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The Raiders should have known that even their toughest, most composed teammate had his limits.
They just hadn't expected to be there when he finally reached them.
Shane Hollander was a ticking fucking time bomb, and none of them knew exactly when the fuse would run out and they'd have to deal with the consequences of him finally exploding.
They knew one thing, though.
It wouldn't be directed at them.
Shane loved them too much for that, despite the many times he'd tried—and failed—to deny it. He could yell at them, threaten them, make them bag skate, and call them every variation of fucking idiot known to mankind, but the Raiders had learned a long time ago that Shane Hollander loved hard.
Maybe a little too hard.
Because apparently, there was one thing capable of making their usually calm and collected Mom completely lose his fucking mind.
Someone messing with his idiots.
And unfortunately for everyone involved, someone had just made that mistake.
Throughout his time in Boston, the chirping directed toward Shane had doubled, if not tripled. He'd known it would happen. It was bound to, anyway.
The former Montreal captain had moved to his boyfriend's team and was sleeping with Boston's captain. It was a scandal, apparently. One Shane knew he'd probably have to deal with for the rest of his hockey career.
And honestly?
He didn't fucking care.
Because then he'd come home and find his boyfriend making them dinner—and cooking enough to feed the other idiots they'd apparently adopted along the way.
He'd get invited into his teammates' homes and somehow end up gossiping with their spouses about their behavior. He'd get invited to their kids' birthday parties, only to be yelled at for spoiling them rotten with gifts because apparently Uncle Shane had absolutely no concept of reasonable spending when it came to them.
And every single time, his heart swelled.
Shane wouldn't change it for the world.
It had been hard at first. There had always been that lingering reminder of his supposed betrayal of the team that had drafted him. The team he'd spent a decade with. The team he'd captained and brought three Stanley Cups home for.
But then he'd look around.
Marlow would be sprawled across his couch playing something on their PS5 with Connors. Mike would be sitting at the kitchen table, talking Ilya's ear off about the new guy he'd started seeing while Ilya pretended he wasn't completely invested in the story. Someone would be raiding Shane's fridge despite being told a thousand fucking times to ask first.
And Shane would just stand there.
Looking at his family.
He wasn't exactly sure when he'd started calling them that.
Maybe it had been around Christmas.
He and Ilya had been standing in the middle of a store, Shane staring between several rolls of wrapping paper while trying to decide whether they should buy plain ones or the customizable kind he'd found online.
“Why do you care if gift is wrapped, малыш?”
Shane looked at his boyfriend like he'd just asked the stupidest question imaginable.
“Because, baby! It's not a proper Christmas if you don't wrap the gifts for family members to open under the tree.”
Ilya had gone quiet.
Shane continued staring at the wrapping paper for another second before his own words finally registered.
Family members.
His head slowly turned.
Ilya was already looking at him.
And right there, in the middle of some random fucking aisle while holding a roll of Christmas wrapping paper, Shane realized something.
These idiots weren't just his teammates anymore.
They were family.
His eyes flicked back toward Ilya.
Of course his boyfriend was smiling.
“Don't.”
“I say nothing.”
“Your face is saying something.”
Ilya stepped closer, wrapping an arm around Shane's waist before pressing a kiss against his temple.
“I am just happy.”
Shane's expression softened.
“Yeah?”
“Да.”
Another kiss, this time against his cheek.
“You have family here.”
Something about that hit Shane harder than it should have.
Because Ilya wasn't talking about himself.
Shane had known for years that Ilya was his family.
He was talking about them.
The twenty-two fucking idiots Shane had somehow collected along the way.
Shane leaned into his boyfriend for just a second before clearing his throat and turning back toward the wrapping paper.
“We're getting the customizable ones.”
Ilya laughed.
“Of course we are.”
So the chirping was fine.
The extra-hard checks were fine.
The punches and bloody noses were fine.
Shane almost never retaliated. He didn't need to.
He had twenty-three fucking idiots who were more than willing to do that for him, even if Shane proceeded to scold every single one of them afterward for taking stupid penalties on his behalf.
Maybe it was because Shane had grown up an only child. Maybe it was because his parents had made damn sure their son understood that family didn't always have to mean blood—that the people you chose could become just as important as the people you were born to.
Whatever the reason, Shane Hollander had learned one thing very young.
You took care of your family.
You fed them. You patched them up. You remembered their allergies and their kids' birthdays. You listened when they needed someone to talk to and yelled at them when they were being fucking idiots.
You protected them.
And one thing about Shane Hollander?
He would fucking kill for his family.
Which was why Ilya should have known better than to say—
“Shane, before you get angry—”
Everyone in the locker room looked toward the brunette as he slowly peeled his eyes away from his phone.
Shane looked at Ilya.
Then around the room.
And, as if on cue, everyone took a deep breath.
“…What happened?”
No one said anything.
They just stared at the man who had somehow shown more concern and worry for them in the past few months than some of them had experienced their entire lives.
They were in Montreal for another game against their already-on-bad-terms rivals. Except this time, they were standing inside the arena Shane had once called home.
