taking off down the ice, calling over his shoulder.

“Last one to the bench is a sausage!”

“Should I stay in a hotel?” Shane asked.

The way Ilya whipped his head around to look at him, you’d think Shane had just slapped him.

“What? Why? I thought you like my house? I bought thirty pounds of salmon for you, is in the freezer.”

“Yeah, you really didn’t need to do that, you’re seriously running out of room.”

Ilya nudged his foot against Shane’s from where he was stretched out on the opposite side of the couch. “You want to leave?”

Shane shook his head, tucking his phone under his leg. “No, not at all, I’d stay here forever if I could.” Well, maybe not forever, Shane had an appreciation for some aspects of the architecture of this place, but it was a little too Barcelona Pavilion, where Shane was more of a Fallingwater kind of guy. “I don’t want you to think I’m trying to hide you, or…pretend I’m straight, or anything. I meant that, and I wanna be more open with you. But…living with you like this? Right off the bat? Isn’t it a little…obvious? I’m still new to these guys, it’s gonna take a while for them to get used to me, and I don’t wanna screw that up.”

Ilya tipped his head a bit. “You are right, if we weren’t hockey players, it would be very weird. But…” he gestured useless around the room. “This happens all the time, after trades, yes? The guys I know who are traded at the deadline hate being in the hotels, they would stay with a friend when they have the option. And also, with Pava here…is not weird at all. Like Full House, yes?”

“Huh?”

“Is nothing,” Ilya brushed off. “But also…if you want to get to know the team separate from me…I understand this too.”

That was another fear that Shane had, that he hadn’t really expressed to Ilya. This was Ilya’s team, the team he’d been drafted to, the team he’d won a cup with. He was the hero of Boston. Shane would be intruding on all that, his new teammates were Ilya’s teammates first. His friends. He was afraid that if he tied himself to Ilya, they might never get to actually know him as his own person.

“No,” Shane said. “No, you’re right, I’m being stupid. But…maybe I’ll keep all my stuff to one of the spare rooms? Make it look lived in, in case anyone visits?”

Ilya frowned, but nodded along. “Right, but you will not actually stay there, yes?”

He was trying to look nonchalant, but Shane could see that he was worried about what the answer might be. Like he was scared Shane was using this as a backwards way of expressing his regret.

“No, ‘course not,” Shane said. “You won’t get rid of me that easily.”

Yeah, so…Ilya had kind of forgotten that this was technically his fault. Honestly, he’d just gotten so used to the whole thing, he forgot it was inherently strange. Even LeClaire stopped complaining about it all.

“At the turn of the 19th century, the range of bison covered a significant part of North America. By 1870, the population had been reduced to two great herds. By 1889, American bison numbered in the hundreds, down from tens of millions at the beginning of the century.”

From across the room, Ilya saw Shane’s head cock to the side in confusion. It was only two days following Shane’s trade from Montreal, a home game against Ottawa. Ilya was glad it was Ottawa, not only did they suck, but their team wasn’t full of assholes. They probably wouldn’t have anything too awful to say about the whole situation.

“The buffalo were central to indigenous culture in the plains, which is why the US government wanted them wiped out completely. White settlers in North America adhered to a cultural belief known as ‘manifest destiny…’”

Shane turned his head from side to side, as if wondering if anyone else was going to comment at the cool voice that echoed through the room. When no one seemed to react, he gathered the courage to speak.

“So…” Shane started. “What are we listening to, exactly?”

Ilya winced. He was hoping that Shane might just quietly accept it without question.

“Oh, it’s a podcast,” St-Simon explained from the right of Shane. “It’s like a talk show, but usually educational.”

Shane blinked. “Yeah, I got that. I more meant…why are we listening to a podcast?”

In Vic’s defense, Ilya might’ve also assumed Shane didn’t know what a podcast was. After all, this was the same guy that didn’t even listen to music when he exercised, he just bathed in the sound of his own breathing, staring into space like a psychopath.

“What, you don’t like learning?” Marly asked, a bit defensively.

Shane only blinked in response.

“I picked it!” Delly said proudly, puffing out his chest a bit. “Roz suggested it.”

Well, shit, now Shane’s eyes were definitely on him.

