Chapter Text
August 2007
Monday
Shane woke up later than he meant to. He never slept in, but he had spent the entirety of Sunday at the rink, pushing his body to an exhaustion that had his mom driving out of her way to pick him up because he was already too sore to metro home.
Usually, sleeping through an alarm would be fine, because Shane’s parents would shake him up, but Yuna and David were in Ottawa already. They were probably walking around some too-small flat that his dad had resigned himself to live in from Monday to Thursday for the next two years.
He sat hunched over the kitchen island with his hands digging into his eyes for far too long. He had wanted to get conditioning in before his meeting with his new coach and Leary, but he’d let the morning swirl away from him with the coffee that had gone cold beside his elbow.
The metro was humid and made his skin glisten with sweat like he’d walked through a steam room. There was a strange weight in his stomach, a weird tiredness that was alien to Shane’s body. His thoughts came in whisps; none of them opaque enough to spin into a spiral.
Shane did his best not to think about it at all. Sometimes an image of Ilya’s anger-flushed cheeks and his stuttering eyes slipped into the forefront of Shane’s mind with a bout of unease. When it happened, Shane’s hands curled into fists, and he blinked until his head emptied again. When shutting his eyes didn’t work, he would bite out a fuck, which worked well, but got a lot of weird looks on the metro.
He wrung his hands out and shook Ilya off of him with it. There was an achiness to the air, and he was glad the city was cloud-covered for the past two days, because his eyes wouldn’t have tolerated the sun well.
Part of Shane could settle into the fact that Ilya had dotted their i’s and crossed their t’s. He needed to focus on hockey, and school, now that Fall was quickly approaching. At least Ilya had killed the mortifying butterflies that had found a home under his skin.
He told himself it was good, in a lot of ways. That he wouldn’t have Ilya disrupting his usual routines. Without the constant distraction Shane could start feeling like his regular self again. It should have felt embarrassing in hindsight. Just because Ilya was fucking allergic to being agreeable didn’t mean Shane had to entertain it all summer long.
He didn’t look up at the back entrance to the rink until he was right in front of it, which he immediately regretted as his line-of-sight landed on Ilya Rozanov leaning against the door.
An exhaustion shattered on Shane’s head, and the shards of it tumbled over his body cutting into him at awkward angles.
Ilya hadn’t noticed him yet, and part of Shane wanted to back away from Ilya slowly.
Ilya had a camera bag tucked under his arm, and his proper gear bag by his feet. Shane had seen the gear bag once before, when it was empty and shoved beneath the bed at Andrei’s apartment. It was full to the brim now, and Shane was glad his rink would no longer have a cubby full of the boys' things, that he wouldn't have to see a stupid label that said Ilya R.
Ilya was in sweatpants and that teal-shirt he always wore to the rink. The shirt had a toothpaste stain down the front of it, and it looked wrinkled as it hung loosely over his torso.
Shane’s eyes dragged up slowly and his stomach clenched in queasy anticipation as he grazed up Ilya’s neck and was finally landing at the boy's face.
Ilya had noticed him finally; his eyes were ridiculously green, probably because there was a stark redness around their edges. He’d probably smoked more of Andrei’s weed, or maybe he’d been out all night, keeping himself up doing anything but what would actually be good for his hockey.
“Shane,” he said practically jumping off the door. Restlessness was radiating off of him. The discomfort flung off of Ilya as he moved and burrowed into Shane’s skin, it made him want to peel the top layer off.
“Hi,” Shane said tersely with a sidestep as Ilya stumbled into his space.
He wanted nothing to do with this.
Ilya moved in front of the door.
“You can’t block the door,” Shane sighed.
“Wait-I know. Just… can I say sorry?” Ilya rushed out.
Shane’s jaw was a little sore, he looked at the grit-covered gravel beneath them as he let out an exhale that communicated exactly how happy he was to have this conversation.
“I don’t know, can you?” He muttered a little immaturely.
Ilya’s brow furrowed in confusion, “I-yes? Or I… what?” He said his eyes flickering across Shane’s face.
Shane felt a fuzzy static dullness in him as he watched Ilya stare at him expectantly. He didn’t need to force his face into something impassive; it already took too much effort to emote.
“Well?” Shane prompted.
Ilya glanced around the parking lot, then briefly at Shane. He eventually scornfully glared at his own hands.
“What?” Ilya asked again, his head pulling up.
“What are you sorry for?” Shane said, a little patronizingly “for being a dick? Or are you still just sorry that ‘the truth hurt my feelings’?”