He'd been quieter since they'd arrived, but nobody had mentioned it. They knew there were memories buried in these halls that Shane didn't particularly enjoy revisiting.
But as Shane looked around the locker room, something else caught his attention.
Someone was missing.
His eyes immediately sharpened as he sat up straighter.
“Where is Michael?”
Ilya swallowed.
“Shanya…”
Shane's gaze snapped toward him.
“I said, where. Is. Michael.”
Goosebumps ran down Ilya's neck.
He looked around the locker room for help from his teammates, but apparently everyone had decided the floor was suddenly the most interesting fucking thing they'd ever seen.
That was until Marlow finally spoke.
“Mike was out yesterday with a couple of the other guys when they ran into some Montreal players.”
He paused.
That alone made Shane nervous.
Marlow never paused to think about what he was going to say. Half the fucking problem with Clifford Marlow was that the man usually spoke first and considered the consequences sometime three business days later.
Shane's jaw tightened.
“And?”
“Uhm…well.”
This time, it was Connors who spoke, rubbing awkwardly at the back of his neck.
“You see, Shane—”
“Someone better fucking speak in a full sentence or I'm making all of you skate thirty laps before the fucking game.”
Connors immediately shut up.
Marlow sighed.
“They said something about you. Mike defended you and…” He hesitated again. “Cameau called him—you know. And then punched him in the face.”
Shane stilled.
Completely.
He didn't need them to tell him what Cameau had called Mike.
He knew.
It was the same word Shane had heard too many times inside the walls of his old locker room. The same word that had been disguised as a joke until nobody bothered pretending it was one anymore.
The same word that had followed him onto the ice.
Shane could handle it when it was directed at him.
But this time, it hadn't been.
This time, it had been directed at their youngest.
Mike was their rookie. Their youngest player, barely eighteen when Boston drafted him.
And maybe Shane had always had a particularly soft spot for him because the kid reminded Shane so painfully of himself at that age.
Eighteen.
Confused.
Terrified of what certain feelings might mean.
Except Mike had something Shane wished he'd had back then.
Someone who understood.
Shane could still remember the night Mike had shown up at his and Ilya's house at one in the fucking morning. The kid had stood outside their door with tears filling his eyes, apologizing over and over for waking them up before finally admitting that he didn't understand why his stomach felt the way it did whenever he looked at another man.
Shane had sat with him for hours.
He'd listened. Let him cry. Told him he didn't have to figure everything out that night—or tomorrow, or next fucking year if he wasn't ready.
And now someone had dared to make his rookie feel even a fraction of the shame Shane remembered feeling at eighteen.
His blood boiled.
“He punched him…” Shane's voice was frighteningly quiet. “Outside of the ice?”
Several heads nodded.
Shane's jaw clenched.
“Did you tell Coach?”
More nods.
“And?”
That was when Shane saw it.
The lowered eyes. The clenched jaws. The anger barely being held back around the room.
They already knew what he was about to hear was fucking unfair.
“Coach went to the NHL about it,” Marlow finally said. “He tried to get Cameau pulled from tonight's game, but they said there wasn't enough proof of what happened to justify it. Laurent kept pushing and…”
Marlow looked away.
“They threatened to throw him out tonight if he didn't drop it.”
Marlow kept talking.
Shane stopped hearing him.
The voices around him blurred until there was only one thought repeating itself inside his head.
They fucked with the wrong person.
Everyone could see it.
They could sense it. Could practically fucking taste the change in the air.
There was something in Shane Hollander's eyes none of them had ever seen directed toward someone else before.
But it was familiar.
They'd seen it in each other.
In Marlow before he'd dropped his gloves for Shane.
In Ilya whenever someone hurt him.
In Laurent when somebody went after one of his players.
It wasn't anger.
Anger would have been better.
This was something far more concerning.
A plan.
The locker room door opened.
Every head turned.
Mike walked inside.
The bruise covering one side of his face was fucking nasty, dark purple already spreading high across his cheek. His lip was swollen, and when he gave everyone an uncomfortable little smile, Shane could see the chip missing from one of his teeth.
Shane stared at him.
Mike stopped.
His eyes immediately found Shane's.
“Hey, Mom.”
Something in Shane's expression cracked.
He didn't yell.
Didn't ask Mike what happened.
Didn't tell him everything was going to be okay.
Shane simply stood from his stall, crossed the locker room, and pulled the younger man into his arms.
Mike froze for half a second before practically collapsing into him.
Shane held him tightly.
One hand rubbed slowly across his back while the other came up to cradle the back of Mike's head, fingers running gently through his hair.
“You okay?” Shane whispered.
Mike nodded against his shoulder.
Shane knew he was lying.
But he didn't call him on it.
Not yet.
He just squeezed him once more before pulling away, gently patting the side of his head.
“Get dressed. We've got practice.”
Mike nodded.
Shane turned around, grabbed his stick, and walked out of the locker room without another fucking word.
The door clicked shut behind him.