“Ah, yes,” Ilya agreed. “I was telling him it’s weird he only reads books about World War Two. Needs to expand his horizons.”

“Yeah, but,” Delly continued. “He came up with the idea for the whole podcast thing in the first place. Sharpens our minds and stuff.”

Shane narrowed his eyes as his gaze turned to Ilya. “Oh?”

“I’m telling you, Holly, it’s like a secret weapon,” Connors said, appearing from the hall. “I’ve banged three chicks alone just because I could hold a conversation about Roe v. Wade at a bar.”

“I don’t know what that is,” Shane replied.

“And you wonder why you can’t keep a girlfriend,” St-Simon fired back to Connors.

“I keep saying it’s weird,” Cloutier chimed in. “The locker room shouldn’t sound like fuckin’ NPR.”

“Shut up, Cloud,” Marly chirped. “All you do is play Brad Paisley on a loop.”

“My wife likes it! You seriously telling me you prefer a three hour rant about how train tracks are built over some country music?”

“Hey,” Doherty interjected. “You guys said you like my train podcast.” He turned to Shane. “It’s called ‘Loco for Locomotives.’”

“It’s not about the trains, Cloud,” Marly insisted. “It’s about hearing your brother out. Self expression. It makes us a better team!”

“Yes, yes,” Ilya insisted. “I feel much closer to you all after listening to Spotify people talking about a boat exploding in Halifax Harbour. Why don’t we move on, yes?”

The conversation did move on, but Ilya noted the crease between Shane’s eyebrows never totally went away. That wouldn’t do.

Ilya sauntered across the room to Shane, who was finally pulling on his jersey as they prepared to go on for warmups.

“How are you feeling?” Ilya asked.

“Okay,” Shane shrugged. “I didn’t know you even listened to podcasts.”

Ilya brushed it off. “Ah, you are the one who is so impressed with my vocabulary, yes? I get it somewhere. And you know how it is,” Ilya rolled his eyes playfully. “Everyone on this team is so obsessed with me, they all want to be like me. They see I play podcasts, they must play podcasts, is so annoying.”

“It’s definitely…strange,” Shane admitted. “But, actually,” he tipped his head to the side in a way that Ilya knew all too well, “I could see how it might improve your mindset before the game. Kind of like a meditation, get everyone focused, also introduces opportunities for discussion so that teammates can get to know each other better, which improves communication on and off the ice. Do you think there are any studies on this?”

Ilya grinned. Shane was such a nerd. He loved him.

“Well, I was asking how you felt about the game, but it seems that you are feeling very focused now?” He gestured with his head to the center of the room and the speaker that was still dispelling the woe of the bison.

Shane nodded seriously. “I won’t lie, it’s fucking weird,” he looked down at his own black and gold clad frame, “but I’m not, like, worried? I guess? I don’t know. I know we’ve only had one real practice, but I feel okay, I trust everyone, you know? Maybe ask me again if we play Montreal.”

The Bears had no more regular season games scheduled against the Voyageurs this year, and Ilya didn’t know if that was a good thing. With the way things were shaping up, it was very possible that Boston would be facing Montreal in the playoffs this year.

The truth was, aside from the idiotic loss of Shane Hollander, the trade hadn’t actually been that bad a deal for Montreal. The guys they got were solid, and more importantly, they were good defensively, which was exactly what Montreal had been needing. Of course, they’d have to wait and see if Montreal actually utilized their assets, but…they had a serious opportunity to do some damage in the post-season.

Ilya had thought Shane might be bluffing when he said he wasn’t nervous, but he kept his eyes trained on him as they stood in the tunnel and the starting lineup was announced. His shoulders looked relaxed, he tapped the heel of his stick against the rubber rhythmically, any typical signs of stress that Shane usually put out were absent.

The team skated out one by one. Ilya took up the back as captain, Newf and Marly just in front of him as his alternates. Shane was just ahead of them, sandwiched between his linemates.

Cheers followed each player as they took to the ice, but the resounding boom that echoed through that arena as Shane emerged from the tunnel was deafening. Shane of course, didn’t bask. He didn’t do any extra loops around the ice, he didn’t even look up to the crowd. He kept his head down and took his spot at the bench as the praise rained down on him.

