Chapter Text
Shane had been holding his (illegal) beer for well over an hour by the time J.J. and Hayden crawled back into the booth with him. The rest of the team were on the dancefloor gyrating to indiscernible lyrics set to thumping bass or ensconced in dark corners with their tongues in the mouths of girls in tight dresses. It was late, at least for Shane, and he wanted to go home. Or in this case back to his hotel room.
But he couldn’t.
“Hollander,” J.J. begins, and Shane knew what was coming before he continued in his slurred, accented drawl, “that girl over there has been eye-fucking you for most of the evening.”
Shane didn’t know which girl it was. There were a lot of girls. There were always a lot of girls now, hovering at the edges of every team gathering, like packs of hungry hyenas eyeing up a herd. Though in fairness to the hyenas, a lot of the herd were also hungry. Maybe it was a hyena-on-hyena thing.
In any case, it was intense. Overwhelming.
Thankfully, it was so hot in the club that he was flushed anyway so no one could tell how uncomfortable the prospect of eye-fucking made him.
“I’m good here, thanks,” he said, lifting his beer. He took a sip, so that it was more convincing. The beer was now pretty warm which made it remarkably more unpleasant.
“What?” Hayden shouted, leaning closer to him. He wiggled a finger in his ear. “Fuck. I think I stood too close to the speaker, man.”
Hayden had been very vigorous on the dancefloor, bouncing around like he didn’t give a damn, zero co-ordination but plenty of energy. His skin was coated in a layer of sweat, the V of his tight grey T-shirt stained dark. He smelled strongly of the aftershave he’d put on after the game, which Shane had noted in the car, and now there was a distinct, acrid scent of BO on top of that.
If he thought he could get away with it, Shane would have pulled away but he had tucked himself into the furthest corner of the U-shaped booth and now had J.J. on the other side of him.
He breathed through his mouth and discretely – he thought – checked his watch.
“Hollander, you cannot leave yet,” J.J. laughed, putting an arm around him. He was also sweaty. And warm. There was a time and a place for that, to Shane’s mind, and that was only in proximity to an ice-rink or a gym.
(A memory flashed through his mind, then, one of the traitorous ones. Ilya Rozanov between Shane’s spread legs, the bobbing of his head as his hot, wet mouth wrought the most spectacular orgasm from Shane’s body. Shane had been sweating then. For sure.)
Shane shook this memory off. Irrelevant. “Why? What are they going to do to us?”
Now in his third month with the Metros, Shane had been hoping that the hazing would ease off. Apparently, their veteran captain, Anderson, had long been a big fan of the ritual humiliation of rookies and fully encouraged it, despite the NHL being generally against such practices.
Some had been the kind of thing he’d experienced in Juniors – his stuff being tampered with in the locker room, lugging around the vets bags, that sort of thing – but there had been a few more… creative rituals thrown in. Things that were clearly cooked up, spur of the moment. Weston had found a prostitute in his hotel room one time and had to give her all the cash he had on him to get rid of her. And Sharp had found a snake in his bed in Florida. They’d heard his screams all the way down the floor of their hotel and a polaroid photo of him, standing his underwear in the hall, white-faced with panic, was now taped to the whiteboard in the locker room.
Everyone kept warning him – and the other four rookies who had been drafted as part of the Metros big rebuild – that there would be more to come.
Suffice to say, Shane was on edge. More than usual.
“À soir? Nothing.” He grinned. J.J. gone through the rookie hazing when he’d joined the team three years ago. As had Hayden. They both assured him it was survivable and it would end. Eventually. “But it’s a poor show if you leave before, crisse,” J.J. looked at his watch with surprise, “is it midnight already?”
Midnight after a game where Shane had been on the ice for twenty minutes, which was the longest he’d been on the ice since he’d joined the team. He’d had two goals and an assist, which was decent – and kept him ahead of Rozanov in points, just – but he’d been checked hard in the second period and the entire left side of his body hurt. Just bruising, and he’d had worse, but what he’d really have liked was to take some anti-inflammatories and get nine hours of sleep in the too-soft hotel bed.
“You can leave at 1am,” J.J. decided, slapping him on the shoulder. “Let’s get you something stronger. And then maybe get you laid. One of these girls will definitely suck you off if you want.”
Shane started to protest, but J.J. was off, crawling over the booth – his shoes touching the leather, which made Shane wince – and heading to the bar.
“He knows we have bottle service, right?” Hayden said loudly, watching J.J. leave with a furrowed brow.
Sure enough, one of the women who had been servicing the VIP area came over to ask if they needed anything. Shane had said a polite ‘no thank you’ to her each of the dozen times she’d checked on him that evening but this time ordered a rum and diet coke, which his dad sometimes drank, which he didn’t absolutely hate.
