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Grant Holmberg wakes up one summer morning unaware that his life is about to change completely.
There's nothing in the air to indicate that change is coming. It's sunny and the air is crisp and bright, so he makes a vague plan to do his run outside today instead of on his treadmill. He'll have to remember to put on sunscreen if he doesn't want to end up with an awkward line where his sunglasses rest. Again. Last time, the guys had teased him about it until the tan line faded, and that was, like, weeks.
But his run is nebulously scheduled for sometime this afternoon, and it's only seven in the morning, so he doesn't have to worry about that yet. He doesn't have to worry about anything for the next hour, actually, so he rolls over and grabs his phone from his nightstand, intending to scroll through Twitter aimlessly for a bit. Maybe Hayes has posted something new about Mothman – that could be interesting.
Instead, Grant finds out that the Montreal Metros have made what is possibly the most batshit trade in the history of the MLH.
Shane Hollander has waived his NTC and has been traded to the Ottawa Centaurs for Mark Johnson, Levi Auguste, Tanner Dillon, and a first round pick in the 2021 draft, the tweet reads.
Grant has to put his phone down and stare at the ceiling for a while.
Johnson and Auguste are chill guys. He has nothing bad to say about them personally, but, well. Grant has been on the team for one whole season and he's had twice as much ice time as the two of them combined. They're also both defensemen, and Montreal's defense is one of the most solid in the league already. Plus, they're losing their star center – they can't possibly be hoping to replace Shane Hollander with Tanner Dillon. He can barely keep up with Cap on a good day. Seriously, what is their GM thinking?
Grant picks up his phone again and drops the tweet into the Centaurs group chat followed by, like, fifty exclamation points.
What the fuck, says Bood.
Oh we're fucking contenders this year boys, says Dykstra.
And, yeah, that sums up Grant's thoughts pretty well.
He has approximately two hours to process the news that he's going to be playing with the Shane Hollander before Cap announces in the chat that practice tomorrow is now mandatory and that they will be meeting 'an extra special new member.'
Before Grant has a chance to freak out about that, Cap adds a new contact to the group chat, and, just like that, there's something brand new to freak out about.
Hi, this is Shane Hollander, says Shane fucking Hollander.
Welcome!! sends Grant, then closes out of his texting app so that he doesn't start rambling about what a huge fan he is.
Shit. He has Shane Hollander's phone number. How is this his life?
No, like, seriously. How is this happening?
Grant opens up Twitter and scrolls for a minute, half-expecting to see that Montreal's GM has been arrested for smoking crack. Or maybe just for trading Shane Hollander. He's pretty sure Montreal has a law against that.
There's nothing on Twitter about the GM being arrested, but there are a couple of pictures of people burning effigies of him outside the Bell Center, which tracks with what Grant knows about Montreal. Hollander would have to murder someone in the middle of town in broad daylight before the Metros would even consider trading him, and that's if the bystanders didn't cover for him first.
To be fair, Grant would also probably cover for Shane Hollander if he ever murdered someone. No, he definitely would, if they were going to be playing on the same team. Whoever he'd murdered probably deserved it, anyway.
…Hm. Is he onto something here?
Grant's faced Hollander on the ice before. For twenty whole seconds, even. It was probably the scariest twenty seconds of his life, and it had ended when Comeau'd missed the pass Hollander fed him. Grant had managed to snag the puck and shoot it towards Cap, who'd slapped it into the net before Montreal's goalie could even move, giving the Centaurs their first and only goal of the game.
The look that Hollander had shot Comeau afterwards… Well, Grant is maybe not the best at reading facial expressions, but he's absolutely positive that Hollander has it in him to murder someone. Especially if they're bad at hockey.
Maybe his teammates were so bad that he just snapped and killed them? Grant hasn't heard anything about Comeau in a few weeks, but, like, to be fair, it's not like he has alerts turned on for his tweets or whatever.
Grant guesses that if Hollander snapped and killed half his team for being shit, that might get him traded. That many murders would probably be difficult to cover up, even in Montreal.
Grant immediately resolves to 1) not think about the trade too hard and 2) never be so bad at hockey that Shane Hollander starts daydreaming about 'accidentally' sending a slapshot directly at his skull.
Is Shane Hollander a serial killer? Who cares? RIP to the Metros, but Grant's different. He'd cover up at least ten murders if Shane Hollander played on his team. Probably more.
(…Maybe it's a good thing that Dillon got traded. For his own safety.)
Grant spends his free time after dinner looking up the best ways to get rid of a dead body in an incognito tab. He also messages the wife of the guy he'd billeted with last season to see if she has any true crime podcast recommendations.
He learns that he's going to need to stock up on tarps and bleach and possibly move closer to a river. The first two things are easy – he just orders them on Amazon for next-day delivery – and he makes a note to himself to start looking into riverfront apartments later this week. Sure, he's only been in this place for a few months, but he's pretty sure he can come up with a decent excuse for moving. Black mold or something, maybe. That can be his reason for having a metric ton of bleach around, too.
Grant goes to bed with a smile on his face. He's gonna be so good at covering up Shane Hollander's murders.
