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Shane Hollander is gorgeous. It’s the first thing that Rose notices when he sits across from her. She’s seen him on a television screen countless times—playing hockey, and in interviews, and in ads, sweaty and half-naked and airbrushed to hell. She still has a poster of him hanging in her teenage bedroom at her parents’ house back in Michigan, his cheeks fuller and his haircut a little dorky and an intense look of concentration on his face. And those eyes.
Teenage Rose gave herself quite a few orgasms while fantasizing about Shane Hollander.
And yet, somehow, he is even more gorgeous in person, dressed for a casual night out. It’s almost unfair, really, how gorgeous he is.
But Rose isn’t a teenager anymore. She’s met—and been disappointed by—far too many of her teenage crushes at this point. Nowadays, she’s constantly surrounded by movie stars and models and all sorts of entertainers—the kind of people whose livelihoods rely on being gorgeous. So a handsome face alone isn’t enough to keep her attention. Even a face as handsome as Shane’s. Even accompanied by that body, broad and muscular and strong. A body built for strength, for speed, for function—so different from most of her male costars, whose bodies are built for the camera.
Even still, if a handsome face and a hot body were all Shane had to offer, Rose would have smiled and offered him some french fries and complimented his hockey and sent him on his way in relatively short order—like she has so many gorgeous men before him. But she isn’t doing that. Instead, she’s drawing out their conversation and figuring out the best way to exchange numbers and wondering how soon she can see him again.
Because Shane is more than just gorgeous. He’s charismatic. More than charismatic. Because Rose has met plenty of charismatic people. But there’s something deeper to Shane. Genuine. He pulls her in and keeps her attention and makes Rose feel like she’s the best version of herself. Makes Rose feel like Shane sees her—and likes what he sees.
There’s a sweetness to him that endears her immediately. Shane puts his phone away, and keeps attention on her face, and actually listens to what Rose says. Not only does he listen—he asks questions. And not just about her movies, though it’s flattering that he’s enough of a fan to know her deep cuts. But he also asks about her interests and her opinions and her family. And he doesn’t question Rose when she says she’s a fan of hockey, or try to trip her up with tricky questions in an attempt to prove that she isn’t really a fan, or mock her brothers’ hockey careers—though they haven’t seen even a drop of Shane’s success, with his two cups and his Olympic gold and his various individual trophies. Shane seems excited, even, to hear about John’s college career and Peter making a go of it in the minor league. (She doesn’t mention Paul, who stopped playing hockey in high school after he came out as gay. That isn’t a first-time-meeting kind of story.)
But as sweet as Shane is, he isn’t pure sweetness. He has an edge to him, too, peeking out from under his media-trained persona as he starts to relax around her. A dry humor that can bite, if he so chooses. She thinks he and Miles would get along like a house on fire—their senses of humor are similar. Rose finds herself laughing more than she expects.
Professional athletes usually aren’t funny, in her experience. Or maybe they just try too hard to impress her, and that puts Rose on her guard. Shane is definitely impressing her—but not because of how hard he’s trying. Because he’s being himself, and Shane Hollander is pretty damn impressive.
So sue her—Rose is a huge fan of hockey. And of Shane’s hockey, in particular. (And of the way he fills out his briefs in his Calvin Klein ads.)
Hours pass in a blink, and Le Tambour is starting to empty out, and they’re still talking, just the two of them. Rose feels like she could talk with Shane forever, and never run out of things to talk about. She’s never felt this sort of immediate connection with anyone before. Attraction and affection, both.
Her teenage crush, once a flickering candle flame, is growing into a wildfire. And Rose has no intention of dousing it anytime soon.
“Capitaine!” an unfamiliar voice calls, and a man approaches their table. He’s tall—maybe a few inches taller than Shane—and handsome, with light brown skin, and dark hair and eyes.
“Rose, this is my teammate, J.J. Dagenais. J.J., this is Rose Landry,” Shane introduces them.
“A pleasure,” J.J. says, and his tone is friendly but his gaze is intense. Sharp, almost. J.J. convinces them both to join an impromptu poker game, and as they gather round the table, Rose makes sure to nab the seat next to Shane.
As they get ready to play, Rose introduces Shane to a few of her X-Squad co-stars, and he compliments them on their various other roles. He wasn’t lying about watching a ton of movies—and not just Rose’s. Marissa gives her a subtle thumbs up where Shane hopefully doesn’t see.