“I’ll get the same. But not diet. Regular coke, please.” He gave the waitress a big appreciative smile, which she returned, her dark eyes scanning Hayden from the top of his head, and down again. She made a note in her tablet and told them she’d be right back with their drinks.
Hayden leaned back towards Shane. “Not as hot as Jackie,” he said conspiratorially.
*
Shane shared a cab back to the hotel with J.J., Hayden and one of the older vets, Hammy, who had a sloppy backhand and was, to Shane’s mind, about a year or two out from retirement at the grand old age of thirty-three. They were all similarly drunk and handsy, the way guys in teams often got handsy at the end of the night, all Love you, man and You’re my brother, dude and I would kill for you, swear I would so he put them in the back and got the driver’s permission to sit in the front.
He closed his eyes, grateful for the white noise of tires on asphalt and the low volume of the radio. He ignored the whispers and snickering going on behind him.
Until.
A thick hand with too many broken-and-healed fingers clasped his shoulder. “You ever done karaoke, Hollander?”
“Hell no,” Shane said promptly.
Hammy snickered. “Shame.”
Suspicious, Shane met Hayden’s eyes in the rear-view mirror. Of all the team, Hayden Pike had been the most welcoming to Shane. Only a couple of years older, Hayden had grown up in Ontario too and he’d apparently been following Shane’s career since he was scouted. They’d been put on the same line together and it was working out well.
Hayden waggled his eyebrows at Shane. Knowingly.
Fuck.
*
The following day, after a refreshing afternoon nap on returning home, Shane reluctantly messaged the rookie chat group that he was otherwise silent on. The rest of the rookies had never exactly warmed to him, and he returned the favor by mostly ignoring them, but he wasn’t a total asshole. He knew he had info he had to share.
Hollander: Head’s up. Next hazing is probably going to be karaoke.
Weston: fuck off hollander
Tireni: Hell yes I love karaoke!!!!
Weston: U fucking would. Love having a mic in ur face.
Sharp: Lamb was going on about music last night in a fucking weird way. He wanted to know if I knew many Celine Dion songs
Weston: fuck off
Tireni: I’m not down for singing Celine Dion
Weston: U think they’ll choose the songs for us?
Sharp: and they’ll be fucking girl songs.
Tireni: Like what?
Sharp: I don’t know. Like Celine fucking Dion!!!!!!
Antonoff: I’m on it.
Weston: On what?
Tireni: Yeah, on what, you mysterious Ruski bastard?
Antonoff: For the last fucking time, my grandfather was Bulgarian.
Tireni: Buddy, that’s a made-up country.
*
They were on a coach to Toronto when Shane’s phone lit up with a text. And then another. And another.
He glanced over, saw it was from the group rookie chat, and was prepared to ignore it like always except in front of him Weston, who had spent most of the coach journey heaving into a paper bag due to ‘travel sickness’ that smelled a lot like stale alcohol, climbed up into his seat and gave Shane a sneer over the headrest.
He picked his cell up.
Antonoff: I have info.
Antonoff: On karaoke.
Antonoff: We need to meet.
Weston: Where? When?
Tireni: At the hotel.
Sharp: 9pm? Hotel lobby.
Antonoff: 👍
Weston: 👍
Tireni: 👍
Sharp: Earth to the robot?
Sharp: Hollander?
Weston: Hollander get out of ur fucking zen palace you princess and reply
Hollander: 👍
*
Shane hadn’t ignored the problem of karaoke. He was a solution-orientated guy, after all. He did his best thinking when he was running so he’d eschewed Hayden’s invitation to join him at the gym after they got back and took himself off for a run on the mountain.
When he returned, Shane had a plan of attack.
The first was that he downloaded the entirety of Celine Dion’s back catalogue. He was familiar with some of her music, of course, because he was Canadian and she was a national treasure, but mostly because his mom had driven him cross-country to all his hockey games and they’d had precisely five CDs on rotation in the family VW since the mid-90s. Which were: Alanis Morisette’s Jagged Little Pill, The Best of Celine Dion, a 100 Best 80s Songs album, Red Hot Chili Peppers Californication and The Best of Whitney Houston. These five albums seemed to serve all of his mother’s moods equally.
The second thing he’d done was research karaoke itself, whilst listening to Celine Dion, specifically the 1996 classic album, Falling into You. There’d been a party, back when he was in juniors, where Guy Shriver had a karaoke machine in his parents’ basement and Shane had heard enough wailing from the top of the stairs not to venture down. Instead, he’d spent the night up in Guy’s bedroom playing with the family dog. And Jessica had been there, too, actually, though she’d been less interested in the dog.