Twenty-three men collectively exhaled.
Nobody spoke for several seconds.
Then Marlow finally broke the silence.
“…Should we be worried?”
Ilya rubbed a hand down his face before pinching the bridge of his nose.
“Very.”
Marlow looked toward the door Shane had disappeared through.
“Like normal Shane worried, or—”
“No.”
Ilya sighed.
He knew his boyfriend.
Yelling Shane could be reasoned with.
Angry Shane could be calmed down.
Crying Shane could be held.
But quiet Shane?
Quiet Shane was thinking.
And thinking Shane was fucking dangerous.
Ilya stood and reached for his own stick.
Tonight was going to be a very long fucking night.
— — —
Throughout practice, Shane was quieter than usual.
His movements were more calculated, every pass precise, every turn sharp. It was like they could physically see the gears shifting behind his eyes, working through something none of them were particularly sure they wanted the answer to.
Everyone noticed.
They noticed the focus. The set of his jaw. The way his stick buried the puck into the net harder than necessary before he immediately skated back, grabbed another, and sent that one flying even harder.
Even LeClaire noticed.
Coach was halfway through his second energy drink of the day, something that normally would've earned him a fifteen-minute lecture from Shane about caffeine, water, and the fact that “You're fifty-fucking-something, Laurent, you can't survive off Red Bull and spite.”
Today?
Nothing.
Shane skated right past him.
Laurent slowly lowered the can from his mouth.
Now that was concerning.
His eyes followed Hollander across the ice, watching the younger man reset for another drill without so much as glancing in his direction.
Something was going on inside that head of his.
And Laurent wasn't sure he wanted to know what.
Practice wasn't long. Just enough to refresh the plays they planned to run and get everyone moving without wasting the energy they'd need for the main event later that night.
Because tonight was different.
Tonight was personal.
For all of them.
But especially for the certain brunette currently sitting in front of his stall, taping his stick with enough precision to make Ilya nervous.
Nobody said much while they got ready.
They all knew.
They all had the same goal.
Beat Montreal.
Protect Mike.
Go the fuck home.
Shane moved quietly around the locker room while everyone finished getting dressed. He shoved a protein bar into Marlow's hand without asking whether he'd eaten, handed Connors a Gatorade when he noticed his water bottle was already empty, and finally stopped in front of Mike.
The bruise looked even worse under the bright locker room lights.
Shane's jaw tightened.
He grabbed his first-aid kit.
“Shane, it's fine.”
“Didn't ask.”
Mike immediately shut up.
Shane crouched in front of him and carefully cleaned the small scrape near the edge of the bruise before covering it with a bandage.
He knew it wouldn't do much.
The damage was already done, and there wasn't a fucking Band-Aid in the world capable of hiding the purple spreading across Mike's cheek or fixing the piece missing from his tooth.
But Shane didn't want to see it.
Didn't want the reminder of someone else's hatred imprinted across his rookie's face.
When he finished, Shane stayed where he was.
He looked Mike directly in the eyes.
“Whatever they do tonight, you come find me.”
Mike's expression changed slightly.
Shane continued before he could respond.
“Anything happens, you skate to me. I don't care where I am. I don't care what's happening. You find me, and I will handle it.”
It wasn't a question.
It wasn't an option, either.
Mike knew better than to treat it like one.
He nodded.
“Okay.”
Shane's expression remained serious.
Mike hesitated before giving him a small smile, immediately wincing when the movement pulled at his bruised cheek.
“Yes, Mom.”
Probably not the best time for a joke.
But Shane's expression softened.
His hand came up, gently ruffling Mike's hair.
“Just for tonight,” Shane murmured. “Mama Shane's got you.”
Silence.
Shane froze.
Mike's eyes widened.
Around them, an entire locker room went completely fucking still.
Shane slowly closed his eyes.
Fuck.
He'd said that out loud.
Somewhere behind him came a sharp inhale.
Shane already knew exactly who it was.
His eyes opened.
Slowly, he turned his head toward a certain six-foot-five Canadian.
Marlow had both hands covering his mouth.
His eyes were fucking sparkling.
“Marley.”
Marlow's shoulders started shaking.
“Don't.”
“You—”
“Clifford.”
“You just admitted you're Mom.”
Shane stood.
Marlow immediately took one step backward.
“Start running.”
Marlow blinked.
“What?”
Shane started toward him.
“Because I'm going to fucking kill you.”
“OH, SHIT.”
Marlow fucking bolted.
“GET BACK HERE!”
And that was how thousands of confused Montreal fans watched a terrified-looking Clifford Marlow come flying out of the tunnel and onto the ice at full speed, followed approximately two seconds later by a fuming Shane Hollander.
The rest of the Boston Raiders spilled out behind them, laughing their fucking asses off.
For just a moment, the heaviness that had followed them throughout the day disappeared.
Mike laughed too.
It hurt his cheek.
But he laughed anyway.
Ilya was one of the last to leave the tunnel. He watched his boyfriend chase Marlow around the ice, threatening to make him regret ever learning the word Mom, while Marlow screamed for someone—anyone—to save him.
