Chapter Text
Shane Hollander, 2022
“You gave me some information on your intake forms, but I’d like to hear from you. What brings you to this meeting Shane?” The man on his screen asked. He had a slight accent Shane knew to be Chinese from the information on him website, with a slight European edge.
“Um,” he said.
“Does it feel hard to talk about?”
Shane nodded.
“That’s okay, I don’t expect you to feel comfortable right away. Many people don’t, really. Why don’t you start by telling you something small that bothers you?” Lei asked.
Right. Shane took a deep breath— he could do that. He could say one, small thing that bothered him. “Um...” Where was he supposed to start though? Everything tied into the bigger picture of how fucked up he was, and it wasn’t exactly like he could lead with that, he barely knew what was wrong himself. “Well, I don’t think my best friend is a very good friend,” he decided on.
“That can be really hard. What lead to this conclusion?”
“Um, he... he doesn’t really like my husband.” Saying it out loud suddenly made it sound stupid and whiny. “But he’s uh, not homophobic. He and his wife are some type of Christian or something and their church doesn’t like gay people, and obviously hockey doesn’t, but he was one of the only ones who defended me. It sounds dumb—”
Lei cut him off. “I don’t want you to judge your thoughts here. You’re just getting them out there.”
His eyes started to feel warm as he nodded.
“Allyship is a broad spectrum. Some people might be supportive in general, but criticize gay people more harshly. Is that something you’ve felt?”
It took Shane weeks of research to find a therapist to reach out to— he needed someone he’d never run into in real life, who was Asian or part Asian, who was gay, who... who specialized in other things that he refused to admit he looked for, even in his own head. Barely twenty minutes into the secure video call, and it was already paying off.
He nodded. Practically everyone was like that, really— they were over two decades into the twenty-first century. Unless you were in particularly conservative circles in the states (or maybe Alberta, based on their last game in Calgary), homophobia was no longer in vogue, but that didn’t mean it magically went away. Montreal was a bastion of gay rights in Canada, but that sure as fuck didn’t change the Metros. No one every really said anything worse to Shane once he came out, but the moment he fucked up over a decade of hard work and three cups went away completely.
His breath hitched on the lump in his throat.
Lei paused, eyes piercing Shane through the screen.
The desk chair rolled back as Shane put his head on the edge of the polished white desk, breathing carefully. He’d cried far too many times recently to be surprised as to what was about to happen, but he really didn’t want to start crying after saying one fucking sentence.
“Can you tell me how you’re feeling?” Lei’s voice said through the tinny speakers.
No, he couldn’t. And that was part of the problem, wasn’t it? How could he ever get better if he didn’t know what was wrong? How could he ever succeed in therapy if he didn’t even know how he felt? “I don’t know!” He burst out, snappish and whiny even to his own ears.
Instead of getting mad or telling him he should know, Lei infuriatingly said, “that’s okay. Can you tell me how your body feels?”
“Not good,” he muttered. That much should be obvious— he was about to start sobbing, alone in their rarely used office, Ilya sent off to walk Anya.
“I want you to focus on your hand right now. What do you feel in them?”
Strange request, but Shane complied anyway. “Um, the table.”
“Good, tell me more. What does the table feel like?”
“Smooth, and cold. I can feel the edge of it.”
“Good, good. Can you relax your grip on it?”
How the fuck did he know Shane was clutching the table? He relaxed his grip.
“Let’s move to your shoulders. Do you feel tension in them?”
Lei lead him through the joints in his body, one by one, relaxing them slowly until he was able to sit back up and breathe normally again. It was nice, to not have a post-crying headache, but also a little bit weird; people said crying was good sometimes, but Shane felt far better after the exercise than he ever did after crying, and certainly better than he did after suppressing the tears. He let his therapist know this much.
“That’s great Shane, you did really well with that.”
Thank fuck he was doing good at therapy— if Shane failed therapy, he’d never go back. He already had a few backup plans of varying desirability, including becoming a massive stoner. The MLH didn’t actually give a shit if players smoked weed and some of the centaurs from the dark days, now on the fourth line, still smoked copious amounts; their inadequacy made his job harder, but fuck it. If they could do it, why couldn’t he? Being good at therapy and being cured was still plan A though. Or, plan B really— plan A had always been to ignore it until he retired.
“What do you know about me?” He asked.
“Well, I’m treating you as just Shane, no one else. As you know, my husband and I don’t follow hockey, and even if we did your public persona is different than you.”
“But you do know about my reputation,” he argued. All the platitudes that were supposed to make him feel better didn’t, because he knew they were fake.
“Sure, a bit. But that’s separate from the you sitting in front of me,” Lei said, calm as ever.