Poker is fun enough. The table keeps the stakes relatively low, no more than a couple hundred for each pot, but that doesn’t stop Shane from treating it impossibly seriously. It’s charming, really, how competitive he is. How he doesn’t let her win. Just stares her down and calls her bluff. Like those dark eyes can see to the heart of her.
Rose enjoys the butterflies in her stomach. A little uncomfortable, but giddy with it.
The night would be perfect—except for J.J. He is gregarious and over-the-top and flirty. Flirty with everyone—men and women alike. And that’s all fine. What isn’t fine is the way he keeps looking at Rose and Shane, eyes dark and assessing. Judging, even, especially when Rose puts her hand on Shane’s thigh.
Protective? Definitely.
More than protective? Jealous? Perhaps.
Not blatant enough to comment on—but enough to be noticeable. A fly in the ointment.
By the time Shane ends the game with a straight flush, Rose is pretty sure that J.J. is in love with Shane. And more than sure that Shane has zero idea. Rose knows from Paul that hockey isn’t a welcoming space for gay—or bisexual—men. She feels sympathy for J.J., with his hopeless attraction and affection for his straight captain.
And Rose doesn’t always have the best gaydar, but she’s relatively confident in her assessment that Shane is straight. J.J. is handsome, physically affectionate with Shane, and clearly interested in him. Even if Shane somehow hasn’t clocked J.J.’s interest, surely J.J. would have made a move by now if Shane were at all interested in men. And surely J.J. would know if Shane were at all interested in men, given that they’ve been teammates for years.
But, as far as Rose can tell, Shane doesn’t look at J.J. with anything beyond friendship. Rose isn’t stumbling into some sort of beard situation here. So she’ll never say anything about J.J.’s feelings to Shane—but she also isn’t going to back away.
Rose already likes Shane too much for that.
*
After, Shane escorts Rose to the waiting black car and opens the door for her, positioning his body to block any paparazzi shots as she climbs inside. She offers him a ride home and he agrees, sliding into the backseat to sit next to her. Rose gives him her phone number, and he punches it in his phone, texting her immediately. His message just says: “Shane Hollander.” As if Rose might forget his name.
Shane keeps his hands in his lap during the drive. He doesn’t even try to kiss her when the car pulls up to his condo building. Rose puts her hand on his thigh, thick with muscle under his jeans, and he stills at her touch. It makes Rose feel powerful, the way Shane looks at her askance—as if for direction. He’s following her lead.
“I like you, Shane,” she tells him with her best smile. He smiles back, awkwardly endearing, and tells her that he likes her too. He doesn’t make a move to kiss her, but he also doesn’t move to leave, so Rose slides a hand into his glossy black hair and pulls his lips down to meet hers. He doesn’t resist—willingly moving as she directs him.
It’s sweet. A perfect first kiss, really.
“Call me,” Rose murmurs against his lips, and he nods. She smiles and gives him a playful push, and he opens the car door to slide out.
The next morning, Shane calls her and asks her if she’d like to get dinner together. “As a date,” he clarifies. Rose appreciates his directness. That he isn’t trying to play games. She repays it in kind.
“I’d love to go on a date with you, Shane,” she says.
“Thank you,” he says. And how can a guy so sexy also be so fucking cute? Then he asks: “Would you like to pick the restaurant, or would you rather I do it?”
“Surprise me,” Rose says.
After they hang up, Rose calls Miles. When he picks up on the third ring, she opens with: “I have a date with Shane Hollander!”
“Congrats?” Miles says, more question than anything. Rose guesses that Miles doesn’t know who Shane is, despite working in Montreal for a few weeks now, because her announcement deserves much more excitement than that. Miles confirms her guess when he asks: “Is he hot?”
Rose laughs. “The hottest.”
“Would I know him from anything?” Miles asks. Rose laughs again, because anyone who has spent any time at all in Montreal has seen Shane Hollander’s face. And much more than his face.
“The Calvin Klein billboard next to your apartment building,” Rose tells him. A beat passes. Two. Three.
“Shut up!” he yells, and Rose giggles. They meet for brunch, and Rose tells him everything.
“You have all the luck, you bitch,” he tells her, and she smiles with a shrug. “I can’t believe this. A model and an athlete? And I’ve seen the way he fills out his briefs! All that, and he practically falls into your lap. Does he happen to have a gay brother?”
“He’s an only child,” Rose says.