The game was not easily won.

Shane was still getting used to playing with new guys, it would take time before he could learn their tells and know where he was needed. For that, their defense was a bit weak to start, one of the two goals they gave up that game having occurred while his line was on the ice.

But, LeClaire seemed to have anticipated this, consistently matching Shane’s line with their strongest defensemen, St-Simon and Cloutier. Shane registered his first point as a Bear that night, assisting Connors on the game-winning goal.

Ilya grinned like an idiot as Shane joined him on the bench.

“Wipe that smile off your face,” Shane said, but there was no heat behind it. “I didn’t even score.”

“Next game,” Ilya declared.

Shane couldn’t help but feel like he was doing everything wrong.

Shane had thought the hardest thing about being traded would be learning a new coaching style. He'd only ever been coached by Theriaux while in the NHL, and he'd heard from guys who had been traded often that one of the hardest things to learn was all the wants from coaches that usually went unsaid. That part hadn't actually been too difficult for Shane. LeClaire went about things differently, sure, but he was very direct about what he wanted. Shane wasn't left to guess what he meant, as he often had to do in Montreal.

The far more difficult task at hand had been figuring out the locker room. He had been playing in Montreal for nearly a decade, and at that point he was practically fluent in the language of the locker room. In Boston, that wasn’t the case. He felt like he’d been thrown into a crash course for a new board game, except the rulebook kept changing, and there were a million pieces mixed in from other random games.

“Here,” Shane said, grabbing hold of Cloutier’s stick, which had clattered to the ground from where it was propped against his locker. He handed it back to him, caught off guard when a collective groan echoed throughout the room. Shane looked around dumbly.

“I have to retape it now, dude,” Cloutier huffed, already reaching for a new roll.

“He won’t let anyone touch his stick after it’s taped, otherwise he has to re-tape it,” Connors explained. “I know it’s a lot, you’ll get it eventually.”

Shane nodded, not so much feeling bad for Cloutier, but feeling embarrassed that he seemed to keep screwing up everyone’s superstitions. He was trying so hard, but some of these really were out of nowhere.

He thought he knew all the obvious ones. The first time he walked into the locker room before the game, he diligently avoided stepping over the logo in the middle of the room. Apparently, that wasn’t right, if he was entering before a game, he had to do a full loop before he was allowed to sit down. Marly had nearly toppled him with a tackle trying to keep him from sitting down before he could do his loop, apparently that would be bad luck.

Okay, that’s fine, he could remember that. He could remember that before the third period Newf needed to hide in the closet and listen to the entirety of Heave Away all the way through, or that Doherty liked to call his wife before each game and got upset if anyone interrupted him, or that St-Simon needed to be the second last guy off the ice during warmups, or that if Connors started crying during the national anthem, he wasn’t allowed to comment on it, or that Schneider had his own water bottle at the bench that no one else was allowed to use.

He was getting the hang of it. Until the first away game, and it seemed like it was back to square one.

“No dude, wait,” St-Simon said, just as Shane started making his way through the cabin of the charter jet. “You have to dap up Jen before you get on, it’s bad luck if you don’t.”

Shane blinked, and turned to Jen, who was sitting in the frontmost aisle seat. She was the Director of Operations, in charge of all their flights and hotel bookings, or whatever logistics came up. Shane had never really talked to her before.

That was another thing Shane noted since joining the Bears. They had a lot of women on staff, much more than the Voyageurs, or most NHL teams in general, ever had.

Shane did as he was told and dapped Jen up. Every time he was told another convoluted tradition, he was sure it had to be some sort of hazing, but Ilya insisted it was all real, and not to be disrespected.

“Am I gonna get yelled at if I sit in a certain spot?” Shane asked, turning to Ilya just behind him.

“No, no,” Ilya insisted. “The big decision is if you join the MarioKart crew or the poker crew.”

“What if I don’t wanna play either?”

Ilya shrugged. “I think Delly keeps trying to convince someone to play Heads Up with him? You could humour the kid.”

Shane did not know what Heads Up was, but he quickly found out.

“Pass. Uh…Pass. Pass. Pass? Is that the guy from…no, pass.”