Ilya let himself smile.
This was Shane.
His Shane.
But the smile didn't completely erase the nagging feeling sitting heavily in his chest.
Because he'd seen Shane during practice.
He'd seen the look in his eyes when they told him what happened to Mike.
And he knew his boyfriend well enough to know that this wasn't over.
Not even close.
Ilya sighed and stepped onto the ice.
— — —
Warmups were quieter than usual.
Everyone wanted to get the job done and get the fuck out of this city. There would be no celebrating in Montreal tonight. No bars. No restaurants. No hanging around after the game longer than absolutely necessary.
They would celebrate their win back home in Boston.
But first?
They were going to play the best fucking game of their lives.
The first period started, and every single Raider seemed to be on edge.
They were waiting.
Waiting for something to happen. Waiting for someone to say something. Waiting for Cameau to make the first move.
Waiting for Shane.
But nothing came.
Shane was quiet.
The chirps from his former teammates went in one ear and straight out the other. He didn't react when someone made a comment about Boston. Didn't even turn his head when another player said something about Ilya as he passed.
Shane simply skated.
And scored.
His second goal came before the first period was even halfway over.
Shane was fucking on fire.
He flew across the ice, weaving between players like he wasn't in his early thirties but a rookie all over again. Every movement was calculated. Every pass landed exactly where he wanted it. Every time Montreal thought they'd cornered him, Shane somehow slipped straight through them.
And he had that look in his eyes.
Ilya knew that look.
He'd seen it years ago from across the ice when they'd first played against each other. Back when Shane Hollander had been nothing more than the irritatingly talented Canadian who seemed determined to make Ilya's life difficult.
It was the same look that had fascinated him.
The same look that had eventually made it impossible for Ilya to look away.
The same look he'd fallen in love with.
Determination.
Shane slammed one of Montreal's players into the boards.
Every Raider tensed.
But the whistle never came.
Legal.
Hard, certainly.
But clean.
Shane didn't even look back. He pushed away from the boards and immediately returned to the play.
And somehow, that was worse.
Throughout the first two periods, the Raiders became increasingly disturbed.
Shane was playing…normally.
Actually, no.
He was playing better than normal.
Two goals. An assist. Clean checks. No stupid penalties. No retaliation. No arguments with the referees.
And most concerning of all?
He had barely spared Cameau a second fucking glance.
By the middle of the second period, Marlow couldn't take it anymore.
During a stoppage, he skated toward Ilya and leaned closer.
“Why isn't he doing anything?”
Ilya's eyes remained fixed across the ice.
Shane was standing near the faceoff circle, calmly adjusting one of his gloves while Cameau stood only a few feet away.
Nothing.
Not even a look.
Ilya frowned.
“…I am not sure.”
Marlow looked at him.
“That's not fucking reassuring.”
“It was not meant to be.”
“Roz.”
Ilya finally looked at him.
“I do not think I want to know, Marley.”
Marlow swallowed.
Because angry Shane made sense.
Angry Shane yelled.
Angry Shane swore.
Angry Shane threatened murder and chased six-foot-five hockey players down tunnels because they'd called him Mom.
This Shane?
This Shane had a plan.
And apparently, whatever that plan was didn't require Cameau.
The whistle blew.
Shane immediately moved into position.
Marlow and Ilya exchanged one final look before doing the same.
They didn't know it yet.
But in just a few minutes, they were all going to find out exactly what Shane Hollander had been planning.
And suddenly, Ilya had the horrible feeling that Cameau had never been the person Shane intended to punish in the first place.
— — —
It wasn't until the third period that Ilya finally started to realize what Shane was doing.
Slowly, but surely.
During a stoppage, Shane skated past Cameau, close enough that their shoulders nearly brushed.
“Enjoy the rest of the night, Cameau.”
Cameau turned toward him.
“Is that a threat, Hollander?”
Shane stopped.
And smiled.
Ilya saw it from the bench.
His stomach immediately twisted into knots at the familiar expression on his boyfriend's face.
It wasn't Shane's usual smile.
There was nothing warm or amused about it.
“No,” Shane said calmly. “It's a promise.”
Cameau scoffed.
Shane leaned slightly closer.
“A promise that this is the last time you play against my rookie.”
Then he skated away.
Ilya's eyebrows furrowed.
What the fuck was that supposed to mean?
The puck dropped.
Shane won it easily.
Ilya stayed leaned over the boards from the bench, eyes following his boyfriend as he moved down the ice. He wasn't entirely sure what Shane was planning, but something told him he should probably figure it out sooner rather than later.
And then he saw it.
The pattern.
Every time Cameau got the puck, Shane was there.
Every time he had an opening, Shane closed it.
Every time Cameau got anywhere near Boston's net, Shane somehow appeared between him and the goal.
And every time the opportunity presented itself—
Shane put him into the fucking boards.
Hard.
Clean.
Legal.
Ilya slowly understood.
His boyfriend was smart.
