Chapter Text
Hayden knows he shouldn’t be here.
He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t be going along with what the guys are doing, he most certainly shouldn’t be helping them and, beyond all else, he absolutely shouldn’t be leading the group of them up the stairs to Shane’s apartment.
But, well, Hayden is maybe a little drunk – admittedly not enough not to know that he is doing something he shouldn’t, that he is breaking his best friend’s trust by using the codes Shane gave him in the case of an emergency for something very much not an emergency, but drunk enough to convince himself it’ll be fine anyway. He might also be missing Shane, his best friend, who refused the invitation to celebrate their win against Tampa tonight, despite Hayden having a rare night to himself what with Jackie taking the kids to visit her brother for a few days.
What? A man can miss his best friend without it being weird. Even if they did admittedly see each other just a few hours ago.
Most crucially, Hayden is really fucking curious.
See, when Shane refused the invitation to go out tonight, he had that expression on his face. That particular expression he only gets whenever Boston Lily is around. Which means that, once again, his best friend blew off the team for this girl he might or might not even be dating. And so what if Hayden then got just drunk enough at the bar earlier to lament about that fact to the guys, who apparently had clocked neither Lily being their captain’s reason for refusing to go out nor her existence at all.
Which of course then turned into everyone speculating about who she might be – hey, Shane dated Rose Landry, who knows who else he might be able to pull – before finally agreeing that for their captain, Shane Hollander, all around good guy and perfect athlete and the-team-comes-first captain and boring stick in the mud, to blow them off so regularly for some girl, she must either be a total smokeshow or so plain that he is embarrassed to let anyone meet her.
Well, Hayden thinks they all know better than to believe that last one. Shane is one weird little guy and has never once been embarrassed to stick to all his various particularities – from not drinking alcohol to his weird diet to not picking up any of the many women that throw themselves at him no matter where he goes, unbothered by the ribbing all of it gets him from the team. So, there is no way he’d ever be embarrassed by his girl’s looks possibly not matching up to what the guys tend to refer to as ‘WAG-hot’. Most of the guys even agreed that Shane’s girl is most likely so ludicrously hot that he just doesn’t want them to meet her before he’s got that locked down securely. Which, fair, considering some of the team’s track records.
However, somehow, that argument then devolved into a bet with about half the guys agreeing with Hayden and half agreeing with Mitty who is convinced Boston Lily must either be the most boring girl alive to pull their hockey-is-life captain or possibly just a puck with a face drawn on it.
Hayden was utterly offended on his best friend’s behalf and maybe made the mistake of mentioning that he has the codes to Shane’s place, so he could go and check to prove Mitty wrong. Mind you, Hayden had meant theoretically. But of course it had everyone clamoring about wanting to come along and meet Boston Lily as well.
Everything else is history.
Or less so history and more so happening right now, as in a group of nine rather drunk – although thankfully having sobered up slightly on the way here – and far-too-built-to-squeeze-into-one-little-hallway professional athletes crowding in behind Hayden, chortling and shoving at each other about this great prank they’re about to pull on their captain. All the while Hayden is squinting at the door pad, making sure he hits the correct numbers in correct order, lest he sets off some sort of alarm. Behind his right shoulder J.J. keeps randomly snorting in amusement, somehow drunker than the rest of them, phone out as he records ‘the greatest prank of all times’ according to him, camera swinging between Hayden and the group of hockey players jostling for space behind them.
When the door finally swings open, the apartment behind it is dark.
Hayden really shouldn’t be surprised at that fact, considering it’s well past midnight and Shane rarely deviates from his routine of being in bed by 10. There might also be a little voice in Hayden’s head – sounding like a mix of Jackie and his best friend – niggling at him, telling him that they are not only in the process of breaking into Shane’s apartment but that they are also planning to go search out Shane, who might well be asleep but who, and somehow Hayden really considered this option until right this moment, might also be in the midst of having sex with his long-distance hookup.