Delly’s expression grew more and more concerned each time he tipped the phone backwards.

“Are you serious, Hollander? You don’t know fucking Emma Stone?” Ilya asked incredulously. “La La Land?”

“Oh,” Shane said. “The red-head? I mean, I watched it on a plane but I don’t know her name. Pass, pass, pass.”

Delly shook his head. “You’ve gotta be kidding.”

“Dude, you don’t know Julia Child? The cook?” Marly said.

“Huh?” Honestly some of these names were so obscure, Shane was sure these guys were pretending they knew who they were. Who the fuck was Oscar Wilde?

“Jesus, Hollander,” Ilya said, slumping down in his seat. “His head is so full of hockey he has no room for anything else.”

“Isn’t it weird that you’re the only one that still calls him Hollander when you’re the ones that were already friends?” Wolkowski chimed in from where he was dominating the poker table.

“Shut up,” Ilya replied, without any real bite.

Shane liked the Bears, he really did. He had spent so much time with the Voyageurs, he sort of just assumed every room was like that. The Bears, while they acted like stereotypical jocks, were just nicer. They chirped Shane, but never with any malice, and they seemed to be trying to get to know him for real. He’d only been in Boston for a week, and yet he felt like he knew them better than he had most of his Montreal teammates.

“What’s Stonewall?” Shane asked as he lounged against the stack of pillows. “Marly keeps sending me podcast links.”

Ilya leant to look over Shane’s shoulder. “Ah, we listened to that one a few weeks ago. Is just American history thing.”

“He said he wants me to get caught up so I understand all the inside jokes. What inside jokes could you guys possibly have about the Boston Molasses Flood?”

Shane was in Ilya’s room at their hotel in Detroit, the both of them scrolling on their phones in silence. It had taken a lot of convincing before Shane agreed to join him at all. He thought that for the first road trip, it would be better to keep their distance, Ilya insisted it was better to establish their friendship early on.

Ilya’s foolproof method of making Shane agree seemed to involve loudly proclaiming to the bus that he and Shane were going to have a movie night after the game, which then required him to spend the next half hour firmly telling the rest of the team that they weren’t allowed to join them.

So, fine, Shane folded. But they weren’t having sex, not when Ilya’s room was sandwiched between Pava and Doherty. No one needed to be traumatized tonight.

Now, Shane was dealing with his full inbox. It seemed that the Bears were fully utilizing their access to Shane’s phone number now that he’d been added to the players’ group chat. Marly was trying to keep him up to date with all the gossip, Delly had sent him a dozen reddit memes, Cloutier kept trying to convince him to watch Yellowstone, and Doherty sent him a single photo of himself (only the top half of his face) instructing Shane to use it as his profile picture.

“Did Doherty ever say anything, the first time he played Minnesota?” Shane asked, suddenly turning to his boyfriend. “Like, what it was like playing against his old team?”

Ilya shrugged. “You could ask him.”

Shane scrunched up his nose. It felt too vulnerable, and the Bears weren’t really the kind of guys who liked talking about their feelings. He might’ve asked St-Simon, but he was already plenty vocal about what he thought about Vancouver, and Shane didn’t think their experiences were all that similar anyway.

“Do you…” Shane started, then trailed off. It was a stupid question, but it had still been eating at him. “Are you glad I’m here?”

When Shane looked at his boyfriend again, he saw him staring back at him. His eyebrows were raised, but he didn’t say anything.

“Just, I knew we had this whole plan and everything, I just wonder…this is your team, your guys, I’d get if my being here was…disrupting that.”

Ilya blinked. “Shane, I put together whole scheme to get you here, and as soon as you are, you think I change my mind like that?”

Shane shrugged. “Maybe it’s one of those things that seems like a better idea in your head?”

“Is that how you feel?”

Shane shook his head a bit too vigorously. “No, I actually…I really like it here. I feel like, like I’m not having to put in as much effort, you know? Not like, in the game, I’m still working hard and everything, just with the people.”

Ilya laughed. “Oh, believe me, Hollander, no one would ever accuse you of slacking off. You know it is not normal to spend entire flights watching game tape.”