Shane knew exactly what would happen if he simply dropped his gloves and punched Cameau in the face.
Five minutes, minimum.
Maybe a misconduct.
Maybe worse, considering Boston's already less-than-friendly relationship with the league.
And Cameau would get exactly what he wanted.
Worse, Mike might think Shane had gotten himself thrown out of the game because of him.
Shane wouldn't let that happen.
So apparently, his boyfriend had decided to play a different game.
One Cameau didn't even realize he'd agreed to.
Shane was targeting him entirely within the rules.
Cameau got the puck.
Shane appeared.
Bam.
Straight into the boards.
Clean.
Cameau swore.
Shane stole the puck and skated away like absolutely nothing had happened.
Marlow stared.
“…Oh.”
Ilya sighed.
“Yes.”
“He's bullying him.”
“Legally.”
Another crash echoed across the rink.
Both of them looked over.
Cameau was against the boards again.
Shane already had the puck.
Marlow winced.
“…Mostly.”
Ilya almost laughed.
Almost.
Because Shane was playing like Ilya had never seen him play before.
He was fucking relentless.
Faster. Sharper. More precise. Every movement seemed fueled by something that had been building inside him since he'd seen the bruise on Mike's face.
Spite.
Pure fucking spite.
But the longer Ilya watched, the less amusing it became.
Because Shane wasn't calm.
He was controlled.
There was a difference.
Every clean check was restraint.
Every ignored chirp was restraint.
Every time Shane skated away instead of dropping his gloves was another second added to a fuse that had already burned dangerously short.
This wasn't Shane's revenge.
This was Shane desperately trying to stop himself from doing something worse.
And Ilya had the horrible feeling that Cameau only needed to make one more mistake.
He did.
It didn't take long for Cameau to realize that nothing he said to Shane was getting the reaction he wanted.
Every chirp was ignored. Every attempt to provoke him was met with silence. Every smug comment was answered with another clean check into the boards before Shane stole the puck and skated away like Cameau wasn't even worth acknowledging.
It was driving him fucking insane.
So when he skated back toward center ice and caught sight of Boston's familiar rookie, something clicked.
Cameau smirked.
Gotcha.
Mike received the puck from a pass by Marlow and took off toward the goal.
He barely made it halfway there before Cameau came crashing into him.
Hard.
Mike slammed into the boards before dropping onto the ice.
For one terrifying second, it felt like everyone stopped breathing.
Shane stopped skating.
Marlow's head snapped around.
Ilya's stomach dropped.
Mike opened his eyes.
The first person he looked for was Shane.
Of course it fucking was.
Shane was already staring at him from across the ice, body tense, waiting.
Whatever they do tonight, you come find me.
Mike gave him a small, pained smile.
Then he shook his head.
No.
I'm okay.
Shane's jaw clenched.
But he listened.
He exhaled slowly, forced himself to turn away, and started skating back into position.
Fine.
Mike was okay.
He could let it go.
He could—
“Aww, you gonna cry, rook?”
Shane stopped.
Everyone heard it.
“How 'bout you leave the NHL and go cry to your faggot mom? You don't deserve to fucking play here.”
Silence.
Every player on the ice seemed to still at once.
And then they heard it.
Thud.
A glove hit the ice.
Then another.
Ilya closed his eyes.
Fuck.
Shane Hollander was already halfway across the ice.
He didn't even make it to Cameau.
Two massive arms wrapped around his waist from behind and practically lifted him off the fucking ice.
Shane's head snapped around.
Marlow.
“Marlow.” Shane's voice was dangerously low. “Unhand me. Right fucking now.”
“No.”
Shane's eyes narrowed.
“Clifford Marlow.”
“No, Shane. You're not fucking full-naming me out of this one.”
Then Shane started fighting.
And Marlow quickly discovered that restraining a genuinely furious Shane Hollander was significantly more difficult than he'd anticipated.
“Shit—someone fucking help me!”
Connors immediately skated in front of Shane, grabbing his left arm, while St-Simmons appeared on his right.
Three professional hockey players.
It took three of them to keep Shane from getting to Cameau.
“LET ME FUCKING GO!”
“No!”
“HE FUCKING HIT HIM! LET ME GET TO THAT FUCKER!”
“No, Shane! You don't get to do this!”
Marlow's grip tightened around his waist.
Shane turned his head and glared at him.
And if Marlow wasn't currently trying to prevent a fucking bloodbath, he probably would've dropped to the ice from that look alone.
But he held on.
“You don't get to fucking do this,” Marlow repeated. “You spent months stopping us from taking stupid fucking penalties every time somebody came after you. You don't get to turn around and do the exact same fucking thing!”
Shane stopped struggling.
For half a second.
Because—
Fuck.
They were right.
He knew they were right.
He'd screamed at these idiots countless times for doing exactly what he was trying to do now. He'd lectured them about stupid penalties. Suspensions. Retaliation. Letting the other team get into their heads.
But then Shane looked past Marlow.
Cameau was smiling.
Smiling.