… maybe he didn’t think this whole thing through as much as he should have.
But it’s absolutely too late now as J.J. is already through the door and someone else is pushing at Hayden from behind.
“What’s the hold-up?” he hears Olsson ask from the hallway.
“What are you asking me for? I’m behind you, how would I know,” Berkes returns.
“Shhh,” Comeau shushes them. “Shut up.”
“You’re the loudest one here,” Gagnon returns, sounding bored.
“Fuck you,” Comeau returns immediately, his voice barely lowered as if to prove Gagnon’s point.
There is the sound of nine absolutely graceless-off-the-ice hockey players shuffling through the doorway in the dark. Well, mostly dark. Shane’s apartment has a beautiful view across Montreal, the airy drapes letting in the lights and sight of the city sprawling below, illuminating the apartment in a soft glow.
Hayden’s – somewhat random – moment of appreciation for Shane’s architectural tastes is interrupted by one of the guys stumbling over a pair of shoes by the door and someone else – sounds like Andropov – cackling like a hyena in mockery, which then devolves into colorful cursing at him promptly walking right into the divider wall that cuts off the entrance from the rest of the apartment, nearly taking one of the paintings on said wall with him in his attempt to keep himself from falling.
Hayden winces.
God he hopes the guys aren’t going to break anything. Shane will already be pissed enough at them showing up here, no need to add property destruction to that list. On that note… fuck, Shane is absolutely going to kill them in practice, isn’t he. Hayden can already see them all doing bag skates until they drop for the foreseeable future.
Well, too late for any regrets now. They’re already here and Hayden still wants to meet Boston Lily so very badly. He moves past J.J. who has come to a halt a little further ahead into the living room, strangely unmoving and uncharacteristically silent.
The reason for which becomes obvious as soon as Hayden looks up.
It takes him a few moments – seconds ticking by individually as though time has slowed to a crawl – in order to compute just what exactly it is he is seeing.
There is the couch.
There is Shane on the couch.
There is Shane on the couch in sweatpants and t-shirt, asleep on his back.
There is Shane on the couch in sweatpants and t-shirt, sleeping on his back with one arm wrapped securely around the waist of another person. Another person who is sleeping on top of him. Another man who is sleeping on top of him.
A man.
As in, not Boston Lily.
As in, not a woman at all.
Which, Hayden’s brain notes somewhat hysterically, would be enough of mental stumbling block. If it weren’t for the unmistakable identity of just who is sleeping perfectly relaxed on top of Hayden’s best friend, shirtless and barefoot, both of them looking comfortable. Familiar. Intimate. There is an ease to their position that makes questions almost unnecessary, for all that Hayden has about a thousand of them.
Why the fuck is Ilya Rozanov, Russian menace and the Voyageurs’ number one enemy, sleeping comfortably on top of Shane, face buried partially in Shane’s chest.
“Tabernak,” J.J. breathes from behind him, still frozen, still holding his phone.
Which is the exact moment the other guys come noisily jostling into Shane’s living room, only to promptly freeze right alongside Hayden as soon as the couch comes into view. At the sight of Shane, asleep on his back – though starting to stir at the noise the guys have been making – with one arm wrapped around Ilya Rozanov, their legs comfortably tangled together.
“What the fuck,” Drapeau intones into the silent room, just as Shane’s eyes blink open.
And Hayden is left watching, like an accident you can’t look away from. He watches Shane come awake, those few seconds – one, two, three, four – where he wakes relaxed and happy, the arm wrapped around Ilya fucking Rozanov of all people tightening slightly as if to make sure he’s still there. Before Shane clearly realizes something is off, realizes something woke him or maybe notices the very-much-tense atmosphere of the room. Hayden watches as Shane’s eyes turns towards the rest of his apartment, towards them, focusing first on Hayden – surprise – then on J.J. – shock – and then on the rest of the guys – panic.