“Shut up,” Shane replied, raising up his cold foot and placing it flush against Ilya’s bare thigh, causing him to jump.

“Blyat! You say I cannot ravish you, yet you keep getting closer and closer to my dick.”

Shane giggled, throwing himself backwards as Ilya started to grab at his waist. “I’m serious! Off, I’m trying to make a good impression.”

“What about all the impressions you make on me?” Ilya reached down to place a kiss on Shane’s neck.

Finally, Shane firmly pushed Ilya off. “I should go, it’s almost ten, I need to get my sleep—” he was cut off as Ilya tried to grope him again. “—in my own bed, thank you very much.”

Ilya whined, slumping against his mattress as Shane got to his feet.

“I’ll see you in the morning, okay?” Shane said, pulling his hoodie back on. “Please don’t stay up all night playing Subway Surfers.”

“No promises.”

“Thanks,” Shane said, nodding to the penalty box attendant as he opened the door for him. “Don’t start,” he continued, this time directed at Ilya.

Ilya shrugged innocently, but did nothing to try and cover up the massive grin on his face. His helmet was in his lap, his unruly curls plastered across his forehead with sweat, and he was holding a towel up to his bloody teeth.

“I would never, Hollander,” Ilya grinned.

Shane took a seat next to him, and Ilya shuffled up a bit to make room. “If anything I should be mad at you. You shouldn’t be risking a broken hand this close to the post-season.”

“Ah, is all in good fun.”

Of course Shane didn’t want Ilya getting injured at this point in the season, but besides that, he wasn’t particularly upset about his boyfriend's fight. They were already up five this game, and they were nearing the end of the third. Also, Ilya looked unreasonably hot with his gloves dropped. Shane was really the one who had given Arizona the man advantage with his hooking penalty (which, unlike Ilya’s penalty, was completely accidental).

“He deserved it anyway,” Ilya declared. “Ignatyev is an asshole. And he was a dick to Pava.”

Shane scrunched up his nose “well, fuck that guy.”

Ilya laughed brightly, nudging Shane in the shoulderpads, and his joy was so infectious that it caused Shane to break into a smile of his own.

“Stop, you’re being a bad influence, we shouldn’t be laughing in the penalty box,” Shane said. He was sure that they were getting a decent chunk of broadcast time.

“Is fine, we have great defense, they will make us proud!” Ilya proclaimed, emphasizing it with a couple whoops through the glass as St-Simon passed them by.

“Now you’re just trying to jinx it.”

“Okay Mr. Fancy Tape and Mr. Twenty Year Old Shoulderpads. I almost forget I am talking to King of Superstition.”

“Shut up, rich coming from you. Your team is literally insane, I can’t walk two feet without accidentally breaking someone’s ritual.”

“Ah, you are getting the hang of it.”

Their attention turned back to the ice just in time to watch Pava level one of the Arizona wingers against the boards. It was a clean hit, but it was brutal as hell, Shane wouldn’t be surprised if the Coyotes tried to retaliate.

“You guys really hate Arizona, huh?” Shane said.

“No, Shane,” Ilya said firmly. “We hate Arizona.”

Just when Shane thought he’d maybe found his flow with the guys, he manages to fuck it all up again.

“Hey, Marly, I brought your eggs, don’t leave before I can give them,” Mason said, waddling past in his goalie pads, catching the taller man on his way to the shower.

“Eggs?” Shane questioned aloud, before he could think better of it.

Mason smiled. “Yeah, me and Mia started keeping chickens, I have more eggs than I know what to do with.”

“And I thank tha Lard Jaysus for it too,” Newf chimed in. “Eggs are hard as a blue lobster to come by these days b’ys.”

“If you want, I can get you some,” Mason shrugged. “I’ll just add you to the list.”

Shane nodded thoughtfully. “That’s cool. Are the chickens a lot of work? How do you keep the eggs clean? Do you ever have any issues with getting sick or anything?”

Mason looked at Shane like he’d just slapped him in the face. “What?”

The change in demeanor was so stark that Shane nearly got whiplash. The rest of the room seemed to be looking at them.

Shane blinked. “Just…I don’t really know much about chickens.”

Mason narrowed his eyes. “You think my chickens have the bird flu or something?”