“Ugh, those biceps are lethal,” Miles tells her, turning his head to stare at the billboard of Shane Hollander across the street from the restaurant. This one is for Reebok. He’s wearing a tight white tanktop and short shorts, showing off his very impressive body. Miles might even be drooling, just a little. Rose doesn’t blame him.
Shane is quite the catch.
“You want to know the best part?” Rose asks him, in a whisper. Miles leans closer, raising an eyebrow. “He’s even hotter in person.”
“Oh, fuck you!” Miles says, and they laugh.
*
Rose’s shoot schedule is brutal, and Shane travels for half his games, but they manage to find time for a first date. And then a second. To maintain their privacy, they meet in reserved back rooms in high-end restaurants. In between, they call and text. They talk.
“I like you a lot,” Rose tells Shane during one of their near-nightly calls.
“I like you too,” Shane says, without hesitation. Rose smiles.
“Is this going anywhere?” she asks him.
“I… if you’d like it to?” Shane says, more question than answer.
“Yes,” Rose tells him. Things progress quickly from there. Rose calls her manager, who loops in her agent and PR firm and everyone else on her team who needs to know that Rose is officially dating Shane Hollander. Then Rose’s team reaches out to Shane’s team—including his manager, who happens to be his mother. They all put their heads together and come up with a plan.
Rose gives her parents a heads up a few hours before.
And then Rose goes to one of Shane’s games, wearing Shane’s jersey. As expected, they are swarmed by paparazzi and fans alike after they leave the arena together to go on their third date. This one in public.
The two of them start trending on social media that night. #rane. #shrose. #hollandry. By the next morning, they’re splashed all over the tabloid covers and a topic of discussion in sports and entertainment shows alike. Rose’s and Shane’s teams coordinate to manage the coverage. Anonymous sources “close to Rose” give a few statements. It’s chaos—but controlled chaos. Or, well, mostly controlled chaos.
Rose’s phone is ringing off the hook. What seems like every Canadian she’s ever worked with. And John and Peter.
And Paul.
“Rosie!” Paul sounds ecstatic when she picks up his call. “Or should I say, soon-to-be Mrs. Shane Hollander?”
“Don’t believe everything you read online, Paulie!” Rose says, deflecting a bit. Her older brothers can be a bit overprotective at times, and her thing with Shane is far too new to sic them on him. She is not going to let them scare Shane away.
“You wore his jersey to his game. And he seemed pretty happy about it,” Paul tells her. Rose sighs. Maybe she should have given her brothers a heads up before she and Shane soft launched their relationship last night. She figured her parents would pass on the message
She knows Shane must be getting similar calls from everyone he knows right now. They talked about it before they came up with this plan—how quickly things would change, once their relationship is public. She’ll ask him how he’s handling it when they meet up tonight.
“It’s early days,” Rose tells him.
Paul hums. “You’ve been crushing on him for years, though,” he says teasingly.
“You can’t tell him that!” Rose says. God, how embarrassing. She’ll have to take down and hide her Shane Hollander poster before he visits her parents’ home. And swear her brothers to silence. Somehow. Maybe through bribery. Or blackmail. Or a combination of the two.
Or maybe Rose won’t let her brothers meet Shane until the wedding. If they have a wedding. She’s getting a little ahead of herself.
“You’re bringing him to Thanksgiving, right?” Paul asks. He clearly wants the answer to be yes. Maybe Paul is getting a little ahead of himself, too.
“We haven’t even been dating a month!” Rose tells him. And she isn’t sure if she’s going to have time to travel home for Thanksgiving this year. They’ll still be in the middle of shooting.
“Christmas?” he asks, his tone pleading.
“It’s too soon!” she says.
“But I want to meet Shane Hollander,” Paul tells her. “Can I come to Montreal and meet him?”
“No!” Rose says. “Are you trying to scare him away?”
“The opposite—maybe I want to steal him,” Paul jokes. Rose laughs. He continues: “Shane Hollander. Fuck. You’re dating Shane Hollander.”
He sounds starstruck.
“Your sister is Rose Landry, you know,” she teases. Her brothers have always been good at keeping her grounded, but Paul doesn’t take the easy bait to poke at her ego.
“His Calvin Klein ads… fuck,” Paul says.
“Okaaaay… can you stop objectifying my boyfriend, please?” Rose asks.
“Sorry, Rosie,” he replies. “It’s just… Shane Hollander. He’s so fucking good at hockey. Like, unbelievably good at hockey. John and Peter agree with me.”
“Everyone agrees that Shane is unbelievably good at hockey,” Rose tells him. She thinks that’s the end of that conversation.
