Chapter Text
Shane Hollander is being punished.
He doesn’t think this because he is currently sitting in his coach’s room waiting for his mother to come pick him up.
He thinks so because the room smells like gardenia, overwhelming and unnecessary. The scent makes his head split open, so he can’t help but think that it’s most certainly a punishment for his tantrum earlier today.
He likes his peewee coach.
The guy is firm, but not too loud. He is strict, but always fair. Although Shane doesn’t know how he feels about the man’s unusual tactics to enforce discipline among his players.
Shane likes flowers. They are pretty. He likes picking them for his mother. He likes organising them neatly when his Obaachan takes him to the temple with her.
He just doesn’t care for the smell. Especially the white ones. The white ones are the worst.
The smell is so awful that he considers telling his mother that he wants to switch teams, but that sounds dramatic and will probably brand him as even a bigger weirdo.
But it’s everywhere. The entire place smells like gardenia. Shane pinched his nose tightly the moment he stepped into the locker room.
The other kids laughed and made farting noises.
But he didn’t find it funny. Suddenly, he was nauseous and confused.
Shane was drowning. Shane felt like he couldn’t breathe.
He didn’t understand why everyone was laughing when he was in pain.
When Coach pulled him out of the locker room, Shane was relieved. But now he is stuck here, in this small office, where the smell is somehow even stronger.
So, yes. He is being punished. For being a pussy.
That’s what Dylan said.
Shane doesn’t know what it means. But he knows he doesn’t want to be one.
His mother arrives exactly 20 minutes after the coach calls her. Actually, according to his Snoopy watch, it’s 17 minutes. She must have driven past the speed limit. Shane wonders if he should tell his father about it.
“What happened?” She grabs him immediately, cupping his face and checking him for injuries.
“Can we go home?” Shane pleads, the words come out all choked and short. He doesn’t think he can hold his breath for any longer.
“Shane, honey, I need you to breathe,” Mom says frantically, pressing down on his shoulders. Shane shakes his head vehemently. “Shane. Breathe. In and out.”
Shane shakes his head again. “I can’t. I won’t. It smells bad.”
Mom says something in Japanese. Shane doesn’t know what that word means either. But he knows it is not a bad one like pussy, but it's not a good one either.
She takes him outside, far away from the rink and the terrible smell, until they reach the car. Then she makes him wait and goes back inside.
Shane waits all alone, taking big inhales, promising himself that he’ll never take fresh air for granted.
When mom comes back, they climb into the car and drive home. She doesn’t ask him what happened. Coach probably told her everything.
“Did I get kicked out of the team?” Shane asks.
“For what? Having an allergic reaction?” Mom scoffs.
“I’m not allergic to gardenia,” Shane says in confusion. “I just really, really don’t like the smell.”
“Well, they’re not going to understand that, so we have to tell them you’re allergic,” Mom points out.
“We have to lie?” Shane blinks.
“It’s not a lie,” Mom says carefully. “It’s just a different version of the truth.”
Oh.
Well, okay. That makes sense.
“You can go back to practice next week. I spoke to the management, and they will use a different surface cleaner next time, okay?”
Shane takes another deep breath, just to make sure the smell isn’t lingering anywhere near him. “Okay.”
They reach home in 20 minutes, which Shane approves of and therefore decides not to tell Dad about the speeding. Mostly because Mom bought him Nanaimo bars on the way.
“Why wasn’t anyone else bothered by the smell?” Shane asks during dinner. “Is it because I’m a weirdo?”
“Who told you that?” Mom narrows her eyes.
“People are different, Shaney.” Dad shrugs. “I guess that makes everyone a weirdo, eh?”
But everyone doesn’t get laughed at or get mean nicknames. Is Shane a special kind of weirdo? His grandparents always say that he’s special, but he’s not sure if this is the kind of special he wants to be.
“Your Dad is right,” Mom says after a moment. “People like and don’t like different things. Liam doesn’t like hockey, remember?”
Shane thinks of his cousin in Toronto and immediately pulls a face. “He is a weirdo.”
Both his parents laugh at that. Shane, pleased at their reaction, eats a mouthful of pasta.
“What if the locker room smells like that again?” Shane asks that night when his mother puts him to bed. His legs pleasantly ache from racing her across the pond after dinner. He won, of course. It earned him an extra Nanaimo.
“Then I will fix it for you again,” Mom says, like it’s simple.