“I mean, I don’t know, I just—” and because Shane was an idiot who loved to double down, he finished with: “do they?”

Shane had never seen Doherty show so much emotion on his face before. He slowly raised a finger to point at his own chest. “You disrespecting my chickens?”

Shane chuckled lightly, expecting Mason to end the bit. He did not. “No,” he tacked on.

At that, Mason looked Shane up and down, shook his head, then retreated back to his locker.

Shane raised his eyebrows, quickly turning to Newf beside him. “He’s not actually mad, right?”

Newf nodded. “Oh, the b’y’s is right rotted. What a sin, I don’t t’ink you’ll be gettin’ those eggs, me duckie.”

Shane blinked. Surely this was all a bit of an exaggeration. Shane knew he wasn’t the best at reading the room, but eggs? Really?

“Oh he’s offended as fuck,” Ilya said on the drive back home. “How could you say this about his chickens?”

Shane threw up his hands. “They’re fucking chickens! I didn’t know he’d take it so seriously.”

“He loves his chickens,” Pava interjected. “He is named them all. Mia is knitting them sweaters.”

Shane huffed. This team was so weird. If someone came into the Montreal locker room trying to show off their chickens, they’d be getting laughed out of the rink.

“Would be like if I made fun of your real-estate fetish,” Ilya offered.

“You do make fun of me.” Shane countered.

“I do not count, it is cute when I do it,” Ilya said. “Is like if they make fun of Pava’s hats. Off limits.”

Shane nodded. Maybe he was being a dick. “It’ll blow over, right?” Please God, don’t let this be the reason Boston never accepts him. Not after a group of chickens named after baked goods.

“Oh, no,” Ilya said. “These guys are very passive aggressive, you need to be direct. Make a formal apology. Maybe a peace offering too.”

This was so fucking stupid. Shane wasn’t even completely sure this wasn’t some sort of incredibly elaborate hazing from Ilya. But Shane was desperate, he needed to win over his new team.

They waited until just before morning skate before their game against Vancouver, one that he knew the majority of the team would be attending. He needed to make it public.

“I’m not doing that,” Shane whispered harshly, he could already feel the eyes looking their way. He supposed it didn’t matter, soon they’d all be looking at him anyway.

“Get on the stool, Hollander.”

“‘I’m not getting on the stool.”

“I can help, Shane Hollander—”

“No, Pava, I’m capable of getting on the stool, I just don’t want to.”

Of course, Shane ended up standing on the stool, overlooking the entire dressing room, filled with teammates who were looking at him as if he was about to announce the apocalypse. Well, aside from Ilya and Pava. Ilya was trying and failing to keep a serious face, while Pava sent him an encouraging double thumbs up.

“Uh, hey guys,” Shane said, drawing the attention of anyone who hadn’t already been staring at the grown man on the stool. Though it was an optional skate, attendance that morning had been pretty high, it typically was when they were making the push for the playoffs. “I’d just like to say something to the room, if that’s okay.”

He directed his attention towards Mason, who was sitting in his locker, strapping his pads to his legs. He raised a single eyebrow when he noticed Shane’s eyes on him.

“Mason,” Shane began. “I would like to take the opportunity to formally apologize for my mistreatment of your chickens. I never meant to disrespect them, I’m sure you foster a safe and clean environment for them.” He placed a hand on his chest sincerely. “I am very sorry, and I hope you and your chickens can forgive me.”

Shane scanned the room, trying to gauge their reactions. No one was laughing, no one was throwing things, which was a step up from what he might’ve expected from Montreal.

Mason approached Shane dramatically, gesturing for him to come down off the stool. After a few moments into a stare-down that had Shane sweating, the goalie’s expression split into a toothy grin.

“It’s alright man,” he said, patting Shane on the shoulder. “All is forgiven.”

Doherty might as well’ve set off a firework the way the room exploded at that, his teammates cheering and whooping and patting Shane on the back. Shane couldn’t help but laugh along as he was swarmed. Maybe the whole thing had been a joke to them, but if it was, it certainly wasn’t at Shane’s expense.

“Hollander,” Ilya called, breaking through the crowd. “Don’t forget.”