Shane saw red.
“GET THE FUCK OFF—”
“Shane.”
He froze.
Ilya had skated directly in front of him.
Shane looked into the calm face of his boyfriend.
“Ilya, tell them to let me go.”
“Only when you calm down.”
Shane stared at him.
“Are you fucking serious?! He hit him!”
“I know.”
“Then let me fucking do something!”
“And get yourself thrown out for the rest of the game?”
“I DON'T FUCKING CARE!”
“I do.”
That only made Shane angrier.
“He fucking assaulted him yesterday! They didn't do shit! And now he's doing it again right in front of everyone and you want me to just fucking—”
“Shane Kenji Hollander.”
Shane went completely still.
So did everyone holding him.
Shane's full name was almost never used.
Kenji had been the Japanese middle name his mother had chosen for him, one Shane rarely heard outside of family and official paperwork. His mom's side of the family didn't use middle names, but as Canadian courtesy they had given one to him.
And apparently, Ilya had just decided to weaponize it.
Shane slowly looked up.
Ilya had one eyebrow raised.
Oh.
Fuck him.
“Get yourself under control,” Ilya said calmly. “Let us handle it.”
Shane swallowed.
His breathing was still heavy as he looked around.
At Marlow's arms locked around him.
At Connors and St-Simmons holding either side of him.
At the Voyagers staring at the scene in complete fucking confusion.
At his teammates watching him with genuine concern.
And then—
Mike.
The rookie had skated closer.
His bruised face was pinched with worry, and Shane hated that expression even more than he hated the bruise itself.
Mike looked at him.
The same way Shane had looked at Ilya all those years ago whenever he was silently begging him not now.
“Please don't get in trouble for me.”
Shane's expression cracked.
“Mike—”
“Please, Mom.” Mike swallowed. “I just wanna win. And then go home.”
His mouth twitched into the smallest smile.
“And eat your pasta.”
Fuck.
Shane felt his eyes burn.
His shoulders finally dropped.
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
In.
Out.
Again.
Okay.
“Okay,” he whispered.
Marlow's grip loosened slightly.
Shane opened his eyes.
“Okay. I won't do anything.”
Ilya watched him carefully for another second.
“Good.”
Connors released his arm.
St-Simmons did the same.
Marlow slowly let go of his waist.
Shane bent down and picked up his gloves.
Crisis fucking averted.
Or it would've been.
If Cameau possessed even the smallest amount of self-preservation.
“What's the matter, Shane?”
Everyone froze.
Oh, for fuck's sake.
“Boyfriend got you on a leash like a dog?”
Ilya's head slowly turned.
Shane immediately recognized the look on his boyfriend's face.
Oh.
“Perks of being the captain's bitch, I guess.”
Shane opened his mouth.
Ilya held up one finger.
“No.”
Shane blinked.
“Ilya—”
“You had your turn.”
And before Shane could respond, Ilya skated toward Cameau.
Slowly.
Calmly.
Somehow, that was significantly more intimidating than if he'd charged him.
Cameau's smug expression faltered when Ilya stopped directly in front of him.
Ilya leaned closer.
Cameau actually moved backward.
Good.
Ilya smiled.
It wasn't a nice smile.
“You should stop talking.”
Cameau scoffed, but it didn't have nearly as much confidence behind it now.
Ilya's smile disappeared.
“Because you already have crooked nose from last time.”
Cameau's face hardened.
Ilya leaned in just a little closer.
“And if you keep talking, you are going to wish they had let me keep Hollander on his leash.”
Silence.
Behind them, Marlow made a strangled noise.
Shane slowly turned toward him.
“Don't.”
Marlow covered his mouth.
“I didn't say anything.”
“Your face did.”
And somehow, despite everything, Mike laughed.
The game ended with Boston winning 5–2.
And even though everyone knew Shane had technically been calmed down, they also knew their teammate well enough by now to recognize that the fury hadn't disappeared.
It had simply been buried.
Which was arguably worse.
So when they got back to the locker room and Shane immediately started muttering curses under his breath while aggressively pulling off his gear, twenty-three pairs of ears were listening.
“Fucking Montreal. Fucking Cameau. I'm gonna go into that locker room and fucking kill those bastards. Especially Cameau. Maybe if I just—”
“You're not doing that.”
Shane stopped.
Slowly, he turned around.
A deep furrow appeared between his eyebrows as he stared at his boyfriend.
“What?”
Ilya didn't even look particularly concerned.
“You heard me. You are not doing that.”
Shane scoffed.
He genuinely couldn't believe what he was hearing.
“Okay, first of all—”
“Sit.”
Shane's head snapped toward Marlow.
“…Excuse me?”
“Sit.”
“I'm not fucking sitting.”
Marlow crossed his arms.
“Hollander, I'm not asking you.”
Shane stopped.
So did half the locker room.
Hollander.
Marlow hadn't called him that in months. His last name had practically disappeared from the man's vocabulary somewhere between Jane, Shane, and the unfortunately permanent addition of Mom.
Shane stared at him.