“Just tell me what you know, you don’t need to do that bullshit with me.”
At that, the fucker smiled. Shane sort of hated it.
“You don’t like the bullshit therapy speak?” Lei asked.
Shane could feel himself smile as he shook his head.
“Noted. No bullshit.”
“Thanks,” he muttered.
“Right. I know your name, and that you’re the best player in the league.”
Shane smiled. Take that, Ilya— Shane was the number one player.
“I know you started a mental health foundation with your husband who also plays hockey. You two were horrifically outed and the MLH was all sorts of homophobic to you. You used to play in Montreal, but they pushed you out to Ontario with the... Senators?”
Shane could feel himself grinning.
“So, how’d I do?”
“Ottawa Centaurs,” he corrected. “You really don’t follow hockey, do you?”
Lei laughed. “I told you I didn’t. It’s not as big over in Vancouver.”
Call him paranoid, but Shane never wanted to see his therapist outside of therapy— even if they were contractually obliged to ignore patients in the real world, be didn’t want even a flicker of recognition from a mental health professional in public. That interaction could be filmed and they could be looked up, then everyone would know Shane was fucked up and weak; hence the need to find a therapist on the opposite side of the country. Additionally since Lei was certified to practice in Ontario, so Shane could have therapy sessions on the road, as long as he wasn’t in Quebec or the US.
“Well, don’t get into it now.”
“Don’t worry. My daughter figure skates and has a one-sided rivalry against hockey. She says you guys ruin the ice.”
Shane breathed out a laugh. “I used to figure skate when I was young. They leave holes in the ice.”
“Did you enjoy it?” His therapist asked, smiling.
“It was fun for a while, I liked the jumps,” he shrugged.
“They look quite fun. We’re almost out of time, could you tell me what you want to get out of therapy?”
“To be normal.” That much was obvious, wasn’t it?
“What does normal look like to you, Shane?”
“Isn’t that what you’re supposed to know?” He snapped, rubbing his hands along his temples.
“Normal is a statistical aggregate of different characteristics, and the probability that someone is within one standard deviation of normal in only ten factors is less than one percent.”
“I don’t know what that means.” Shane knew more about statistics than the average person, with hockey stats and all, but he had no fucking clue what a ‘statistical aggregate’ was and barely understood standard deviation.
“It means there’s no one answer to what normal is,” Lei explained. “And very few people are normal in every way. Besides, you could say that in Canada being white and heterosexual is normal but that’s not something you and I can change, is it?”
Shane hated how much sense that made. He hated that a part of him did see being straight as being normal; he loved Ilya more than anything and was proud to be married to him, but maybe a part of him did want to be straight. Things would be easier, if he was straight; he’d be married to Rose, and probably still welcomed as one of the Metros. But then he wouldn’t have Ilya in his life. “Fine,” he said.
“I want you to think about what you want your brain to look like, okay? What kind of things do you want to be okay with, what does a great day look like for you?”
He nodded. A great day looked like winning a home game with Ilya, but he figured his therapist would probably want something more. “I want you to fix whatever’s wrong with me.”
“What do you think is wrong with you?” Lei asked, writing something down.
“I don’t know.”
“That’s okay. Are you someone who wants labels? Who wants to know the exact terms to describe what might be going on?”
Shane nodded, watching the slight movement of the pens on the table from his bouncing leg.
“We can do that. You think about what you want, and together we can get you some answers. Does that sound alright?”
“Thanks,” he nodded.
David Hollander, 2000
It wasn’t that Shane was atypical in any meaningful way, he was just... unique. He excelled in hockey, he had a friend at school, got a B average in Grade 2, was kind, sweet, and overall a great kid. David and Yuna were incredibly proud of him— he was well behaved (for the most part), and got along well with his cousins. One of David’s nieces was on the autism spectrum, and Shane treated the girl almost normally, spending the day with her without being asked.
There were, however, times David suspected Shane’s bond with Mary was indicative of something else, something their pediatrician suggested when Shane was a baby, and something Yuna refused to acknowledge. According to his wife, everything Shane did was something she or David had also done— which was technically true— but it didn’t stop David from worrying.
He couldn’t help but wonder if there was something different with their son as he squeezed his crying child on the bench of a theme park. The rest of his newly U9 hockey team was running around the park, fingers sticky from cotton candy. Shane, on the other hand, was crying and wouldn’t say why.
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” David soothed.
His son shook his head into his shirt.
“The world isn’t ending, is it?” He asked. Lightening the mood usually worked once Shane’s shoulders stopped shaking so much. It worked with most kids, really.
His son shook his head.
“No meteor is going to come down from the sky and kill us?”
Another shake of the head.
“So it’s okay then, yeah?”