So he got the principle of karaoke – mic, screen with lyrics, backing track, singing – but what he had to work his head around was winning at karaoke. Specifically in the context of hazing. Obviously, the objective was humiliation. He got that. But Shane wanted to avoid abject humiliation. He wanted to appear a good sport. He wanted to be slapped on the back the way he was slapped on the back after a goal. He didn’t want to choke.
He was very much afraid that if he got up on a stage to sing in front of his twenty-plus teammates, he was going to choke. Singing along in a car to his mom’s music was one thing. Karaoke was wildly out of Shane’s comfort zone.
He needed to get comfortable with the concept. Fast. Which meant he needed to both study the medium and also practice it.
He placed an order for a home karaoke machine with expedited delivery, along with a selection of karaoke DVDs. Everything would arrive whilst he was in Toronto. He thought it unlikely they’d spring karaoke on them whilst they were there – it was an afternoon game and ops had already issued their travel arrangements. They’d get in the evening before, curfew would be in place, and then they’d return home straight after the game. Ergo, no time for karaoke.
Shane reckoned he had a couple of days, at least.
*
Antonoff was already there when Shane got to the lobby. He was wearing – as Shane was – his Metro’s sweats and hoodie and was slumped on one of the uncomfortable couches, his laptop balanced on his knees.
“Hey,” Shane greeted him, taking a seat opposite.
He was acknowledged with a pair of raised rusty-red eyebrows which contrasted strongly with his bleached hair. The bleach had been another hazing prank – peroxide mixed in with his shampoo in the locker room showers. He’d taken it well, though it had happened the day before his mom had flown down to watch a game and she had not been happy.
Antonoff was a man of few words, which Shane appreciated. They sometimes sat next to each other on the plane in companionable silence. Of all the rookies, he was the one Shane could tolerate the most. Telegraphed every pass, though.
Tireni arrived next. He was wearing neon green.
“You look like a highlighter,” Shane said without thinking, as his fellow rookie threw himself down next to him on the couch.
“That is a very on brand response from you,” said Antonoff thoughtfully.
“Fuck off,” was Shane’s response, mostly because he didn’t know if he was being insulted or not. He probably was.
Tireni shrugged easily. “I look good in green.”
Though the color was burning his eyes, Shane couldn’t deny it. But then with Tireni’s dark skin and model-handsome face, most colors looked good on him. That wasn’t a gay thing to think, Shane assured himself, as his eyes lingered on Tireni’s mouth. The receptionist who’d checked them in had been a woman and he’d thought she’d had nice curly hair.
Weston and Sharp arrived together, arguing about a movie they had watched on the plane, and they squeezed in next to Antonoff, both very deliberately not looking at Shane.
“Okay. Why are we here?” Shane asked, now that they had a quorum.
Antonoff sat forward and placed his laptop on the table so they could all see it. There was a video already loaded. With a bit of a dramatic flourish, he hit ‘play’.
*
After, they all sat back as one.
Weston licked his lips. “How… did you get this?”
“I messaged Baron.” Baron was Antonoff’s older brother. He’d been one of the assistant coaches for the Metro’s until last year, when he moved to the Kings. “He sent it to me. Apparently, this was played at the Christmas party that year.”
Everyone’s mouths dropped open. Shane, mostly, because at the very least he’d thought the humiliation would be a one-off thing. Not, you know, filmed for posterity and repeated in front of a presumably larger audience. He was pretty sure the GM attended the Christmas party.
Someone had put some effort into the video. There’d been a backing track.
“Wow,” Weston breathed, which encapsulated everyone’s feelings.
“So, it’s at Le Mic,” Antonoff continued as once again they all lapsed into silence. “I called them, pretending to be one of the ops team. They’ve booked it out, week on Friday, after the game against Tampa.”
Shane’s shoulders hunched. Now there was a timeframe, this was getting real. “Fuck.”
“You know, if you don’t cut it in the NHL, P.I. work is definitely on the cards,” was Sharp’s view. He was looking at Antonoff in a new light.
“Yeah, appreciate the effort, man,” Shane said vaguely, because Antonoff had done them a good turn.
For some reason, this perfectly mild compliment made Sharp snort derisively and give Shane kind of a shitty look. Shane didn’t know why – had he not sounded genuine? – but he decided he wasn’t going to ask.
Instead, he stared at the now-closed laptop, as if he could see into the video. Putting aside the scale of humiliation he had just witnessed, there was another layer here. None of those rookies were currently on the Metros roster. A detail that Shane felt compelled to point out, and four pairs of wide, hostile eyes turned to him.