Hayden sees the exact moment Shane manages to make sense of what he is seeing, the panic and surprised betrayal swiftly shifting through his eyes as they settle, finally, on him.
“Hayden?” he asks, voice low, questioning. Almost like he is still hoping there might be some sort of reasonable explanation for this. An explanation that doesn’t include Hayden abusing the privilege of being trusted with access to Shane’s home just to sate his own fucking curiosity and, for some reason that Hayden can’t even recall at the moment, also decided to bring most of their team along with him.
Oh god, Jackie is going to fucking kill him for this. If Shane doesn’t get there first.
Hayden tries to formulate a reply to the unspoken question, anything at all, but keeps coming up empty. What could he possibly say? He knows he needs to apologize and also do something to somehow defuse this entire clusterfuck of a situation. However, his mind gives him nothing, mostly still caught on stuttering Rozanov’s name on an endless loop.
Regrettably, not everyone appears to be having the same problem.
“What the fuck is this,” Comeau demands into the shocked silence, voice harsh.
Which is of course the exact moment Rozanov finally decides to wake.
Well, ‘wakes’ for a certain value. Rozanov stirs, raises his head slightly from Shane’s chest to glance at the collection of Voyageurs gathered in Shane’s apartment and proceeds to – somehow – look mostly bored.
“What is this?” he asks, voice thick with sleep and relaxation. “Team meeting?”
His accent is heavier than Hayden is used to hearing. It also seems to make everything worse.
“No fucking way,” Mitty breathes from the back of the group, all the while Olsson and Gagnon are shifting as though they were getting ready to check someone into the boards with all their strength. Fuck. Hayden really hopes this entire situation isn’t going to escalate to the point of physical violence. Jackie is going to be so pissed if Hayden gets hurt off the ice, much less in a brawl against his own teammates. Then again, she’ll be even more pissed if he doesn’t put himself firmly on Shane’s side in case things do go downhill to that degree.
Why the fuck did he bring some of their largest and meanest defense men to Shane’s apartment, huh?!
Fuck, Hayden messed up so badly.
On the couch, Shane is finally moving, sitting up slowly, eyes on the group crowding his living room. Notably, he doesn’t loosen his hold around Rozanov’s back, instead bringing the other with him into an upright position. Rozanov who lets him, only to then settle himself calmly on the couch, casually relaxed – in contrast to Shane’s very much tense posture beside him – still shirtless and eyes sharp but somehow still looking mostly bored, as though this entire situation has nothing at all to do with him.
Asshole, Hayden thinks uncharitably, a little proud of himself for not saying as such out loud. Hayden is also absolutely ignoring the bite mark he can see bruising the meat of Rozanov’s left shoulder. Or the scratches along his ribs peaking around from his back. Nope. Hayden refuses to think about any of that.
Around them, silence stretches. Before suddenly, everyone is talking at once.
“What the hell?”
“Fucking Rozanov?”
“Capitaine?”
“Is this some sort of joke?!”
“What in the everloving fuck is going on?”
“I think someone spiked my drink, guys. I’m seeing things.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
“You a fag now?”
Hayden winces.
Fuck. They shouldn’t be here. They really shouldn’t be here. Hayden should have never brought any of them here. Fuck fuck fuck.
“Guys,” he interjects weakly.
Nobody listens.
“You’ve been fucking him?”
“Oh my god.”
“Fucking faggots.”
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Drapeau demands.
Comeau laughs nastily, a sneer on his face. “Of course something is wrong with him,” he says. “He’s a fucking cocksucker.”
Later, when the dust will have settled, it will be this moment Hayden thinks about the most. Not Comeau’s words but Shane’s reaction to it. The way Shane’s face closes, shutters. The way he doesn’t defend himself immediately. The way he looks neither ashamed nor surprised but hurt, and devastatingly resigned to it. Like he knew this would happen but still helplessly hoped for better.
Hayden feels sick.
“Guys,” he interjects, more firmly this time. “Enough.”
Still, nobody listens.