Shane’s breath caught in his throat and he let out another pitiful sob.
“Oh bud.” His poor baby. “Can you tell me what’s wrong?
He shook his head into his shirt, the moisture of his tears against David’s chest through the fabric.
“Do you know what’s wrong?”
Another shake of the head.
Well, that narrowed things down.
Shane was rarely defiant, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have meltdowns often— David and Yuna had stopped taking him to thrift stores altogether after years of public meltdowns, and they’d figured out some years ago that Shane did not appreciate going grocery shopping after school, regardless of if they got his favourite brand of granola bars or not. There were countless things they didn’t do with Shane, though amusement parks were normally fine.
“Thirsty?” He asked.
Shane shook his head. He had a McGill hockey team branded water bottle in David’s backpack, and made sufficient progress in finishing it.
“Hungry?” No, it wasn’t that. “Bathroom?” Shane denied that too. “Something hurt?” No. “Tired?” That one was practically worthless— no nine year old would ever admit to being tired.
“Overwhelmed?”
That got a shrug, which was progress. Not an immediate no meant he was on the right track.
“Too loud? Too bright?” When he’d looked up what caused kids to have meltdowns, most websites gave him information about things being too loud or too bright, neither of which seemed relevant to Shane, given his love of hockey.
Predictably, his son shook his head.
“Nervous about something?” That was another apparent cause and worth asking, even if there wasn’t really anything to be nervous about at a theme park— that was much more suited to a before school or fancy dinner tantrum.
Shane nodded his head though.
“Oh. Oh buddy, can you tell me what it is?” He asked, pulling his son tighter.
He shook his head again, but at least David knew the emotion this time.
They sat there together, the hot June sun beating down on them— Shane eventually ran out of tears, but he didn’t move his head from David’s shirt until the rest of the team came bounding back, talking excitedly about going on the log ride. Only then, did Shane wipe his face on David’s shirt (he reminded himself that he would one day miss this), and glance sideways at his friends.
“Do you want to join them bud?” He asked. “I can go with or stay here.”
Shane shook his head and waved silently to the rest of the team, looking like he was trying to will them away with his mind.
“What do you want to do?”
His son pointed back towards the entrance of the park, and it hit David that he might’ve underestimated how bad this meltdown was. Usually, Shane would cry it out, hide for a little bit, then rejoin the activities; after particularly bad ones though, he wouldn’t talk for the rest of the day and would hide in his room. It happened nearly annually, but it had never happened at an amusement park before.
“One more ride?” He offered.
Shane shook his head.
“I promise they’re safe,” he added, remembering Shane’s nerves.
Another shake of the head.
“Okay, but I have to tell the other parents.”
Shane hummed and flopped himself onto David’s lap, covering his face with his hands. It took David a monumental effort to avoid looking amused. “They’ll wonder where we are,” he said, still trying to keep the smile from his voice.
Shane whined again and wriggled, seemingly deciding to employ the tactics of a worm to get out of having to go anywhere.
“We can go home once I tell the others.”
That earned a head shake on top of the squirming.
“If we don’t get up, we’ll have to wait until the others get back.”
His son shook his head and whined something unintelligible.
“I know you want to go home,” he said gently, waiting for Shane to nod before continuing. “But we have to tell someone we’re leaving.
While Shane whined and wriggled in his lap, David made a mental note to look into getting a cell phone— they were expensive still, but one would have been useful in the moment. Calling to let another parent know they were leaving would be far easier on his son, and he wouldn’t have to carry a screaming nine year old through an amusement park.
A jolt of pain shot through him when Shane kneed him in the crotch; it knocked the wind out of him and fucking hurt, his kid was strong. David reminded himself again that one day Shane would be an adult and far away, and he’d miss the times he was little. Even if he’d been kicked in the balls, he’d miss this age with time.
“Am I squeezing you?” He asked.
At the suggestion, tiny legs wrapped around him and Shane buried himself into his chest. David put his arms around his son and pulled them tight as he formulated a plan. Once his son calmed down, David would keep his tight hold and carefully walk to the viewing area for the log ride, tell the other parents they were leaving, and get home.
He successfully got the two of them close to the viewing area for the log ride, but a loud jet of water startled Shane and he started make small whining sounds like a wounded animal. David held his son tighter and called out to some of the other parents, hiding a grimace as Shane kicked him in the leg. (One day he’d miss this age).
“David!” Kelly said, bounding over. He didn’t want to be egotistical or interpret kindness as flirting, but David was pretty sure he had a bit of a crush on him— she was always trying to sit next to him and invite him over for dinner, and she had a strange vendetta against Yuna. She’d gotten divorced about a year prior too, and after that was when the invited really ramped up. “What’s going on with our Shane?”