“Why would you say that?” Weston groaned.
Sharp’s head fell back against the couch. “Are you suggesting a poor karaoke performance is going to be career limiting? Of course you are. Fuck you, Hollander, you know even if you projectile vomited no one is going to eject you from the team.”
“Fucking hell, guys, it’s just karaoke,” Tireni said blithely, though his voice was a touch too high pitched to be genuine. “We’ll just get drunk and forget about it. No big deal.”
*
Shane, master of compartmentalization, scored another two goals and had one assist against Toronto, his mind blissfully clear of any worries about their future hazing.
And then he spent the four-hour coach ride back listening to Celine Dion in a vaguely fugue-like state.
Every so often, a scene from the video would pop into his head. Just manifest there, like a virus.
Stuart Donahue, now fourth-line forward for the Kings, white as a sheet, projectile vomiting as the instrumental chorus from Total Eclipse of the Heart played out in the background.
Mateo Garcia, third-line, Penguins, stumbling through The Lion Sleeps Tonight and then being forced to do the high bit four more times until his voice cracked.
Charlie Spring, who had fucking left the NHL, singing nothing, just frozen whilst the lyrics to Close to You scrolled on the screen and the team jeered at him.
This – this – is Shane’s nightmare.
Well. One of them.
*
He told his mom, whilst he was unpacking the karaoke machine from its irritating layers of polystyrene. He was going to have to vacuum after this. The little white bits were getting everywhere and they made his skin crawl.
Yuna Hollander was a ferocious, loving mother, the fuel to Shane’s professional career, and a Microsoft Office wizard. She was also gregarious and confident in any setting and, whilst understanding of Shane’s shortcomings in this area, believed he could overcome anything if he put his mind to it.
“But you have a beautiful voice!” she laughed.
Shane rolled his eyes. Moms. “That is not the point.”
In the background, a playlist of Shane’s making was cycling through the songs he thought were most likely to feature in this karaoke hell night. After the video, he’d expanded it from Celine Dion to other major female singers known for their romantic power ballads. He’d also started to listen to the radio when he could, keeping a notebook to jot down songs that might be worth a re-listen.
“Sweetheart. I know you don’t like that kind of attention. But it’ll be a minute, maybe two, of discomfort. And you’ll be in the companionship of the other rookies. Perhaps see this as a bonding opportunity.”
Shane gave his cell phone, balanced on his coffee table, a revolted look. He didn’t want to bond with his fellow rookies. For one thing they didn’t really like him. For another, they had nothing in common except hockey – which would have been fine, obviously, but none of them were remotely in his league and knew it and that always caused problems. The only person who was played for another team—
Nope. Not thinking about that.
“Sure, mom, will do,” Shane said, because he had learned that the quickest way to get his mother off his back was to agree with her.
Yuna sighed. Shane heard his dad’s voice, then, calling for her the way he had done Shane’s entire childhood, a joking, Honey, I’m home!, that had become serious. He must have just got back from work.
Used to this, Shane listened to his mother explain the situation and then was treated to the fumbling handoff from Yuna to David Hollander, with her instruction to say something reassuring.
“He projectile vomited?” came his father’s gleeful voice.
“David!”
“Literally everywhere. Pretty sure he hit people in the audience,” Shane said morosely.
“Do you have the video?”
The phone was snatched back. “That’s enough. Both of you.” She sighed. “I have some family news, if you want to hear about it.”
Shane’s interest in his extended family was close to zero – which was about the same as his mom’s, but she at least pretended by sharing information with him like she was passing a hot potato. His mom had an older brother (‘feckless’) and sister (‘flaky’) and consequently Shane had various cousins spread out across Canada, the US and Japan, most of whom he’d not met. His mom was kept in the loop about them through an email chain that went back decades and a once-a-month phone-call from her aunt in Tokyo. “Go on then.”
“Kiko got into George Brown.”
“Oh yeah?” Kiko was his uncle’s youngest daughter. Shane had met her twice, once a couple of years ago. She hadn’t been that interested in hockey. Or Shane for that matter. “Good for her. Remind me what she’s studying again?”
“Oh, goodness, Shane, I don’t remember that. I think it’s something to do with children. David?”
His dad’s voice came from the background, “Early childhood education!”
“Oh, yes, that,” said his mom.
Shane couldn’t think of anything more boring.
*
Shane set the karaoke machine up in his living room.
It was a blocky little unit, the most compact he could find, with about eight-hundred buttons and a little screen where the lyrics would play. It had also come with a number of unnecessary atmospheric features – red, blue, green and white lights that flashed at different tempos according to the music. It had been a shock when he’d first turned it on – massively distracting, and stressful – but thankfully there was an off switch, which he engaged now.