But it isn’t. Because when Rose next talks to John and Peter, they somehow thirst over Shane even more than Paul did.
“I thought you were straight!” Rose says to John.
“I am. But that doesn’t matter. It’s Shane Hollander!” he tells her, as if that is enough explanation. But it isn’t. It really isn’t.
“I never knew you were into guys,” Rose says to Peter.
“Not guys. Shane Fucking Hollander!” Peter tells her, and then refuses to elaborate further.
Ridiculous. All her brothers are being ridiculous. They must have put their heads together last night or this morning and decided to all thirst over Shane as a prank.
Rose tries to find the humor in it, but she doesn’t find it particularly funny. It’s times like these that make her wish she were an only child, at least a little. Maybe more than a little.
Rose bets Shane never has to deal with this level of fuckery.
*
Now that their relationship is known, Rose and Shane are hounded relentlessly whenever they’re in public. Rose is famous all over the world, and she’s used to paparazzi following her. The tabloids surely pay a pretty penny for photos of her with Shane. But, surprisingly, when Rose and Shane are out together in Montreal, most of the people following them aren’t calling her name.
They’re calling for Shane.
Rose has international celebrity, but in Montreal, Shane Hollander is a deity made flesh. Hockey Jesus, as some of his fans call him. They gather in droves, wearing his jersey and asking for autographs and pulling him into selfies. And Shane pastes on a smile for their cameras and signs what they ask him to sign and answers their questions and listens to their stories. He’s particularly attentive to kids, and to fans who want to talk about hockey.
Then the Metros lose three games in a row right before Thanksgiving, and Shane carries the stress in his shoulders though he doesn’t voice it out loud. And the Montreal media is vicious. It’s headline news that some of the fans blame Rose for the Metros’ losing streak. They call her a problem. A distraction. The Delilah to Shane’s Samson. The Eve to his Adam. The Judas to his Hockey Jesus.
It’s overdramatic, and ridiculous, and not at all true. But the tabloids don’t care about truth.
“I’m sorry about… everything,” Shane tells her, awkward and sheepish and so, so genuine. “I tried to defend you in my last interview, but I think I just made it worse.”
“It’s okay. I understand how it can be,” Rose tells him. And she does. Sometimes the fans love her, and sometimes they hate her, and sometimes they love to hate her. She has a PR firm on retainer, and she has sat through countless hours of media training, and she’s been in the public eye since she was eight years old. And still, Rose has no idea when one of her soundbites might go viral. And if it does, whether she will be called endearing or exhausting, or something in between.
Rose makes sure that her team is still coordinating with Shane’s—and she tries to avoid social media for a little while.
*
The more Rose gets to know Shane, the gladder she is that she told him—directly, that first night—that she liked him. Because she realizes pretty quickly that Shane is terrible at recognizing when people are attracted to him. People constantly flock to him when they go out, but he almost never notices when women—or men—hit on him. From fans, anything short of “please fuck me” is treated like friendly conversation. Even compliments about Shane’s body are just met with explanations of his workout routine.
And it doesn’t appear to be a bit. Shane is genuinely oblivious to everyone who wants to fuck him. And it really does appear that just about everyone wants to fuck him. Certainly everyone in Montreal. (Rose wonders if her brothers weren’t joking about Shane, after all.)
Miles laughs when Rose tells him. “No one that hot is that oblivious!” he says. Then, the first time he meets Shane, he tests it.
“You have a fantastic ass,” Miles says, not hiding the way he drags his eyes over Shane’s body.
“Thank you,” Shane says, completely straight-faced. “Happy to share my glute workout?”
Miles blinks in the face of Shane’s sincerity. He shoots Rose a look, and she just shrugs. It isn’t her fault that Miles didn’t believe her.
“I’d love to hear about your glute workout,” Miles says. Shane then spends the next five minutes explaining it to him.
God, he’s adorable.
Rose is so lucky. Everyone wants Shane Hollander, but he wants her.
*
If Rose were inclined to complain about Shane, she would say that he is almost too respectful. He rarely initiates kissing, though he’s always happy to kiss her back. He lets Rose set the pace for their physical relationship, and stops frequently for verbal check-ins.
Rose has three brothers who played hockey growing up. And Peter still plays. Rose has been adjacent to hockey culture her entire life. She knows hockey culture. She knows hockey boys. She knows how a lot of hockey boys treat women. How hockey culture encourages hockey boys to treat women.