“We need to go home,” he said, gritting his teeth as Shane kicked him again. “Can you tell the others we left?”
Kelly nodded at the same time Shane demanded “down.”
“You have to stay by dad, okay?” He asked.
His son nodded, but when David let go of him, he bolted.
David sighed, running his hand across his sweaty forehead. “Tell Michael Shane and I say bye,” we said, then turned and speed walked after his son.
Maybe all the extra training for hockey had been a bad idea— Shane was a fast little bugger now despite his short legs, far faster than he should have been. If he was going to run away still, they might have to consider the backpack leash again; David always thought it was too close to treating their kid like a dog, but if he was going to be running away at nine, they might not have another option. Shane was too fast to be running after, and it was too hot to be jogging around a theme park to begin with.
Unfortunately David found Shane on the ground, crying with gravel in his knee and blood on his favourite hockey shirt. There was the normal thing to cry about, and then there was the shirt— and David was pretty sure which one his son was crying about.
“We can get that out, it’s okay.”
From his spot on the ground, Shane looked up at him with wide, wet eyes.
“Mom can get the blood out,” he added.
His son brought his knees into his chest and buried his head, rocking back and forth. His shoulders still shook with telltale sobs.
“You want squeeze time?” David asked, crouching down next to his son.
Shane shook his head and rocked faster, more aggressively.
“Oh no! Are we upset?” An overly cheerful park worker asked, squatting down next to his crying son. “What happened?”
Predictably, his son made no indication that he heard the young woman.
“He isn’t up for talking right now,” David said quietly. “He’s nervous about something, but can’t say what.”
Something softened in the woman’s eyes at that, and she looked at Shane like he was a particularly scared, feral cat. “The park can be overwhelming for some of our special guests.”
Shane started pulling on his hair as he rocked. David knew he needed to get him into the car, he’d be better in the car, but he had no idea how to get him up.
“Once we get up we can go to the car,” he offered. “We’ve got a granola bar there, and it’s twenty minutes to home.”
“How does that sound?” The worker asked, almost with an air of condescension. “You get up and get your snack?”
Shane glared at her, or as much as a child could glare with tears streaking down his face.
“Are we upseti spaghetti?”
Slowly, blood from his knee smeared on his face, Shane pointed to the woman, then pointed further into the park, a clear dismissal of the poor, probably underpaid twenty something. They really needed to work more on his manners, but it wasn’t the time to do so mid-meltdown.
“The sooner we get to the car the sooner we get home,” David offered.
At that, Shane got up and quickly started walking away, hands on his head and pulling at his hair.
“Thanks,” David gave the worker, Danna according to her name tag, a closed-mouth smile and followed after the retreating figure of his beloved son.
Danna hadn’t been the first person to treat his son like there was something different about him, and she probably wouldn’t be the last— Shane had gotten a few direct phone calls from substitute teachers over the years, and he didn’t fit in all that well with his peers. The Ontario health board had even sent the two of them a letter when Shane was 18 months, suggesting they get him screened for developmental delays due to his lack of words, and his full day Kindergarten teacher suggested the same thing at the beginning of the year because he couldn’t make it through the day without crying. Shane was raised bilingually though, and started talking just before his second birthday; after a few months of kindergarten and sending Shane with the same lunch and his favourite hockey puck, he made it through the day.
The other parents at work, hockey, and the PTA didn’t have any issues with meltdowns by the time their kids were Shane’s age, at least that they admitted to, but the meltdowns were steadily decreasing in frequency as Shane got older, and he didn’t throw tantrums over not getting things. Any of Shane tantrums were barely tantrums, really— he wasn’t trying to get out of chores or get more toys, the poor bug was just upset and overwhelmed.
He was a good kid: bright, kind, funny, and incredibly physically gifted. He was already a little hockey machine, and it wasn’t uncommon for people who were exceptional at one thing to struggle with others. David’s own father was a civil engineer, incredibly smart and completely useless when it came to emotions. Everyone always joked that he had so much math and physics in his brain that there wasn’t room for social norms or emotional talks— Shane was similar, but with hockey. Hell, it could have even been nurture; Yuna and David certainly weren’t the most touchy-feely people, and most of Shane’s books and toys had never really included talking about feelings or deep forays into emotional intelligence. Maybe the meltdowns were their own faults for not letting him cry it out or something, but neither of them could ever stand to see their baby upset.
He was their pride and joy, their rainbow after the dark, their legacy, and their favourite person in the world. Shane was happy most of the time, and he always knew he was loved and supported in whatever he chose to do. Everyone had struggles, and their son would be fine. He was different, yes, but that didn’t mean there was anything wrong.