He’d set it up so it could mirror the screen contents on his TV and, for his first try, had loaded up one of his mom’s favorite Alanis Morissette songs that she had liked to play when he had lost games.
Shane had also set up his old camcorder by the TV, turned so that it was facing his couch. He made sure the viewfinder could take in the couch he was sitting on, pressed ‘record’ and then scurried back to take his position. The mic – weirdly bedazzled, which he had not noticed in the product description – felt heavy in his hand. He could do this.
He hit play and, safe in the cocoon of his apartment, the drapes closed and his door locked, announced, “Attempt number one.”
As with all practice runs, Shane expected there would be more than one.
The music started, a familiar, loose, mid-tempo beat but almost immediately the words ‘oooh oooh’ appeared on his TV screen, which Shane had forgotten about. He said them, croakily, a beat too late, wincing.
So, immediate learning here, needed to hear the song again before he sang it.
When the real lyrics kicked in, Shane did a little better, his memory returning more concretely – and it was funny because as a kid he hadn’t really got the song, or why his mom thought it was appropriate for devastating losses – but as an adult with a little more critical thinking he could see she had been trying to impart, musically, a lesson which she often verbalized.
Why she thought this would work on teenage Shane, he had no idea. It barely worked now. What the fuck did walking naked through your house have to do with anything?
Second learning – he needed to do some warm-ups. He didn’t typically raise his voice much and singing used muscles just the way skating did. Muscles that Shane did not often flex. He made a mental note to look up vocal warmups on YouTube.
Third – water. This song was four minutes long. By the time he was done, making his way through Alanis’s weird recommendations for personal growth, his throat felt like a desert, and he hurried to glug back a glass of water.
Shane reviewed the tape of his first attempt with, well, a grimace. At least when he watched tape of his games, it was at a distance. He could improve on the quality of the singing, he thought, with at least some familiarity with the song and by warming-up and properly lubricating his throat. But his face needed some work.
As always.
Why, for the love of God, did he look like he was in pain?
Was this really the face he wore when he was concentrating?
He slumped back on the couch and reached for his laptop. He’d researched quite a few YouTube compilations of karaoke and all the good performances – regardless of whether they were good singers or not – all seemed to involve the kind of expressiveness that Shane knew in his gut he would not be able to replicate. Dramatic turns to the audience. Acting out scenes. Looking like they were enjoying themselves.
He chewed his bottom lip. He maybe needed to reset his expectations on what he was going to achieve here. Perhaps he wasn’t going to win at karaoke. Perhaps he just needed to survive.
Jumping up, Shane placed his camcorder back in position and started recording again. “Attempt two,” he announced walking back to the couch. Maybe he’d try standing up this time as well. Give his lungs some room to do their thing.
*
The evening of karaoke night arrived, which the team still hadn’t told them about though they sure as hell weren’t being subtle, sending sideways glances to the rookies and snickering, whispering to each other and then barking with laughter. Shane had definitely heard Canada’s greatest songstress mentioned once or twice.
Instead, the rookies were corralled first to Murph’s for drinks, a fairly normal pastime after a Friday game. They’d won 3-2. It had been Shane’s first hattrick, which was the excuse apparently to explain the quantity of drink that was being bought.
“They’re trying to get us drunk,” Sharp surmised as another pitcher of beer was plonked down on the table in front of them with a request from Digger to drink up, boys.
“No shit, Sherlock,” Weston replied, pouring himself a glass. Both Tireni and Weston were going hard on the booze.
“Guys, I’m not sure that’s a good idea.” Shane frowned. “At least drink some water or something. You’re going to be all over the place.”
Weston rolled his eyes. “Fucking killjoy.”
Shane withheld a sigh.
“I thought you liked karaoke,” Sharp said to Tireni. Like Shane, Sharp was holding back on the drink, though he didn’t think Sharp would appreciate him saying that. Under the table, his leg was bouncing up and down.
Tireni knocked back half his glass and then wiped the foam from his upper lip with his thumb, a gesture that gave Shane a strange, fluttery sensation in his stomach and couldn’t look away from. “On my terms.” He leaned forward, though no one was paying the rookies any mind, “I’m not singing no girlie shit.”
“Should have got my arm broken as well,” Weston muttered.
Antonoff had been injured in the game, the fucker, and so had been sent home to recover. He’d sent them all a ‘good luck’ message in the group chat which, unaccompanied by any emoji, still read smug as shit.