“Hollander,” Berkes says. “Tell me this isn’t real.”
Shane doesn’t reply. What could he possibly say. The truth is obvious, for all that Hayden wishes it weren’t. But, well, there really isn’t much room for interpretation, not with Rozanov still sitting there, right next to Shane, shirtless and looking perfectly relaxed in a way that is pissing off Hayden just by itself.
“Oh my god, it fucking is,” Olsson breathes.
And then things get ugly.
Words that Hayden wishes he could take back despite not being the one who says them. Slurs he’s never even heard of before, accusations that never crossed his mind, questions that no one ever deserves an answer to, Shane’s ethnicity getting dragged into it all in a way that has Hayden feeling honestly sick.
What the fuck are the guys doing? These are the same guys who had been celebrating Shane despite his absence at the bar for his two goals winning them today’s game? Like they hadn’t been laughing on the way here about the impossibility of Shane dating anyone because he’s always busy with hockey and always puts the team first? What the fuck is happening?
He watches Rozanov’s jaw tighten at some of things being said, watches Shane’s expression grow colder with each new comment and casually spoken slur.
Hayden hates this, hates everything about this. He also really wishes J.J. would maybe try and help Hayden in calming everyone down. You know, instead of still standing by the entrance to the living room, still frozen, phone still raised, even though he seems to have forgotten about holding it at all, gaze focused on Shane same as everyone else.
“Guys,” Hayden interjects once more. “Let’s maybe all calm down.”
“Calm down?” Drapeau demands, immediately rounding on him. “You knew about this?”
“I didn’t!” Hayden refutes hotly. “You think I would have brought you here if I had known?”
“Oh, you would have lied to us as well?”
“Way to prove your loyalty.”
“Fuck off, Mitty,” Hayden hurls back, utterly unconcerned with being nice, not after the shit the guys have been saying to Shane. Oh, Hayden is loyal, alright. Just not to these fuckers. Not if it’s a question of them or Shane.
“Well, you’re the one who brought us here,” Andropov shrugs, as though Hayden needed the reminder.
“I thought-,” Hayden sputters out, desperately searching for words, if only so Shane knows Hayden hadn’t even had an inkling of what he’d be bringing the team to walk in on.
“What? That we’d find Hollander cuddled up to some girlfriend?” Drapeau asks mockingly.
“Yes!”
Nobody seems interested in that. Or anything really, aside from continuing to hurl abuse at Shane. Who still hasn’t said much of anything, still watching, still waiting.
And, god, Hayden hopes Shane’s silence is some sort of well thought-out decision, a strategy, maybe giving the guys a chance to get out their anger before he attempts reasoning with them. You know, rather than Shane’s heart breaking further at every slur and accusation thrown his way by people he considers friends if not family.
Fuck, Hayden messed up so badly.
“This is such a fucking joke.”
“What the fuck, captain.”
“You still calling him captain after this shit?”
“How long?” someone demands.
“Does it matter?” Shane finally speaks up, voice flat.
Apparently it does, as the room erupts again, outrage growing.
At one point, Shane looks past everyone else and right at J.J., who hasn’t said much of anything throughout beyond a few initial exclamations. Shane doesn’t plead, doesn’t say anything, just looks. Waiting.
J.J. looks away. And Hayden feels something in his chest crack at the way it has Shane’s eyes only harden further.
Then, somehow things get even worse.
Drapeau says, “If you really needed a cock up your ass so badly, Hollander, we could have found you a hot girl with a strap.”
“Or a hooker,” Gagnon provides.
“What, you’re saying Rozanov isn’t one?” Comeau laughs meanly.
Drapeau snorts derisively. “A whore for a Canadian passport maybe.”
And, suddenly, Shane is standing. Not quickly, not threateningly. The movement is calm, steady settling in a firm stance partially in front of the couch, shoulders squared. Shane’s expression, in contrast, is thunderous.
The room abruptly goes still.