***
The next day, Grant gets to practice an hour early for the first time in his life. They're barely into the preseason, so he only really needs to be there maybe ten minutes beforehand – just long enough to throw on his gear. But, yeah, he's excited to meet Shane Hollander off the ice for the first time, so sue him.
When he gets to the locker room, he has to double-check his watch to make sure that the walk from the parking lot to the locker room didn't somehow take twenty minutes instead of two, because the locker room is packed.
Understandable, honestly. Grant hasn't been this excited to come to practice since he found out his captain was going to be Ilya Rozanov.
Shane Hollander walks in exactly fifteen minutes early, and his steps stutter slightly when he realizes that the room is almost full. He recovers quickly, making a beeline straight towards the stall next to Cap's. He must have gotten in a while ago for admin stuff or something, because his gear bag's there waiting for him.
Hollander's jaw is clenched so tightly that Grant is half afraid that he's going to shatter his own molars, but he doesn't look murderous, so that's probably a good sign. He does look a little pissed off, though, which is probably fair? He did just get traded from a team he rebuilt into three-time cup winners to fucking Ottawa for, like, three corn chips and a Jell-O cup, basically.
Cap walks in a few minutes later and looks absolutely delighted to see Hollander setting up the stall next to his. It's the widest Grant's ever seen him smile, and he's including all the times Harris has brought a dog to the rink, which means that there's some pretty big competition.
"Hollander!" he calls, striding across the room to loop an arm around Hollander's shoulders. Hollander just stands there and lets it happen, seemingly unbothered by the additional 200+ pounds of hockey player hanging off of him. Man, Grant needs to lock in on his strength training. "So glad to see you are joining the best team in league!"
Grant winces. He loves playing for the Centaurs, but he's got no illusions about how good the team is. They haven't come anywhere near the playoffs in twenty years. Having both Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov on the team is definitely going to turn things around, but, like, no one's ever happy to be traded to the Centaurs.
"I don't know that I would call the Centaurs the best team in the league," Shane says, unknowingly echoing Grant's thoughts. Then his gaze cuts over to Cap, and Grant thinks he might see the ghost of a smirk flit across his face as he adds, "Yet."
"Yet," Cap agrees, his grin sharpening into something dangerous. He and Hollander exchange a wordless look, then Cap turns to the rest of the room and claps his hands. Raising his voice, he calls, "Okay, five minutes and I want to see you all on the ice, yes?"
"Yes, Cap," Grant echoes back, along with the rest of the team. He'd kind of forgotten that Cap and Hollander are friends, to be honest. It's hard to tell when they face off against each other on the ice like the referee is the only thing stopping them from killing each other to get to the puck first.
He wonders if Cap has ever helped Hollander cover up a murder before. He probably has some good tips that maybe he wouldn't mind sharing.
***
Coach has them try out new combinations all practice, trying to figure out where best to slot Hollander into the line. The answer seems to be 'anywhere,' because he is frighteningly good at adapting to whatever is thrown at him on the ice. Maybe a little less so off the ice, but, hey, it's his first day on a new team. Grant thinks it's fair for him to be a little wary.
Hollander and Cap play together like they're psychically linked or something, once Cap goads him into relaxing a little. That one All Stars game a few year back where they'd played on the same team and won 11-5 had definitely not been a fluke. Grant cannot wait to see their opponents' expressions when they're faced with the Hollander-Rozanov power play.
Halfway through practice, Grant finds himself sitting on the bench next to the Shane Hollander. He does not ask him for an autograph, because he has some self control. Plus, he doesn't really have anything for him to sign handy.
Instead, he grabs a Gatorade from one of the coolers they keep nearby and offers Hollander one as well. It's lemon lime, because it's one of the most popular flavors, so he figures it's safe. Even if it's not their favorite, he doesn't think he's ever run into anyone who, like, actively hates lemon lime.
Except, apparently, Shane Hollander.
Hollander just half-smiles at him tightly and declines, his nose wrinkling a little bit like he's trying to hide his disgust.
Grant shrugs and sits back down, very carefully not saying anything like are you sure? or only serial killers hate lemon lime. He figures the whole murder thing is probably something Hollander will mention if he ever needs a hand moving a corpse or something, so until then Grant will pretend he knows nothing. It's called 'plausible deniability,' he's pretty sure.
Cap examines Hollander intently for a few seconds before pulling a bag out from under the bench and rummaging around in it. It's one of those shitty drawstring backpacks that they hand out for free at concerts or state fairs or whatever, and Grant has literally never seen Cap with one before. He wonders where he got it, and why it's under the bench in the first place.
Hollander doesn't seem to notice Cap's mysterious bag, busy staring intently into the middle distance, idly chewing on his mouth guard. He's already memorized most of the Centaur's playbook already, obviously, because he's Shane Hollander, so he's probably running them though in his head, figuring out where he fits in or how he can adjust them to work better or something.
…Or maybe, Grant realizes abruptly, he's thinking about whether anyone here is bad enough that he needs to kill them.