*
Le Mic was having some refurbishment done and had apparently hired it out to the team at a cheap rate. Which was why Shane was dubiously studying the frayed wires hanging down from the ceiling in reception whilst they all signed in. “Does this look up to code to you?” he asked Sharp, who gave him an incredulous look.
“Is that what you’re thinking about?” Sharp narrowed his eyes. “You know, you’ve been weirdly chill. Don’t tell me they’re excusing you from this one as well?”
Shane frowned. “What do you mean—"
“I wanna know what love isssss!” Tireni boomed from behind them, drowning out Shane’s train of thought and sending a ripple of amusement through the assembled team.
The member of staff looked up from his screen and pointed at Tireni with his pen. “Is he drunk?”
About fifteen members of the team had joined them for this humiliation and Shane had been piled into a van hired for the occasion. He’d been next to Tireni in the back. He wasn’t just drunk. He was fucked.
Not as fucked as Weston, though, who had pissed himself and passed out in Murph’s. He’d had to be taken home by Stonner. In the grand scheme of things, Shane suspected publicly pissing yourself was probably more humiliating than karaoke.
“Nah, man,” said Hammy, who was holding Tireni up, “just really excited.”
There was a brief stare-down before the member of staff caved, clearly deciding it was above his pay grade to contest the inebriated state of a six-foot hockey player. “Yeah, it’s your deposit on the line if he pukes all over our equipment.”
“We’re good for it,” Anderson said, smiling, all uber-white fake teeth. To make the point, he handed the guy a hundred. “Thanks for your support.”
Shrugging, the guy took the money. “Okay, Stacey, behind the bar, will be your server for the evening.” Stacey, violently chewing gum, was eyeing up the crowd of hockey players avariciously. She had a very low-cut top on and her breasts were disconcertingly smooth, round globes. “Everything that’s behind the bar and mixers is included. Everything in the big refrigerator is extra. Pizzas are on their way. And Elvis, which is our largest room, is set up for you. It’s the only room that’s working so the others are locked. The fire exit is sign-posted.”
Obviously, everyone went to the bar first.
Except Shane. Shane headed down to the room. He needed to get a feel for the lay of the land, do some visualization exercises. Get his head in the game.
It wasn’t a big room, which was good. The lighting was a weird blue color but quite dim, which kind of made it feel like a spaceship. There were a couple of padded benches and some bucket chairs but if everyone who’d come with them crammed in here, a few would have to stand.
It would probably get quite warm. Shane wasn’t absolutely certain the rattling AC was up to much.
The stage was big enough for four or five people and behind the stage there was a massive screen with ‘Welcome Montreal Metros!’ written in a blue script font. They’d put the old design of the logo on there, which probably no one would notice but Shane.
Taking a deep breath, Shane stood on the stage and, right up until that moment, he’d been fine. He’d practiced a whole host of likely songs. Learned a few more. He’d worked on his facial expressions, finding a kind of fixed, bland smile that didn’t look like he was constipated.
But the moment he took that single step up onto the stage, and the four little spotlights were on him, his knees went funny.
Maybe he should have broken something.
*
“Gonna do you a solid, buddy,” Hayden yelled in Shane’s ear two hours later, before pressing something into his hand and then disappearing off.
Shane had now had two vodka tonics. Which he’d hated. He’d also sat through two different renditions of Journey’s Don’t Stop Believing and AC/DC’s You Shook Me All Night Long. All three of which paled in comparison to the Best Of karaoke complications he’d found on YouTube but given they’d been performed by the Captain and his As, Shane had been obliged to look impressed and applaud. He’d ducked out of Hammy’s Sweet Caroline because by this point the room had got so hot he was sweating and he had retreated to the bar with quite a few of the others.
For a moment, he had no idea what Hayden had given him. His initial thought that maybe it was a little baggie of drugs – which was surprising; he didn’t think Hayden was into that. His brain ran through the various ways he could respond. A polite ‘thank you’? The last time he’d been offered drugs – in the bathroom at a club in New York – he’d faked a stomach upset and hid in the cubicle until everyone had left.
But it turned out it was simply a folded piece of paper with a scrawled list on it.
Unfolding it, he read the first line, Weston - Girls Just Wanna Have fun.
“Oh my God,” Shane said, before turning around and grabbing hold of Sharp who was leaning against the wall, holding on to his beer for dear life. “Bathrooms. Now.”
“Good timing,” was Sharp’s response. “Pretty sure Tireni’s already there.”
*
The pulsing beat to Queen’s Don’t Stop Me Now added a real something something to the sound of Tireni puking up four pitchers of beer and the entire pizza he had hoovered.
Any lingering Thoughts Shane might have been having about Tireni were rapidly dissipating. Which was good, obviously. Shane really only had enough mental capacity to have lingering Thoughts about one other NHL player and that was frankly far too many Thoughts already.