See, if you ask anyone who knows anything about hockey, whether they be part of the media or a random fan on the street or any of his many, many sponsors, they’d tell you Shane Hollander doesn’t have a temper to lose.
The team knows better.
Sure, it’s a rare thing but ten years of mid-practice and post-game dressing downs – for messing up plays, for letting ego get in the way of the game, for showing up on the ice in anything other than top form – and being made to skate drills until even the last of them can barely make their way off the ice unaided, have them all conditioned to come to full and immediate – and slightly panicked – attention whenever their captain’s temper does make one of its rare showings.
“Don’t,” Shane warns, voice low but firm.
A second of silence.
“Or what?” Comeau taunts – rather suicidally – although most of the others are shuffling nervously behind him.
Shane doesn’t do him the favor of reacting to the taunt. “You are my team. You can talk about me all you want. You don’t get to talk about him like that.”
“Oh, fuck off acting li-,” Mitty huffs derisively.
Shane cuts right across him, not even acknowledging anyone having spoken. “You came into my apartment uninvited. You woke us up. You started yelling. Fine.” His voice sharpens. “But you will not insult my partner in my own home.”
Hayden is already looking at Rozanov, somehow having expected the Russian to protest anyone thinking to defend him. It’s for that reason he spots something unexpectedly soft – almost fond, almost adoring – shifting through Rozanov’s eyes at Shane’s words, there and gone again immediately. In contrast to Shane, Rozanov still hasn’t risen, not even now that the focus has shifted to him. He remains seated on the couch – shirtless, barefoot, and utterly unbothered by the entire situation.
His disregard seems to only piss off the guys even further.
“Oh, that’s rich,” Comeau scoffs. “Defending your boyfriend.”
“Yes,” Shane confirms. A claim. ‘This is my partner. Back the fuck off.’ Certain, simple, matter-of-fact.
Thing is, this isn’t new. Shane has done the exact same thing countless times before, whenever anyone veered off his mandated guidelines of never bringing a teammate’s partner or family into locker room taunts. It’s something he implemented the moment he became captain and Hayden knows that part of it was how often – and how disgustingly – some of the guys liked to bring up Yuna whenever they felt like taking Shane down a peg in his rookie years. However, it now also has most of the group shuffling around almost guiltily, likely remembering the many times Shane has stepped in to defend their own partners whenever another teammate decided to take the in-team chirping too far.
It doesn’t last long, but it’s something.
Then, Mitty scoffs. “Jesus Christ.”
“Don’t act like we’re the ones out of line, Captain, when you’re the one fucking the enemy,” Gagnon adds on, apparently more hung up on the Rozanov of it all than on Shane being anything other than straight.
“And lying about it,” Olsson adds.
“I haven’t lied,” Shane denies.
“You sure as fuck weren’t telling the truth either,” Olsson buckles down.
“I don’t owe anyone information about my private life,” Shane holds firm.
“You do if it’s this!”
“You’re the captain!”
“Yes, you do!”
“Fucking faggots,” Drapeau hurls from the side. You know, to inject some much needed intelligence into the conversation.
Then, because Comeau has never known when not to escalate a situation further, “I sure as fuck won’t be changing in any lockerroom he’s in.”
Hayden blinks at him, taken aback by the apparent non-sequitur. For a brief moment he finds himself wondering when Comeau would ever be in a situation that would have him changing in the same room as Rozanov. Before he realizes that Comeau is talking about Shane, though still not getting git. “What?” he asks intelligently.
Turns out, he definitely shouldn’t have asked.
Because Comeau takes it as a chance to sneer, “It’s disgusting thinking of some fag looking at us for years. Fuck, who knows how often he’s gotten off on showering with the rest of us.”
Silence stretches.
Huh, maybe Hayden will be the one to throw the first punch after all. Surely, Jackie will understand. Because what the fuck did Comeau just say?