“Right,” Shane said, moving to retrieve the box from his locker. He carried it over to Mason across the room. “As a token of my sincerity I got you this,” he spun it around so the label was showing. “It’s an automatic water dispenser for your chickens. It’s heated, so it won’t freeze in winter.”

“Sick,” Mason replied, looking genuinely pleased. “This is awesome, Butter Tart keeps knocking over the water bin, I’ll have to try this out.”

Shane blinked. “Butter Tart is…a chicken?”

“Yeah,” Doherty nodded. “There’s Butter Tart, Muffin, Cupcake, Croissant, Banana Bread, Blondie and Brownie, Strudel, Doughnut, and Snickerdoodle.”

“And…you can tell the difference?”

“Oh yeah, you should come meet them! We’re gonna clean out the coop after playoffs and we’d always appreciate a hand.”

Shane could not think of a more miserable way for him to spend an afternoon than hanging out with and cleaning up after a bunch of chickens, but he also knew it would be stupid to upset Doherty again after he’d just gotten back into his good graces.

“Yeah, maybe,” he replied simply.

Shane thought that the biggest adjustment he’d have to make when moving teams would be learning the play or coaching style. In truth, it was the team culture that was throwing him for a loop.

The guys wanted to win, of course, but they were also there to have fun. They didn’t just work together, they liked each other. They came to optional practices not just because they were expected to, but because they wanted to hang out. The locker room, while still filled with plenty of crude hockey player talk, wasn’t especially offensive.

Even LeClaire, though he was blunt and not the most sociable, and swore like a sailor, wasn’t harsh or mean. The worse Shane had seen from him had been following a game against Colorado in which Boston lost 4–0, and after the game, LeClaire had quietly retreated to the hallway to spend a minute straight shouting and throwing things, before returning to the room to give a stilted—yet slightly calmer—review of strategy, as if nothing happened.

Shane was getting there. He was trying to make an effort not to take himself quite so seriously. He wasn’t sure if he had it in him.

“Shane,” the reporter said, trying to inch forward ahead of the rest of the cluster. “What’s the adjustment been like for you, being moved to the second line here in Boston after seven years as captain and 1C in Montreal?”

Shane let out a deep breath, staring off into space rather than looking at any cameras. He had played 18 games with Boston now, and still the press kept finding new ways to ask him the same exact questions. He was just in his base layers, still soaked in sweat, watching as his teammates milled around the room while he was forced in front of the cameras.

“Yeah, uh…you know, I think we all wanna be able to contribute to the team. I don’t really see the second line as any worse than what I’ve been able to do in Montreal. This is a new team, new guys, we’re figuring out what works, and it seems like these line combos are working for us.”

Shane turned to the next reporter to take a question, but before he had the chance, he was interrupted.

“Hey Holly,” Marly said, walking up to him but still staying out of frame. He paid no attention to the reporters he was disrupting. “Can you hold this for me?”

He thrust his stick into Shane’s hands, not bothering to wait for a response before walking away. Shane didn’t really think much of it, it wasn’t the weirdest thing Marly had ever done, not by far.

“Shane,” another reporter said, the first one to snap out of it. “You scored just 35 seconds after Calgary scored their first goal, you didn’t really allow them to get into the game. What can you say about the way that this team kind of maintained that pressure throughout the game?”

“Hey Holly, can you hold this for a sec?” It was Connors now, placing his own stick in Shane’s other hand.

“Okay,” Shane said, before turning to the camera. “Yeah, you know, I thought we responded well, we always talk about a shift after a goal, and, um, you wanna grab onto that momentum—”

This time it was Newf. “Would ya mind holdin’ onta this b’y? God love ya cotton socks.”

“—and hopefully use that to keep scoring goals, which is always a bonus. So, yeah,” Shane continued.

“Do ya mind holdin’ onto this for me, Holly?” Cloutier asked, shoving a helmet onto the ever growing collection of sticks into Shane’s arms. He had to fumble a bit to make sure he didn’t drop anything.

Another reporter jumped at the chance to get a question in. “You’ve been regularly sharing a line with Kehoe and Connors, what are your thoughts on how they played tonight and your general experience with them?”