Marlow stared right back.
For once, the six-foot-five idiot didn't back down.
Shane's eyes narrowed.
Marlow raised an eyebrow.
And somewhere beneath all the homicidal rage, Shane had one completely ridiculous thought.
There had once been a time when Clifford Marlow had desperately contacted Jane because he needed someone capable of controlling Ilya Rozanov.
Apparently the fucker had learned too much.
Because now he was using Shane's own shit against him.
“Sit.”
Shane continued glaring.
Marlow pointed toward his stall.
“You heard me, Mom.”
Motherfucker.
Another one of their fucking silent battles.
Finally, Shane huffed.
And sat.
“Good.”
Shane's head snapped up.
“Don't fucking ‘good’ me.”
Marlow wisely chose not to respond.
Connors had been rummaging through Shane's bag during the exchange, and a moment later, he appeared in front of him holding a familiar package.
Shane stared at it.
Freeze-dried candy.
His favorite.
It was a guilty pleasure the team had discovered after one particularly late night at his and Ilya's house, when Shane had gotten a craving and somehow convinced his boyfriend to drive out and find some for him.
Shane looked from the candy to Connors.
Suspiciously.
“What?”
Connors shoved it toward him.
“Eat.”
Shane's eyes widened.
“I'm not hungry—”
“Didn't ask.”
Silence.
Shane looked genuinely offended.
Across the room, Ilya had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.
Oh, this was fantastic.
Shane rolled his eyes before snatching the bag from Connors and ripping it open with significantly more aggression than necessary.
“Fucking ridiculous,” he muttered before shoving a piece into his mouth.
Marlow silently placed a bottle of banana milk beside him.
Shane looked at it.
Then Marlow.
Then back at the banana milk.
“Drink.”
“I swear to fucking God—”
“Mom,” Mike called from across the room.
Shane whipped around.
“What?”
Mike pointed at the bottle.
“Hydrate.”
Shane stared at him in betrayal.
“You too?”
Mike smiled innocently.
“You said Mama Shane had me tonight.”
A few people snorted.
“This is fucking mutiny.”
“Drink your milk, Hollander.”
“Fuck you, Clifford.”
But Shane opened it anyway.
His eyes immediately drifted toward Mike.
The kid was still bruised.
Still had a chipped fucking tooth.
Still—
“I'm okay.”
Shane frowned.
“I didn't ask.”
Mike raised an eyebrow.
Shane blinked.
Oh.
“Don't use my own shit against me.”
“You do it to us.”
“Because none of you know how to take care of yourselves.”
Mike pointed toward the banana milk in Shane's hand.
“Drink.”
Shane's mouth fell open.
“Michael.”
“Mom.”
“Don't.”
Mike smiled.
“We're taking care of you right now.”
Shane opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
“That's not how this works.”
“Apparently it is.”
Shane slowly looked around the room.
Nobody came to his defense.
Not a single fucking person.
Traitors.
Every last one of them.
Ilya was openly smiling now.
“Don't fucking look at me like that.”
“I say nothing.”
“Your face is saying enough.”
Ilya's smile only widened.
Shane grumbled something under his breath and took another drink.
Mike looked incredibly pleased with himself.
“Good.”
Shane nearly choked.
“Oh, fuck all of you.”
Ilya watched quietly from his stall as their team took care of Shane in exactly the same way Shane had spent months taking care of them.
Food.
Something to drink.
Someone making sure he sat his ass down instead of doing something stupid.
Someone else quietly putting his things back into his bag because Shane was too pissed off to notice he'd thrown half of them across his stall.
It was almost fascinating.
Shane looked like an angry fucking kitten.
A very dangerous, incredibly athletic, thirty-something-year-old kitten who could probably kill half the room if he wanted to.
But an angry kitten nonetheless.
He wasn't used to this.
Shane was the one who bossed everyone around.
Shane handed out food.
Shane told people to sit.
Shane said I didn't ask.
Shane confiscated energy drinks and threatened grown men with bag skates and withheld pasta.
Shane took care of them.
Apparently, nobody had ever informed him that it worked both ways.
The locker room door opened.
Everyone looked up.
Coach LeClaire walked inside.
His eyes swept across the room before landing directly on Shane.
Shane immediately became very interested in his freeze-dried candy.
Laurent crossed his arms.
“Hollander.”
Shane sighed.
“Coach.”
“What the fuck was that?”
Shane didn't look up.
“…He hit him.”
“Yes, I fucking know, Shane. I was there.”
Shane's jaw tightened.
Laurent stepped closer.
“You think your reaction was appropriate?”
The room went quiet.
Shane stared at the floor.
For a few seconds, nobody thought he was going to answer.
Then, very quietly—
“…No.”
Every Raider heard it.
Laurent nodded once.
“Neither was mine.”
Shane finally looked up.
Laurent's jaw was tight.
“I spent half the fucking day arguing with the league until they threatened to throw me out of the building.”
“Because they weren't doing anything.”
“I know.”
“He assaulted Mike.”