“What if they laugh at me again?” Shane bites his lip. “Will you fix it too?”
Mom adjusts the blanket over him, tucking it tightly around his body until he is buried beneath it like a burrito. Shane smiles in relief at the pressure, giving her the tiniest nod of approval.
“Can I tell you a secret?” Mom asks.
Shane nods immediately. He likes secrets. Especially from his mother. She knows everything about everything.
“It doesn’t matter what they say or do,” she tells him. “The only thing that matters is what you do on the ice.”
“Score lots of goals?” Shane clarifies, since eleven-year-old boys do all kinds of things on the ice.
“Score lots of goals.” Mom nods with a grin. “The ice doesn’t care who you are, Shane. So, you go out there and give it your everything. Then nothing else matters.”
“You promise?” Shane whispers.
“I promise,” Mom tells him firmly. “If you’re good on the ice, they won’t care who you are off it.”
Well, that seems like a sensible strategy. He wonders why no coach has ever taught him that. Not for the first time, Shane wishes his mother were also his coach. Life will be so much easier then.
Although he must admit that life is fairly easy for him. Because Shane is good at hockey.
But it’s not enough.
Because Shane knows he is different, and not just because he really, really hates the smell of gardenia.
So, he comes up with a plan. A solid plan.
He goes back to the rink next weekend and scores four goals during the practice session. His coach pats him on the back. His teammates cheer so loudly that Shane wonders if it’s a prize or punishment.
But his mom was right.
If you’re good on the ice, they won’t care who you are off it.
So, here’s the plan.
Shane Hollander isn’t just going to be good. He is going to be great.
Shane’s mom is lovely. But she is not perfect.
She is, for instance, terrible in the kitchen. But that’s okay because his father is pretty good.
But neither of them can cook as well as his Obaachan.
Maybe that’s why Shane threw a fit when he found out she’s moving back to Yokohama. Something about getting old and wanting to be close to the beach or her dead husband.
“We have beaches in Ottawa,” Shane had argued. His Obaachan had laughed, as if he had said something incredibly funny.
Shane had cried so much that night. Then everyone moved on.
It helps that they speak on the phone. He even bullied his parents into buying him a mobile phone so he could call her directly. All his friends in middle school got phones so they could call their girlfriends. But Shane just wanted to call his Obaachan and tell her about whatever happened at the rink that evening. He knows she barely understands the hockey jargon, but she always listens intently and responds to his rants with ‘yes, very nice, my prince’.
It also helps that she visits every Christmas, even if she is a Buddhist. It especially helps when she cooks him all his favourites.
He loves her cooking, and she loves to cook.
Food is her hockey. The kitchen is her rink.
So, he finds himself in the kitchen during the holidays, while his father obsesses over decorating and his mother busies herself with planning the party for his midget hockey team.
Shane should probably help them with either of those things. But Dad likes to work alone, and Shane is pretty sure Mom has the whole thing handled. Obaachan asks him if he’s stressed about the Christmas party. It’s an odd thing to ask since most teenage boys look forward to parties. Maybe she believes he didn’t get invited or something.
Shane isn’t a loser.
He is quiet, yes. He is awkward, sure.
But he always gets invited. He is the best player on the team and the captain, after all.
So, of course, he gets invited to every single party. It’s just that nobody really cares if he actually turns up or not. Which is fine.
Obaachan makes him a snack to take with him, since it’s some kind of potluck thing, because apparently moms have ‘enough shit to plan’ during the holidays. Shane doesn’t mind. He’ll take any excuse to eat more of his Obaachan’s cooking. In fact, he insists that she makes his favourite. He just hopes his friends won’t get obsessed with it. Then he’ll have to share every time, and he’s not sure if he wants to do that.
“Hollander, what the fuck is that?”
“Wasabi peas!” Shane grins, popping one into his mouth. “It’s Japanese.”
It’s his favourite snack that Obaachan makes for him. It just might be his favourite snack ever.
He likes the noise it makes inside his mouth when he munches on it. He likes how it’s crunchy but doesn’t leave crumbs. The 4-6gs of protein per serving is a nice bonus.
“Fucking gross.” Jordan covers his nose. “Smells like rotten fish.”
Shane wonders how Jordan knows what rotten fish smell like, but before he can ask, the boy runs away, away from Shane and his snack box.
Shane ends up eating the entire box by himself, which isn’t as sad as it sounds. It’s honestly a delicious snack. Besides, his Obaachan would be heartbroken if he told her nobody liked it.