Sharp unraveled the sheet of paper Hayden had snuck Shane and tugged at his bottom lip as he read. “Okay, Tireni, you’re down for Mariah Carey.”
Tireni groaned.
Shane had studied Mariah Carey, of course. She fit the parameters of the Metros classification of ‘embarrassing girlie songs’ so he’d memorized her more famous ones, including that Christmas song. His mom always groaned when it came on the radio.
“Which one?” came a plaintive voice.
“You’ll Always Be My Baby?” Sharp asked, looking towards the stall door with a perplexed look. “You know it?”
“No fucking idea, man.”
Shane did. Of course. It had an irritating non-verbal intro. He really didn’t like those.
“Fuck,” whimpered Tireni. “What did you get?”
“Fucking Celine Dion of course. Power of Love.”
And Shane knew that one as well. It was a tough one though; he doubted Sharp had the range.
Sharp pondered the list. “Maybe I could swap with Weston, since he’s not here. He got Cyndi Lauper. That’s not too bad.”
Everyone, Shane thought, knew that one. He’d even practiced that one.
“What did Hollander get?”
“Fucking Beyonce.” Sharp’s grey eyes were strangely accusatory, looking at Shane now as if Shane somehow wasn’t part of the conversation. “That is so unfair.”
From the toilet cubicle came a weak voice, “Not… All the Single Ladies?”
Shane had obviously heard of Beyonce. He just hadn’t for one moment thought to include her in his copious research. She was, in a word, too cool.
But. He had come prepared with his headphones for just this reason. Leaning against the wall of the bathroom – recently redecorated a sort of butter yellow which didn’t feel very bathroom appropriate - he opened Spotify. Whilst Sharp and Tireni moaned about their songs, he stuck one earbud in his ear and loaded the song up.
It began with some sharp handclaps and percussion. “Oh, I know it,” Shane said with a sudden rush of relief, like he’d just mapped a pathway from the puck at the end of his stick to the goal.
Tireni flushed the toilet. “Of course, you fucking know it! Everyone knows it.”
“What a fucking surprise they gave you an easy one. You could easily ham that up.” Sharp amended, looking Shane up and down, “Well. Someone who isn’t you could ham it up.”
The stall door opened and Tireni slumped in the doorway. He was ashen but distinctly more focused than before he’d thrown up. Was that how it worked? You could just puke out the alcohol? Shane had never drunk enough to throw up but from what he’d seen, he’d always thought throwing up meant the end of a night. “I am so good at that song.” He did a strange twisting motion with his hand which Sharp mirrored. Perplexingly, they both fell about laughing.
Ignoring them, Shane pressed his headphones closer to his ears. 'Cause if you like it, then you shoulda put a ring on it.
Sighing, Tireni splashed his face with water and mostly missed his face, splashing his luridly patterned shirt. “Mariah Carey. You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Why am I being punished?” Sharp demanded, waving the piece of paper around. “Is it because of that penalty last week?”
“Probably,” Shane said vaguely. He had left the team shorthanded frustratingly late in a close game. But he was also never where he was supposed to be and regularly fucked up their drills, too, so there were a myriad reasons.
“Meanwhile they treat you with fucking kid gloves, their fucking golden goose,” Sharp muttered, not quiet enough that Shane couldn’t hear him, which Shane suspected was the point.
*
It was gone midnight by the time the rookies were up. Anderson summoned the whole team into Elvis, which was now, conservatively, the temperature of the core of the earth. Everyone was sweating. Everyone was drunk. Tireni had managed to top himself back up again and even Sharp had succumbed to the lure of tequila shots.
Shane had spent most of his time ducking into the bathroom to listen to Beyonce. Not a pastime he’d ever considered before.
“Now, you fuckers, shut up!” Anderson roared, his voice cutting through the boisterous sound of the Metros at their rowdiest. “It’s time for the highlight of the night. Tonight, we will be treated to the musical skills of our rookies!”
There was a round of vigorous, jeering applause.
The remaining rookies had all taken a position against the wall. Two defensemen were guarding the doors as if they were going to make a run for it.
Shane, briefly, wondered if they were going to also ask them to strip or something. He swallowed. His dick would probably recede into his body if they did.
“First up we have Not-So-Sharp singing Celine Dion’s classic The Power of Love!”
Tireni slapped Sharp on the shoulder. “Good luck, buddy,” he shouted over the roars of laughter. “Try not to puke.”
The next few minutes were, ostensibly, the most cringe-worthy few minutes of Shane’s life. And he was only watching. Sharp stumbled up to the stage, white and sweaty, and took the microphone he was handed. The music started straight away, as did Celine as there was no intro. She just got straight into it.