“Yeah,” Shane said, already having a jersey thrown over his shoulders by Ilya. “They’ve been great, they’re great players. I think Connors is really patient with the puck—” Doherty’s leg pad was draped around his neck by the strap, “—and Ted is always so reliable, just always where I need him to be.”

By the end of the interview, Shane was holding five hockey sticks, a helmet, a pair of skates, and was wearing two jerseys, a leg pad, a pair of aviator sunglasses, and Pava’s bowler hat.

Boston was currently first in the division.

They had a dozen games left in the season, and they hadn’t clinched. The race in the Atlantic division was fucking close, with only two points separating first from third. Both wildcard spots had already been all but secured by Metropolitan teams, which meant there truly was no safety net.

All they could do at this point was try their best to win as many of these remaining games as possible, but even then, their place in the standings would be determined by the success of their opponents. Particularly Montreal.

To the shock of many, Montreal was currently standing at second in the division. Through their trade with Boston, they had lost their top scorer, yes, but they had significantly reinforced their defense as well. Shane could see what a different team they had become in these last few weeks. Even though Ilya warned him against it, Shane was obsessively following Montreal’s games.

They played like a unit, like guys that knew and trusted each other. Nothing like these past few years with Shane. Before, Montreal was smack in the middle of the division, now, they were number two.

It was true. Montreal had been better off without him.

“Hey, Holly.”

It was the morning before an Admirals game, a quick one off away in New York before they'd return home. Shane was the first on the bus, as he always was. As clingy as Ilya was, he wasn’t willing to wake up any more than fifteen minutes before breakfast closed, even if it meant more Shane time. These days, he had more Shane time than he knew what to do with.

Shane looked up from his phone to find Cliff Marleau standing over him.

At a first glance, Cliff Marleau was a physically intimidating guy. He was tall, muscular, with strong features, and a low baritone voice. Shane had been admittedly nervous when he realized he’d have to get to know him as Ilya’s friend. Though, it seemed that Marly turned on the sensitivity whenever he talked to Shane. Maybe that had more to do with the fact that up until recently, the most they’d ever interacted had been when Marly had fucked up his collarbone.

“Hi Marly,” Shane replied. He scanned the bus quickly, no one else was there yet. It was strange, if anything, Marly was usually one of the last guys onto the bus, typically crawling on just in time to avoid a fine.

Marly took a seat in the row across from him, sitting so his knees were in the aisle. He looked from side to side as if he were preparing to divulge state secrets.

“Just wanted to say hey. Just…you know I, like, know. About you and Roz.”

Shane blinked. “Yes.”

“Just wanted you to know, totally cool with me. I have a gay nephew, he wears eyeshadow and everything.”

“Oh,” Shane replied. What the fuck was he supposed to say to that? “I…don’t.”

“And that’s totally cool, it’s a spectrum. That’s what Noor says when she tries to convince me to pierce my nose. It’s weird, for some reason she’s pro nose piercing but anti ear piercing. She says an ear piercing’ll make me look like an asshole. Oh, Noor’s my girlfriend by the way, I was thinking maybe you guys could come over for dinner or something.”

Shane’s eyes widened a bit. This was a lot, he kept flitting his eyes to the entrance of the bus, praying that no one else was about to get on.

“Maybe. Uh…hey, Marly, maybe we could just keep things on the down low? I appreciate it, really, but…” Shane couldn’t help but frown, “I don’t really want anyone to be asking too many questions, you know?”

Marly looked surprised, but he nodded. “Oh, yeah of course. Low key, I totally get that. Just a couple of bros.”

Shane nodded. According to Ilya, they could trust Marly, and Shane believed it, but he only hoped the man understood just how serious this was. They couldn’t afford to slip up, so much as something in the background of a picture, or an offhand comment about them sharing a room, it could ruin everything.

Any more of Shane’s spiralling was disrupted when Delly and one of the new rookies clambered onto the bus. Just before anyone made it too far their way, Marleau leaned in one more time to speak in a whisper.

“Also, Roz is sexy as fuck so I get why you want him, but he’s also a solid motherfucker. If you break his heart or something, I’ll break your other collarbone.”

Shane raised his eyebrows, but he shot Marly an impressed look. “Noted.”