So, he doesn’t tell her what happened. But he doesn’t ask her to cook for him again either. Not anything he’ll have to take for practice. Not anything he’ll have to eat outside of the house.
When some of his teammates come over for dinner a couple of weeks later—because apparently team bonding is mandatory for hockey, ugh—Shane insists that they make normal food.
“What is this normal food?” Obaachan frowns.
“Like Canadian food,” Shane explains. “Dad can bring out the grill—”
“Ah,” Obaachan says, and then nods. “You want burned chicken. No stinky fish on the table.”
“Obaachan, I didn’t mean it like that—”
“It is okay, little prince. Your Kaachan is same at your age. No more sushi. No Shoyu. No Miso. No fun. Okay. Yes. I understand.”
“I’m sorry,” Shane says quietly.
Obaachan sighs softly and squeezes his face gently. “I know. I understand.”
“I do like Shoyu,” Shane mumbles, trying not to pout. “Maybe you can make some Yakitori and I can eat in the kitchen?”
Obaachan’s eyes soften at that, and she shakes her head. “No. No sneaky kitchen visit. You will not hide in your home, Shane. I will make Yakitori after your friends go. Then you can eat in front of TV. Like normal teenage boy. Okay?”
Shane gives her a kiss. “Okay.”
His friends come over shortly. They play hockey on his dad’s computer and talk about girls and then play more hockey in the pond out back. Shane enjoys some of it more than others.
Jorden ends up staying the night since both his parents are called in for emergency shifts at the hospital. Shane has to share his bed, his pyjamas and his books. He enjoys some of it more than the others, too.
After the boy had gone to sleep, Shane sneaks back downstairs and eats the Yakitori in front of the TV. He eats quietly, though, for reasons he doesn’t fully understand. For those same reasons, he knows he’ll brush his teeth twice tonight too.
“How do you eat that stuff? It literally burns my eyes.”
Shane almost drops the bowl. He puts it away quickly and wipes his fingers on a napkin before he turns around to find Jordan by the stairs. “I can go eat outside.”
“Nah, it’s your house.” Jordan shrugs and plops down on the couch next to him. He yawns loudly, which Shane finds a bit rude. He puts his feet up on the couch, which Shane finds even ruder. “Can’t sleep. New place and everything.”
“Right.” Shane nods. “Sorry.”
“Eh.” Jordan shrugs again. “How did you do it?”
“Eat spicy chicken?” Shane blinks.
“No, dude.” Jordan laughs, slapping him on the shoulder. It stings. But Shane doesn’t mind it much. Must be all the hockey. “When we raced outside earlier. How'd you get so much bite on your edges?"
“It’s not that hard,” Shane tells him truthfully.
“Fuck off.” Jordan slaps him again, but it’s not as hard. “Seriously. Your edge work is ridiculous, you know?”
The praise makes him cocky. Shane leans closer. “You wanna know my secret?”
“You have a secret?” Jordan blinks.
“I’ll tell you if you try one.” Shane grins, holding out a skewer.
Jordan stares at him in surprise and then bursts out laughing. “You are such an asshole, Hollander.”
Shane hums at that. “Sure. But I’m still an asshole with incredible edgework.”
“Fucking fine,” Jordan groans and carefully picks up a skewer. He blows gently on the chicken, as if it’s going to make it any less spicy. It’s cute. “You’re lucky you’re good at hockey, you know.”
Shane can’t stop grinning. “I know.”
Shane says his first slur at the age of 17.
He doesn’t mean to, and he certainly doesn’t want to. But he says it all the same. It’s kind of what guys do, both on and off the ice. He knows it’s bad. But surely, it’s not that bad if no one has ever called them out on it, right?
They were getting ready for their game against Team USA at the World Junior Hockey Tournament when someone brought up Clarkson. Shane immediately perks up at the name.
He knows Eric Clarkson—knows of him, at least. Shane makes it a point to keep an eye on the competition.
Clarkson. Ikonen. Stiller. Rozanov.
They’re all good players.
Shane doesn’t think they’re better than him. But he is not egotistical enough to think there is nothing he can learn from them either.
Rozanov, in particular, has an impressive backhand. Maybe he could reach out to the other boy before their game next week. They could trade stories and offer moral support. Yeah, that sounds like a good plan.