Unexpectedly, it’s Shane who breaks the silence. Shane who blinks once in apparent surprise, before the corners of his lips tilt up and he snorts a laugh. It’s not even a quiet snort, almost a guffaw when compared to how subdued Shane usually is about showing his emotions.
Hayden stares at his best friend, taken aback by the reaction.
“Are you actually serious?” Shane asks into the surprised silence, something amused but also definitely derisive glinting in his eyes.
Oh, Hayden thinks. Oh, no. He’s seen this particular look on Shane before.
See, most people think of Shane as this sweet, gentle, couldn’t-hurt-a-fly sort of guy, without a single mean bone in his body and with a loves-and-respects-all kind of mentality. Most people would also be wrong. Sure, Shane tends to be rather quiet, especially in group settings, rarely speaks up to make his opinions known. However, that in no way means that Shane doesn’t have opinions, pretty firm ones even. Hayden has learned over the years that his best friend can be absolutely brutal whenever he decides to make those opinions known, especially whenever he decides to talk about other people’s short-comings on the ice by pointing out, what Shane considers, self-evident facts.
Hayden watches, caught between dread and somewhat vindictive delight, as Shane turns slightly, angling himself a little towards the couch without taking his eyes off Comeau. Only to then gesture at Rozanov still sitting there. It’s a slow gesture, rather all-encompassing, top to bottom.
“I’m dating Ilya Rozanov,” Shane states, matter-of-fact, voice deadpan and still that derisive glint in his eyes.
Everyone blinks at his apparent need to reiterate that particular little tidbit.
Shane raises his eyebrows, almost leadingly, something about his expression very reminiscent of when he is explaining the same play to the team for the fifth time in practice and has started using very small words because some of the guys are still not getting it. “The fact that you think I might be even remotely interested in you, when all of that,” he gestures at Rozanov again, top to bottom, “is already mine, is honestly impressive. And, frankly, delusional.”
Utter silence.
Then someone chortles, followed by several snorts, Andropov actually bursting out with a cackle, and even Mitty appears to be muffling laughter.
“Capitaine!” J.J. crows, delighted.
The tension breaks, even if only for a moment, as most of the guys struggle to muffle their hilarity, everyone unbothered by the way Comeau looks like he’s about to blow a gasket. Hey, they play hockey for a living. They can all appreciate a well-delivered chirp.
On the couch, Rozanov is visibly preening. “Correct,” he agrees, his grin all smug and punchable. Shane looks a little long-suffering at that but doesn’t say anything to rein him in.
Of course Rozanov’s one word comment is enough to set Comeau off again, quickly joined by Drapeau and Mitty. Although their accusations come to a screeching halt when Drapeau dares to demand, “Have you been throwing games for him?”
The silence that follows is somehow heavier than any of the ones before and Hayden thinks he might actually be gaping at Drapeau for the sheer stupidity of that question. Shane throwing a game? For anything? Shane would sooner throw himself off a building than ever compromise the game he loves.
“What?” Shane demands, voice sharp, all humor gone from his expression.
“Fair question,” Gagnon pipes up from the right.
“It’s really fucking not,” Hayden finally finds his voice to protest. “What the fuck, guys?”
But no one is listening. And apparently, Shane has had enough.
A sweeping glance across the guys gathered in front of him, assessing and not liking what he finds.
“Get out,” he says, tone even.
Nobody moves.
“Get out of my apartment.”
“Shane-,” Hayden almost wants to protest. As much as he agrees with Shane that the guys are way, way out of line, kicking everyone out now is not going to help calm anyone’s temper.
“No,” Shane refuses, posture straight-backed and eyes furious. “You broke into my apartment, called me slurs, insulted my boyfriend, and now you’re going to accuse us of throwing games? All the while asking why I haven’t told you about Ilya before? Like I owe you? Like I haven’t given everything for this fucking team? Like I didn’t carry the entire fucking lot of you to two Stanley Cups?”