She wonders if Shane’s approach is an overcorrection to that culture. So Rose asks him. Shane always seems to appreciate the direct approach.
“Oh,” Shane murmurs, his eyebrows pulling together in thought. “I guess so. Some of the guys… the way they talk about women is gross. I don’t want to be like that. And I’m not always great at reading social cues. I don’t want to overstep, or do anything you don’t want. But if there’s something you do want, and I’m not doing it, please just tell me.”
So Rose tells him: “I want us to have sex.”
“Like… full penetration, or?” he asks, and Rose smiles.
“Let’s start with ‘or,’” she says, and Shane immediately falls to his knees, as if there’s nowhere he’d rather be.
“Okay?” he asks her, placing a hand on her hip.
“Okay,” she says, lifting her skirt and pulling down her panties before slinging a leg over his shoulder.
Shane has a talented tongue, even if he doesn’t seem particularly practiced. But he takes instruction like a champ, finds her clit without issue, and has more-than-impressive stamina.
Rose comes three times before Shane comes up for air and lets her return the favor.
“Thank you,” Shane murmurs, when Rose takes the tip of his cock into her mouth. The Calvin Klein ads were not false advertising. He’s massive—intimidatingly so. But Shane doesn’t get impatient with her. He doesn’t say anything when Rose doesn’t go deeper than a few inches, bringing her hand up to stroke what she can’t fit in her mouth. He touches her hair softly. He doesn’t push or thrust his hips. When he comes, he moans her name, and her eyes flick up to find his squeezed shut in pleasure. Shane helps her back to her feet, and when Rose asks for a kiss, he presses their lips together without complaining about the taste of his come in her mouth.
“Good?” he asks, as they cuddle in bed after. He presses a sweet kiss to her forehead.
“Great,” she tells him, resting her head on his broad chest.
And it is.
*
The next morning, Shane asks her if she’d like to attend a Metros team gathering: “It’s at Hayden’s house. Jackie—that’s Hayden’s wife—told me that she’d love to have you. But I understand if it’s too much, too soon. I love the guys, but they can be a lot.”
Rose says yes.
A few days later, Shane and Rose pull into the Pikes’ driveway, and Shane walks around the car to open Rose’s door for her and help her out. They walk hand-in-hand up to the front door, which Shane opens without knocking.
“Cap is here!” someone yells, and then everyone is chanting: “Cap! Cap! Cap!”
Shane laughs and shakes his head.
“Uncle Shane! Uncle Shane!” two little girls yell. Shane lets go of Rose’s hand and widens his stance, clearly bracing himself, as the little girls collide with him full speed. He rocks back half a step, but nobody falls. It’s clearly a practiced maneuver.
It’s so fucking hot her brain nearly melts.
“Uncle Shane, we haven’t seen you in forever!” one of the little girls says, still hugging him around the waist.
“Forever!” the other little girl echoes.
“A week is forever?” Shane teases. They both nod seriously. A pretty brunette walks over, and Shane introduces them: “Rose, this is Jackie Pike. Jackie, Rose Landry.”
“Nice to meet you, Rose,” Jackie says with a welcoming smile. Rose smiles back and thanks her for her hospitality. A familiar-looking man joins them, wrapping an arm around Jackie’s waist. Shane introduces him as Hayden Pike.
“Ruby, Emma, go play with your friends,” Hayden tells the two little girls still hugging Shane. They sigh but run off.
And then Shane is introducing her to the rest of the team, along with a number of their wives and girlfriends. A mix of names and faces—most of whom Rose is unlikely to remember anytime soon.
And it’s more of a mix than she expects. Her brothers’ teams have rarely included more than one or two players of color, and almost all of their girlfriends are the same bleach blonde Barbie-girl type. To be sure, most of Shane’s teammates are white—though their accents mark them as from a variety of different countries and regions.
But there are also three players of color in attendance, not including Shane. J.J., who greets Rose with a friendly smile, any hint of jealousy carefully hidden away. And two other black guys—who Shane introduces as Stedlund and Wilson, but the other guys call “Steddy” and “Willy.” It’s a shame that it is noteworthy that Shane’s team has four players of color. But it is—because Rose knows that well over 90 percent of MLH players are white.
The wives and girlfriends are an even bigger surprise. Sure, they’re all pretty and fit and well-dressed. But none of them have bleach blonde hair. Actually, they all have dark hair, though of varying shades.