“Did you see Clarkson against Sweden?” Shane adds, leaning forward on the bench, pulling on his gear. “He was killing entries before they even got set up. Three takeaways in the neutral zone, plus he won, what, 70% of his draws? And that backhand feed in the second period—”
“Jesus Christ,” Tyler groans, loud enough for the whole locker room to hear. “You keeping a scrapbook on the guy?”
A couple of guys snicker. Shane feels the heat crawl up his neck.
He was just talking about hockey. Since when is it gay to talk about hockey?
Not that Shane is gay or anything. He has a girlfriend. Okay, they might be on a break right now since he told her he wanted to focus on the tournament. But the point is, he has a girlfriend.
“Fuck off, Tyler. I’m not a fag.” Shane rolls his eyes at the boy. "I'm just saying he played a hell of a game."
“You sound like you want to suck his dick, actually,” Cory butts in, because he is better at shoving his nose into other people’s business than putting the puck in the net.
“You sound like you know a lot about dick-sucking,” Shane chirps, and more guys laugh.
Cory flips him off, someone turns up at the music, and everybody moves on.
Shane scores a hat-trick against Team USA that night. Tyler grabs him by the face and presses a loud smooch to his helmet.
“Clarkson should be sucking your fucking dick, bro. What a beauty! We’re going to the finals, fuckers! We’re getting that gold fucking medal!”
It’s funny, Shane thinks, how cock-sucking is okay as long as you’re the one getting your cock sucked. It’s even funnier that it’s okay for a man to wrap his lips around your dick if you have a medal wrapped around your neck. Winners can get their cock-sucked, apparently.
Who comes up with these rules anyway? They are silly, although not at all surprising.
Because if you’re good on the ice, then the rest of it is irrelevant.
Shane laughs, shoves Tyler away, and celebrates with the rest of the team. But he thinks about the idle comment for the rest of the night.
He doesn’t think about how strong Clarkson’s grip had been when they shook hands after the game. He doesn’t think about how he has seven unread messages from Jessica. He doesn’t think about what he should tell Rozanov when he approaches him next week.
None of those things really matter at the end of the day. Only hockey does.
Shane played good hockey tonight. So, he knows everything is going to be fine.
Shane’s fingers itch for a pen.
One of those glittery ones Jade and Ruby use to draw him pictures of princesses or dragons or princesses riding dragons.
He should get one for next time. Hopefully, there will be a next time.
But for now, he carefully reaches out and traces the moles on Ilya’s back with his index finger, leaving an imaginary trail of glitter behind and drawing an invisible constellation on the man’s wide frame.
It takes an interesting shape, a crossbreed between a pineapple and a Zamboni.
He wants Ilya to wake up so they can name it together. He wants Ilya to sleep forever so Shane can play Pictionary on his back.
He wants Ilya. Fuck, he wants Ilya.
Shane almost chokes with the need to crawl on top of him and just take what he wants. But it’s five in the morning, and his alarm has just gone off, and Shane has a routine to follow. He has a plan to implement.
Sure, it’s off-season. They’re in his cottage.
No practice for weeks. No games for months.
But hockey is still there, always in the periphery.
It's the thing that brought them together. It's the thing that can tear them apart.
So, Shane needs to stick to the plan.
Because he wants Ilya. Fuck, he wants Ilya.
The plan is simple. The plan is the same as before. Because the plan always works.
If he’s good at hockey—if he’s great at hockey—then he’ll get to keep Ilya.
He’s always gotten to protect the rest of him, all the parts that should’ve been chipped away or ripped apart by now, because he’s Shane Hollander.
Ilya should not be an exception to the rule.
So, Shane curbs the greed in his veins and makes peace with a chaste kiss to the man’s bicep and heads out to grab his running shoes.
He follows the plan. It’s easy enough.
He’s been doing it all his life, after all.
He’s got this.
The thing about being rich is that you can get away with a lot of stuff.
Sure, some rich people use it to get away with tax fraud and rape allegations. Shane mostly uses his money to be a nuisance to the kitchen staff at whatever hotel he is staying in.
In his defense, he is a high-performance athlete.
But unfortunately for him, he is not staying at a hotel right now and his host—who is also a high-performance athlete—enjoys being an asshole.
“Hollander, you seriously cannot be afraid of bread!” Ilya says, looking affronted on behalf of all carbs everywhere.
“I’m not afraid of it!” Shane points out with a huff. “I just don’t like it.”