“Back-to-back,” Rozanov adds in helpfully. Shane doesn’t acknowledge his interjection but it still very much rings true.
“Bet those Cups were before you started fucking Rozanov,” Gagnon mutters derisively.
“They were not,” Shane refutes, clearly having heard, even though he doesn’t bother to actually look at Gagnon, eyes still on Drapeau as the one who spoke the initial accusation. “You have never played a game with me while I was not already involved with Ilya.”
“Big deal,” Gagnon immediately scoffs. “I only joined the team two years ago.”
“True,” Shane says, his gaze finally moving to sweep across everyone present before settling on Gagnon. “But then, I wasn’t talking only to you.”
Silence, several expressions morphing from blind accusation to shock and obvious questions about to be asked.
Shane doesn’t give anyone the chance. “Now, get out.” He points at the door. “I would ask everyone to keep quiet about what they saw here today, if only for Ilya’s sake, but if I have to ask at all then I figure it won’t be making a difference either way.”
“Why for his sake?” Berkes demands, apparently offended at the mere idea of doing anything for Rozanov, several of the guys nodding along. Even Hayden can’t help but agree, although he keeps silent. “He clearly doesn’t care. He hasn’t even said anything.”
Strangely, Andropov and Mitty are now looking at the rest of them like they’re all stupid.
In turn, Rozanov finally deigns to speak. Or rather shrug dismissively. “What is to say? You are small angry men whining about hurt feelings.” He waves his hand as though batting away a particularly annoying fly. God, Hayden hates him so much. “Am sad for Shane to have such team, but am more worried about Russian police.”
Hayden swallows, feeling like a complete idiot at the way Shane abruptly looks haunted. Well, fuck. Here he is feeling hurt at Shane not telling him about being involved with Rozanov but not even considering how him being Russian might factor into everything. Suddenly the way Rozanov remains sitting on the couch, posture relaxed if watchful, doesn’t seem nearly as irritating to Hayden as before.
“Let’s just end this for tonight,” Shane says, clearly done with them. “It would be great if you could all refrain from posting about any of this for a while at least.” His tone gives away just how useless he assumes that request to be.
Sure enough, both Comeau and Drapeau snort in unison, clearly not willing to give any such assurance. Fucking assholes.
Shane ignores them entirely, instead focuses on J.J. at the other side of the room. “Also, for the love of god, would you stop recording.”
J.J. startles, then freezes, looking like a deer in headlights. There is something almost comical about the way he then glances down slowly at the phone still in his hand, as though only now remembering he is holding it, still pointed to cover most of the living room. His face abruptly drains of color. “Oh,” he breathes. “Oh, fuck.”
“What?” Hayden asks, vaguely irritated but also feeling like there isn’t much that could make tonight’s shitshow any worse.
J.J. swallows, looking like he’s seen a ghost. “I wasn’t recording.”
A pause.
“Okay?” Hayden asks, not seeing the problem. So, there isn’t a recording of this mess. All the better.
Only for J.J. to continue, “I’ve been livestreaming.”
Silence. Absolute silence.
Even the others have come alert at that, expressions ranging from disbelief to shock and anger because… Well, it’s one thing to have it out amongst teammates where no one can see and no one judges how you behave or talk. It’s very different to have all of it blared onto the internet for everyone – fans, family, sponsors, management – to see.
As always in moments of crisis, Shane is the first to gather himself. “Since when?”
“Since the hallway,” J.J. says seemingly in some sort of shocked trance as he brings his gaze back up again from his phone, “Thirty-two minutes.”
Hayden thinks he actually feels his soul leave his body.
From the couch, finally having leaned forward the slightest bit to subtly settle a calming hand against Shane’s back, Rozanov provides, “Huh.” A slight pause. Then, “This is Voyageurs team? How did you manage to win Cup with team of idiots? Twice. Respect, Shanya.”
Shane, by now leaning into the supportive hand at his back and looking about two seconds from burying his face in his own palms, only sighs wearily.