The most common appears to be black hair. A few are clearly dying their hair black; Rose can tell from their complexions and lighter eyebrows.
Shane introduces her to May Drapeau, and it takes all of Rose’s acting skills to keep a friendly smile fixed on her face. Not because May is anything but friendly—she’s perfectly amiable. And not because May is particularly beautiful—although she is. But, even more striking than her good looks: May could be Shane’s sister. They have the same exact shade of black hair. The same skin tone. Even similar splatterings of freckles across their cheeks.
Rose can’t help but side-eye Patrice Drapeau, because his wife’s physical similarities to Shane can’t possibly be a coincidence. Is a second teammate of Shane’s in love with him?
As Shane introduces her to more and more people, Rose keeps a running tally in her head. She meets eighteen of the twenty-three players on Montreal’s roster. Fourteen are white. Three are black. Shane is half-Asian.
She also meets fifteen women who are married to or dating a Montreal player. Ten are white, with hair running from light brown to black. From what Rose knows of hockey circles, it’s a little unusual that none of them dye their hair blonde. But it’s nothing worth writing home about.
No, if Rose were going to write home about anything—and there’s no way she’s telling her parents or brothers about this, it’s just too fucking weird—it would be that five of the WAGs in attendance are Asian. Or, more accurately, part Asian. And May Drapeau isn’t the only one who looks like she could be Shane’s sister, or at least cousin. Not just because the women are part Asian. And not just because they all have black hair and dark brown eyes. But also: the slopes of their noses; the shapes of their chins; the curves of their cheekbones.
And they all have freckles. Or, at least, they all have the appearance of freckles. Because Rose is relatively sure that a lot of the freckles she’s seeing are fake. The product of makeup. Or tattoos.
Fuck.
Rose is looking at five women who—whether naturally or through cosmetic means—look very similar to her boyfriend. Meaning, five of her boyfriend’s teammates are married to or dating women who look like their captain.
Rose keeps an eye on those teammates. Observes how they interact with Shane. How they look at him. Like he’s a god, and they’re his devotees. And—at the same time—like he’s a big, juicy steak, and they’re a slavering pack of starving dogs. They want him. And they are obvious in their wanting of him.
Somehow, J.J.’s unmistakable unrequited love is subtle in comparison.
And yet, nobody comments on it, or acts like it is at all unusual. Including Shane.
Fuck.
If Paul in high school only knew how many gay, or at least bisexual, players there would be on the Montreal Metros—the defending back-to-back Cup champions—he might have stuck with hockey. She imagines there are a lot of gay kids out there who would be comforted by the fact that so many of these big, strong, professional hockey players are like them. Rose hopes—for the sake of all the little Pauls who are thinking about giving up their dreams because they don’t think there’s room for them in hockey—that one or more of these players will publicly come out someday.
And, selfishly, Rose hopes for her own sake, too. Because she is dying to talk about this with someone. But she can’t. Because it would be wrong to out any of these guys, even though anyone with fucking eyes should be able to see that they all want to fuck Shane.
Fuck.
*
That night, after Rose gets home, she does something she usually avoids like the plague: she goes on social media. Specifically, on Twitter. More specifically, on Hockey Twitter.
That’s how she discovers there is a Hollander Twitter. A corner of the platform, entirely devoted to her boyfriend. And thirsting over her boyfriend. And speculating over who Shane fucks, and how, and how often. And fantasizing about who he fucks, and how, and how often.
There’s a recent flood of posts dedicated to her and Shane together. And a number of posts pairing Shane with an assortment of female hockey players. But—apparently—most of Hollander Twitter finds it hot to pair Shane with male hockey players.
To the point that they write stories, and make video edits, and draw art. Art that is frequently downright pornographic. And the video edits aren’t much better. They capture the looks that Shane’s teammates give him. Ranging from heart eyes—the most common offenders being Hayden Pike, J.J. Dagenais, and Soren Miitka—to downright filthy “fuck me” eyes.
There aren’t any “most common offenders” there. Because it’s everyone. Everyone looks at Shane with “fuck me” eyes. And everyone means everyone. Not just Shane’s teammates. His opponents too. From Scott Hunter of the New York Admirals to Ilya Rozanov of the Boston Raiders to Troy Barrett of the Toronto Guardians.
And not just the players. The coaches. The refs. The announcers. Everyone. It’s ridiculous. It’s unbelievable. And yet, Rose believes it.
Everyone wants Shane Hollander.
(And Shane has no idea.)
Fuck.