Shit. His bleach hasn't arrived yet. Maybe they have some in the janitor's closet? They have to, right? Except he also doesn't actually know where the janitor's closet is, so that doesn't really help —
Cap makes a triumphant noise in the back of his throat and withdraws a bottle of lemon lime Gatorade from his shitty drawstring bag. He brandishes it at Hollander like it's the Stanley Cup and Hollander looks at it like it's got a negative Corsi.
Grant kind of doesn't want to know how long the Gatorade has been in Cap's bag. It's probably been left in his car overnight at least once, so it has to have that gross plastic-y taste. If Hollander hates the lemon lime flavor normally, Grant's pretty sure lukewarm lemon lime with added microplastics isn't going to sound anymore appealing.
As if to prove Grant's point, Hollander's gaze shifts from the bottle back to Cap, staring at him like he's insulted his stickhandling. Or something worse, probably, since Cap's already done that twice in the last hour.
Cap untwists the cap with a sharp snk and takes a sip, then wiggles the bottle back and forth tauntingly, shooting a shit-eating grin at him expectantly.
Hollander grabs it out of his hand, chugs it like Cap had dared him to, then chucks the empty bottle back at him with a scowl.
Grant is a bit relieved. Hollander's attention is fixed firmly on Cap now, which means it isn't on Grant. That's probably good, because Grant had completely whiffed his last attempt at a slapshot five minutes ago.
(…Maybe he should have considered that before trying to hand Hollander a Gatorade. Thanks for the distraction, Cap!)
Hollander's glaring at Cap like he wants to murder him, except Cap is so good at hockey that he has to meet Hollander's threshold for not getting murdered. He might be the only one who does, honestly.
"Fuck you," Hollander tells Cap. He sounds weirdly affectionate, but before he can say anything else, Grant gets distracted by the sound of his own name.
"Holmberg!" Coach calls across the ice. "Trade out with LaPointe."
Grant jumps the boards, making a mental note to himself to figure out where the janitor's closet is, just in case.
***
After practice, Cap makes eye contact with Hollander, and Hollander nods, jaw set. Cap nods back, then claps his hands, so loud that they sound like gunshots.
"Listen up!" he shouts. The room goes quiet almost instantly, despite the fact that the entire team's still crammed into the locker room getting ready to head out for the day.
Hollander glances around the room and takes a deep breath. He lets it out slowly. Then he does it again.
Is he…pregnant lady breathing? What's it called, la Roz or something? The wife of the guy Grant had billeted with last year had been pregnant, and he's pretty sure she went to classes to practice a specific kind of breathing that was supposed to make things easier for her. He doesn't know if it works – she might not yet either, since he's pretty sure she isn't due until next month. Also, she'd claimed that true crime podcasts were good for the pregnancy, too, although she didn't go to classes for that. Grant doesn't think that sounds right, but what does he know? He's never been pregnant before.
Cap's hand comes up to rest on the back of Hollander's neck, and Grant is close enough to hear him murmur softly, "You do not have to tell them if you do not want."
Hollander closes his eyes and shakes his head slightly. "No, I'll say it. They'll hear about it the next time we play Montreal anyway." Then he scowls and mutters under his breath, so quietly that Grant probably isn't supposed to be able to hear him, "Drapeau needs to learn to keep his fucking mouth shut."
Cap grunts his emphatic agreement, squeezing the back of Hollander's neck absently.
Oh, shit. Is Hollander about to tell them that he murdered his old teammates? Grant leans forward eagerly, then has to readjust slightly when he almost falls off the bench. Luckily, Hollander doesn't seem to notice.
"I'm gay," Hollander says abruptly, like he's ripping off band-aid. His gaze darts around the room, not making eye contact with anyone in particular, and his lips twist downward at the edges almost defiantly. "That's why they traded me. So if anyone has any problems with that, I'd like to know now."
There's silence for a split second, then —
"Well, that's a stupid fucking reason to trade Shane Hollander," blurts out Young, before anyone can say literally anything else.
Hayes chimes in with a, "Thanks for telling us, man!" while Bood shoots Young a look that screams be quiet but also you're not wrong, then walks over to Hollander and pats him on the shoulder. A few others follow his lead, and then suddenly Hollander is the bewildered recipient of a dozen or so high-fives and awkward fist bumps.
"…Is that it?" Grant wonders aloud, after he gets his own high-five from Hollander. He feels a little let down, honestly. All his research on how to get rid of bodies is pointless now. "You're not, like, a serial killer or something, too?" he asks hopefully.
"No?" Hollander's guarded frown disappears abruptly, replaced with utter bafflement. "Did you...want me to be?"
Well, maybe a little?
Cap claps Grant on the shoulder, shoulders trembling like he's trying to hold in his laughter. "Who knows? Maybe one of the rookies next year will be a serial killer."
"That'd be cool, I guess," Grant replies. "I have a shit ton of bleach now, and I don't want to just let it go to waste."
"I – okay," says Hollander, visibly giving up on following Grant's thought process.
Cap hums contemplatively, wrapping an arm casually around Hollander's shoulders. "On second thought, maybe we will need it next time we are in Montreal."
Grant brightens. "I have plenty of tarps, too," he assures them. "Montreal's GM won't know what hit him!"