“I know, Shane.”
“And then he fucking did it again!”
Laurent's expression hardened.
“I know.”
Shane went quiet.
For a moment, neither of them said anything.
Then Laurent's voice lowered.
“You think I'm not fucking furious?”
Shane looked at him.
“Michael is one of my players. One of my kids. I don't give a fuck what some committee says. I'm not dropping this.”
Something in Shane's shoulders loosened.
Just slightly.
Laurent noticed.
“But that's my job. You don't get yourself suspended trying to do it for me.”
Shane looked away.
“…They weren't listening to you.”
“Then I'll make them.”
There was something in Laurent's voice that made Shane believe him.
Maybe because Shane had seen the man halfway over the boards trying to fight another coach before.
Maybe because Laurent LeClaire was just as fucking insane about his players as Shane was.
Like father, like sons.
Apparently that included Mom too.
Laurent held out his hand.
Shane looked at it.
Then at him.
His eyebrows furrowed.
“…What?”
“Phone.”
Shane blinked.
“What?”
“Give me your phone.”
Shane stared at him in disbelief.
“Are you confiscating my fucking phone?!”
“Yes.”
Someone choked behind them.
Shane's mouth fell open.
“Laurent, I'm a grown fucking man!”
“Then you should've acted like one.”
Shane looked personally attacked.
“I didn't even fucking hit him!”
“Because three of your teammates physically restrained you.”
“That is completely irrelevant.”
“Phone.”
“No.”
Laurent raised an eyebrow.
Shane crossed his arms.
And suddenly, everyone was witnessing something they had never expected to see.
Coach LeClaire and Shane Hollander having one of their famous silent battles—
except this time, Shane was losing.
Laurent's hand remained outstretched.
“You're grounded until you can think of a proper way to apologize.”
Shane's eyes nearly popped out of his head.
“GROUNDED?!”
Marlow immediately turned around because he was absolutely going to fucking lose it.
“I'm thirty-fucking-something years old!”
“Congratulations.”
“You cannot ground me!”
“Apparently I can.”
“Coach—”
“No buts, ifs, or whatever other bullshit you're about to give me. I didn't ask.”
Shane's mouth snapped shut.
The room went fucking silent.
I didn't ask.
Oh.
Laurent had used his own fucking line against him.
Shane stared at Coach.
Coach stared back.
Finally, Shane reached into his pocket.
Grumbling something in Japanese that nobody was entirely sure they wanted translated, he slapped his phone into Laurent's palm.
“Good.”
Shane's glare could've killed him.
Laurent walked away completely unbothered.
And that's when everyone saw it.
Shane Hollander.
Former captain of the Montreal Voyagers.
Multiple-time Stanley Cup champion.
One of the best players in the NHL.
The man who had somehow tamed Ilya Rozanov.
The man who had tamed twenty-two Boston Raiders.
The man who had even managed to tame the famously unhinged Laurent LeClaire.
Was sitting in his stall.
Arms crossed.
Freeze-dried candy in his lap.
Banana milk beside him.
Phone confiscated.
Pouting.
Marlow stared.
His eyes widened.
“Oh my God.”
Shane's glare snapped toward him.
“Don't.”
“Are you—”
“Marley.”
“You're fucking pouting.”
“Shut the fuck up.”
That did it.
The locker room fucking exploded.
Shane sank farther into his stall as twenty-two grown men laughed at him, Mike nearly doubled over despite the pain in his cheek, and Ilya looked at his boyfriend with so much fucking amusement and love that Shane briefly considered breaking up with him on principle.
“I hate all of you.”
“Love you too, Mom!”
“Fuck off!”
Ilya finally crossed the room and stopped in front of him.
Shane looked up.
Still pouting.
Ilya leaned down and kissed his forehead.
“You take care of us, малыш.”
Shane's expression softened despite his best efforts.
Ilya smiled.
“We take care of you too.”
Shane went still.
And maybe that was the part he'd never really considered.
He'd gotten so used to being the person everyone came to.
The one with the food.
The Band-Aids.
The advice.
The threats.
The hugs nobody ever mentioned afterward.
Somewhere along the way, Shane had decided that loving these people meant it was his responsibility to keep all of them standing.
He hadn't realized they'd made the same decision about him.
Shane looked around the room.
At Mike, bruised but smiling.
At Marlow, still laughing.
At Connors, who had apparently taken it upon himself to make sure Shane finished his snack.
At Laurent, standing near the door with Shane's fucking phone tucked safely into his pocket.
At his idiots.
His team.
His family.
His.
And apparently—
Shane swallowed.
He was theirs too.
Fuck.
Shane sighed.
“…I'm still killing Cameau.”
“SHANE!”
“I'M FUCKING JOKING!”
He wasn't.
But they didn't need to know that.
And that was how twenty-three Boston Raiders learned something very important.
Shane Hollander might've spent months taming every single one of them.
But when Mom finally went feral?
Apparently, it took the whole fucking family to tame him.
In case of Shane Hollander, contact the Boston Raiders.