“It is okay, Hollander. I will still love you if you have diabetes,” Ilya tells him seriously.
“Fuck off.” Shane swats him away with the kitchen towel. “If you’re gonna be an asshole about it, I won’t stay over again.”
“You are bread-phobic. You are the asshole. Not me.”
“It is not even the healthy kind of bread, Ilya. It’s literally white bread.”
Ilya gasps in horror and presses the plastic bag of sliced bread to his face, peppering it with kisses. “Don’t listen to him. You are healthy. You are beautiful. You are loved.”
“You are ridiculous.” Shane rolls his eyes fondly and heats the tuna. “Should we eat outside or in front of the TV?”
They end up eating in front of the TV because Ilya insists on watching the Admirals game against the Guardians, mostly because he wants to see Scott Hunter get his ‘geriatric ass kicked’.
“He is playing poorly,” Shane observes in concern during the second period, picking at his broccoli.
“His ankle is still healing from that hit he took in Buffalo,” Ilya reminds him, folding a slice of bread in between two cheese slices, concocting some kind of monstrous sandwich of his own making. “Takes longer. I told you. He is basically fossil.”
He is not.
But Scott Hunter is indeed one of the older players in the league.
Hockey is a rewarding sport. But it is not forgiving.
Not to your knees. Not to your shoulders. Not to your back.
Shane knows he's in his prime. Everyone keeps telling him as much.
The guys joke that he doesn't age. They call him Baby Face, ruffle his hair, and ask if he's old enough to buy a beer. It's meant to get under his skin more than flatter him. He laughs anyway.
They think it's genetics. It isn't.
Every meal is deliberate. Every workout has a purpose. Every pound gained or lost is noticed before anyone else can notice it for him.
His numbers don't lie. His speed is still there. His recovery is faster than that of most of the younger guys.
So, whatever he's doing, it's working.
Ilya can make fun of him all he wants, but Shane’s approach is working.
Sure, Ilya lives on burgers, vodka and nicotine and still skates like the game's easy. But Ilya is a freak of nature.
Besides, guys like Ilya are allowed to be effortless. They're allowed an off night. An extra dessert. A little softness around the edges.
Shane has never believed he could afford that.
He has to be good. Better than good.
If he wants people to look past everything else—to see the player before they see the person—then there can be no weak spots.
Not in his game. Not in his body.
“I want dessert,” Ilya announces when the game is over and picks up his phone, opening UberEATS. “You will share with me?”
Scott Hunter lost.
The devastation on his face is palpable, even through the pixelated screen.
It feels terrifying. It feels inevitable.
Shane wants to stay the fuck away from it. Shane wants to run.
So, he slides to his knees and pulls Ilya’s shorts down. “Okay, let’s have dessert.”
Ilya is asleep.
He has been asleep for seven hours now. Shane has no idea how he does it.
Sure, Ilya usually struggles with his sleep more than Shane does. But Shane has noticed that Ilya has been sleeping a lot better lately.
Is it because they are free now?
Because they no longer have to hide their hearts underneath their gear?
Because they don't have to rehearse lies before every interview or pretend they're just friends when someone catches them laughing too long?
But if that’s the case, then why is it not working for Shane?
Does it mean he still doesn’t feel free? Does it mean he doesn't know how to stop hiding?
Does it mean he prefers to be a secret than to be safe?
Or is he just tired?
He glances at the clock. It’s 4.13 AM.
He has to drive to Montreal in a couple of hours. He is no longer benched and has his first practice with the team before their game against Los Angeles on Friday.
Yeah. Yeah, he’s probably just tired. Anyone would be after the last 48 hours.
It’s fine. It’s going to be fine.
Shane knew this day would come. Not like this. Of course not.
But he knew—he hoped—one day everyone would know the truth about him and Ilya.
Now everyone does, and it shouldn’t matter.
He is the greatest hockey player in the league—statistically, not just subjectively—and he’s won three cups for Montreal, and he’s broken more records than any player on the current roster.
He’s done everything that he’s set out to do. He’s done everything right.
So, it shouldn’t matter.
It shouldn’t matter that he’s in love with Ilya Rozanov.
It shouldn’t. It won’t. It can’t.
He is Shane Hollander. He is the Captain of the Montreal Voyageurs. He is a three-time Stanley Cup Champion.
He is going to be fine.
Because if you’re good on the ice, they won’t care who you are off it.