Sharp did not. For one thing, he didn’t seem to know where the screen was and when Anderson directed him to it, he did so with such force that the mic flew out of his hand and hit O’Neil. O’Neil then kicked it away so Sharp had to crawl on the floor to get it.
No sooner had this been righted and Sharp was back on stage, now blotchy red and sweaty, then the first attempt at actual singing was nothing more than a croak, followed by some garbled sounds that might have been words. His chest was heaving much too fast.
Anderson, who had taken a seat at the front, shouted, “Get on with it, you fucking pansy!” A sentiment that was echoed by many of the other men in the room.
Sharp wheezed some more, eyes blown wide.
“Is he… having a panic attack?” Shane whispered to Tireni.
He’d had one or two. When he was younger. So he recognized the signs.
Shane wasn’t the only one who was concerned. Hayden jumped up and climbed over a couple of people to join Sharp on stage. He draped an arm around him and grinned at the audience, leaned into the mic and then proceeded to absolutely murder Celine Dion. Passionately.
“Pike! Get off the stage!”
“You’ve had your turn!”
There was a chorus of boos, which Hayden took with absolutely zero shits given, spreading his arms wide to scream out the chorus.
The company seemed to help Sharp though, who was able to string together a couple of sentences before the song, mercifully came to an end.
“Well. That was… something,” Anderson said, looking pissed. He clipped Hayden on the back of the head as he dragged a wide-eyed Sharp off the stage and over to a corner where he slumped down in a heap.
Their Captain’s brown eyes swung around to find Tireni and Shane. They narrowed. “Tireni. Let’s see how you fare.”
Tireni knocked back the last of his drink and thrust the empty glass towards Shane. “I can fuckin’ do this,” he said. Or tried to say. Because what he actually came out with was, “’m can funni dwit.”
He was on stage for no longer than ten seconds. As soon as Mariah started up her nonsensical ‘do do doop dum’s, Tireni tensed, and then he collapsed in on himself and did a Donahue, throwing up all over himself.
And then stood there. Shell-shocked.
Groans rent the air, along with the rancid smell of bile. The guys manning the door immediately opened it as a handful of the team made their exit, gagging.
Anderson observed his rookie with a disgusted sneer. “For fuck’s sake, not again.”
“Sorry, cap,” Tireni hiccupped, the mic drooping his hand. A tear ran down his face.
Their captain pointed to the door. “Go clean yourself up.”
It was J.J. who stood up this time, wincing sympathetically. He helped Tireni down off the stage. “Come on, kid.”
Surely, surely, that was it?
“Hollander, you’re up! Just avoid the puddle.”
Dazed, Shane walked forward, vaguely aware of the sounds of protest from the team. He took the small step up onto the stage, carefully avoiding ‘the puddle’ of mostly liquid vomit. Looked like there had been sweetcorn on the pizza.
Shane’s knees quaked as he turned. Someone handed him the mic, which was heavier than the bejeweled one he had at home. The stage lights were blinding now and he could barely make out the audience, just dark, leering forms waving their arms about. The smell of sick permeated everything and was making him feel even more nauseous with every shallow breath he took.
A trickle of sweat crawled down the side of his face. He wiped it away with the hand holding the mic.
“Hollander will be performing a personal favorite of mine.” A hand gripped his shoulder. Anderson’s face was blotchy with alcohol. Shane hadn’t really ever noticed this before but his captain was really mean-looking. “Make sure you don’t butcher it, kid.”
The rest of Anderson’s intro speech was lost to Shane, as his ears started ringing alarmingly, his vision wavering. Even with the door open, it was so hot. He could feel every fibre of his clothes touching his body. The first thing he would do when this was over, when it was mercifully over, was get in a taxi and go home and take all his clothes off and wash forever.
Shane sucked in a breath as he visualized this. Yes. That was what he would do. When it was over, and it would be over, he would clean himself of this night, of this experience.
The percussive intro to the song started, he lifted his mic – forced himself to take a deep breath, to still his shaking hand – and opened his mouth—
And the room was plunged into an abrupt and silent, cocoon-like darkness.
“What the fuck?”
“Is that the power?”
“I can’t fucking see shit.”
“Where’s the fucking manager?”
A door slammed in the distance and then a loud, authoritative voice cut through the hub-bub. “Gents, I’m sorry, looks like the power’s gone out. We won’t be able to get an electrician out this time of night so I think we’ll need to call time on this evening. We’ll refund you, of course.”
Frozen on stage, Shane let out a noise. A tiny, hysterical giggle. But no one heard.