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"I'm done." He said with such a clipped tone it had the room silent.
He didn't yell, he didn't cry.
"I did not spend my entire professional career thus far, lead you to three cups, not one, not two, but fucking three!" Shane was standing now, holding up three fingers to highlight the point. "For you to turn around and act like I've never cared about this fucking team."
"You lied to us!" Someone snapped back, maybe JJ, maybe someone else.
Shane found he didn't care.
"Look around and tell me why I shouldn't have then!" He yelled back, for once he was yelling back. "Would you come in here, tell this team the person you love is someone they hate? Would you?"
He didn't get a response and Shane rubbed his face in annoyance. The burn of anger simmer under his skin.
He mostly felt tired. Tired of everything.
He'd been outed publicly, he'd been benched and now his ungrateful team were turning him into some sort of monster.
He was tired.
"You want me out?" Shane asked calmly, but the look of his face dared someone to speak. "Because I am sick of the moaning, the bitching and the whispers. Say it right now, to my face like grown men."
The silence that followed was telling, they weren't brave enough to acknowledge the risk it would be to loose him.
They would tread the line of isolating him but not ousting him.
Fuck that, fuck it all.
For once in his life, this team, the dream of it was the thing he hated the most. It felt like someone was twisting his insides, bringing out the rolling nausea and a subtle shaking.
Underneath it all, a clarifying thought came to mind.
He was done.
Soon a free agent, able to decided whether he resigned with this team or not.
He would not.
He was done.
This would be one of the last times he stood in this locker room, with these people and in this position.
He could stay, grit his teeth, drop his head and bare it.
Why should he?
Why should he have to be the one who carries it all the time?
The dieting, the strict social media personality, the political niceness and diplomacy in the face of mistreatment.
He'd almost completely lost himself, lost Ilya and more to this.
He'd gained so much from here but the only thins remaining in the hallways of a place once home was whispers, pitiful looks and shadows waiting to drag him under.
Shane was methodical in his next movements, ignoring the stares as he packed his gear. When he was done, he stared at the empty space where his things would sit, where he may leave an item or two knowing he'd be back soon to get it.
Not this time.
Slowly he pulled his bag on to his shoulder and turned around to look at the men he'd grown up with.
Some of them, he'd been there for their weddings, for kids, for breakups and homesickness.
He'd been a reliable figure for those who came after him, he'd been the shoulder to take on the responsibilities left by those gone.
He could keep yelling now, he could pick a fight so loud it'd end with probable violence.
Bruised fists and blood shocked eyes.
But there were parts of himself that would be his forever, his parents son and Ilyas soon-to-be husband.
He would be the Shane they knew, that he knew.
He nodded at Hayden, who looked sickly pale and was gripping the wall like he was trying to stay upright.
Then walked out of the locker room and out of the building. Not running, not turning his back.
He was making the choice, he would control this narrative, this part of his life. He was owed that much.
The news of his departure and subsequent signing with Ottawa was met with defiant silence for three days.
Then it was like the apocalypse started. His phone was silenced because even with it set to vibrating, the noise wouldn't stop.
Not social media, not news outlets trying for a story, but from the team who seemed so happy to pack up his stuff and leave him on the curb.
A lot of blaming, of swearing and name calling came first. Accusations of further betrayal, of running away and other ridiculous things.
Then he played his first game with his new team, his husband and the silence came back.
Then they kept winning, even beating his old team.
Then one by one, like falling statues the messages turned to empty apologies, pleading to reconsider his place next season and admissions of throat crushing guilt.
Shane stared at the unopened messages and found himself gripping the phone so hard his knuckles were turning white.
"Shane." Ilyas gentle voice floated past his ears and a hand came into view, trying to pull the device from his grip. "моя любовь, you do not need to look now."
Shane shook his head defiantly, the tears he fought to keep back spilt over.
"They only want me for their own gain." Shane gasped out, voice cracking. "They wanted nothing to do with me until they saw that I could still win without them."
Ilya more forcefully pulled the phone away and knelt in front of him. Hands holding the sides of Shanes face.
"They did not deserve you." Ilya said firmly but quietly, "you always deserved better."
Shane shuddered and a cut off whimper got stuck in his throat.
"Why couldn't I be enough?" Shane asked finally, the question which forever burned in his mind.
Shane loved the Ottawa team, loved to play with his Husband, see them be so openly caring and a family.
However, the thought that Montreal was like this with eachother, just not him after a while, it was a ignition to self hatred. He was only good when he was useful.
When he wasn't worth his usefulness, they were quick to close ranks.
The sobbing which rolled from his chest hurt, he hadn't let himself cry over this since he walked out of the locker room that day. He'd vowed no one else would be worth his tears.
Making the choice for himself had felt reclaiming. Pulling back control on what was his life and no one else's.
The loss was a blow, for weeks he'd stared at the roof of his bedroom and wondered if he'd made the right call.
He spent the first few training with his new team kept to himself. Slowly interacting with people when they started the conversation but never speaking further then needed.
Then without thinking he'd made a sarcastic comment back to a joke Bood had made and he felt like a deer in the headlights.
The whole team stared before laughing horrendously loud.
Shane didn't want to admit he had tears in his eyes driving home with Ilya that day.
To admit slowly becoming the true and open version of himself was so terrifyingly amazing. That he'd even considered for a moment dimming himself more to bend for the will of a team who clearly hated him.
Now though, as he saw the empty apologies trickling in, the self worth he'd worked on building back up felt shaken.
"Shane." Ilya tried again, gripping his neck softly now and making him look up, "your worth is not because of skill."
Shane's lip wobbled again.
"I love you, the team loves you, because you are you, yes?" Ilya stated, wiping the tears away with his thumbs. "Come now, we go to bed. All better in morning."
Shane let himself fall into the warmth of Ilyas comfort, to curl into his Husbands embrace and steady himself to the mans heartbeat.
The gentle thump lulling him into a sleepy state.
The next morning would not be better, Shane knew this.
However it would be manageable.
It would be possible.
He had found his peace, the shadows of past ghosts would not take it from him.
He'd done many things before, terrifying things. He would do it all again for Ilya.
For himself.
Because his younger self, wide-eyed and ashamed should not be forgotten. He'd do it all to protect others in that position.
He built his name, his place in the league and the memory it would leave.
It was his name.
He'd do it all, sometimes scared out of his mind. But he'd do it.
All of it.