Ilya’s face hollowed out; Shane could tell he was biting on the inside of his cheeks.
“For—“Ilya started, “for being a dick.” He said concentrating “I didn’t- I mean, I was… or Saturday had— “
“Great.” Shane said with authority, “You’re sorry. Awesome. Can you move?” He said, waving his hand past Ilya’s shoulder to point at the door.
“Just—wait a second!” Ilya said, his frustration building.
“I don’t want to hear it.” He mumbled “You can feel sorry about it on the train,” he added in a clearer breath.
Ilya’s lips pressed together harshly, “I am not— I can’t-“ he let out what was probably a string of Russian curses.
“This isn’t my problem.” Shane said plainly. His voice came out level despite the insecurity clawing at his throat. His stomach twisted in a way that begged him to ask Ilya why he said all that, if he meant it, in a way that made Shane want to yank him forwards and forgive him. He knew better, though.
“I know!” Ilya huffed, “just-I am trying to—sorry—I am trying to—“ his voice was fading in and out, like it was pouring through a stereo as the satellite drifted further away.
“I have a meeting,” Shane said exasperated “Do you have something to say, or no?”
”Yes!” Ilya almost shouted, his own irritation building “I just, the words—my English is not…”
“Your English was perfect on Saturday,” Shane scoffed, his eyes narrowing “you’re so full of shit,” he added, shouldering past him.
Ilya deployed I don’t understand with coaches and teammates whenever he wanted to avoid getting in trouble. This was no different. It was fucking cheap.
“Shane, wait-“ Ilya said, turning around, pushing forwards.
For a second Shane thought he might reach out to grab him.
He thought of Ilya clinging to his shirt after J.J.’s, tugging him in, then shoving him off.
He spun around to glare at him.
There was an intensity in Ilya’s face that Shane couldn’t quite name.
“I need to say something” Ilya added urgently.
“What? Do you want to call me a fag some more?” Shane said in a hissed whisper.
He almost laughed when Ilya flinched away at that.
Fucking hypocrite.
“I— I fucking invited you to my cottage—“ he said bringing a hand up to his forehead, “Just-whatever,” he clipped “good luck in Toronto”
“Wait! I’m wanting to—” Ilya started, following Shane’s wake as he opened the door.
“I don’t care, Ilya! I’m not gonna tell you it's fine.” Shane relented, “you were really fucking mean.” He said unable to hide the hurt in his voice.
“I know that!” Ilya responded “Just” he paused, he took a slow breath “I need you-“
Shane’s hands flew up to his hairline “that is so unfair!” He interrupted in a low shout, his decorum spinning away from him.
Ilya blinked back, his mouth opening and then clamping shut.
“You can’t…you can’t say all that shit and then ask me to make you feel better!” Shane said in a quiet hiss.
“I’m not doing this” Ilya protested, his eyes narrowing in a vexed position.
“You are.” Shane laughed, “and I have a meeting, and I don’t want to do this for you. You fucked up,”
“I know-I know—and I am wanting to, no I… want to-” his accent thickened, and his hand bunched in the fabric of his own shirt “I want to, um—like” his eyes tentatively caught on Shane’s.
Shane looked away, he wasn’t going to help Ilya fucking apologize to him, and he wasn’t convinced he even wanted to decode whatever it was Ilya was trying to convey.
“You can stop, okay? I’m not—It’s not like I’m surprised. It’s fine. I expected this.” he said shortly “Even Svetlana warned me,” he added, only remembering it now as he stared at the gravel.
He can make people feel very special. He can also take that away.
He didn’t even look up to see Ilya’s face when he let out a Russian phrase in a small voice.
Looking up would make him angry, or forgiving, or pathetic.
“Just—fuck, I need to go,” he rushed out as emotion threatened to rise up his throat, he opened the door, and slipped through it without glancing at Ilya again.
A sort of panicked adrenaline shot through him the moment the latch clicked. His feet flung out from beneath him. His chest heaved as he stood tucked in the staircase to the rinks VIP box. His arms moved out and in as his chest heaved. The air in the arena was suddenly dry, it slunk down his throat and sucked all the moisture out of it. His muscles tightened until he was able to blink the moisture gathering at the corners of his eyes into his lashes rather than down his cheeks. He bit down hard, clenching his teeth, and though he was furious with himself for exploding outwards like this, he was glad he at least held it together while Ilya was in front of him.
He moved his hands in a frantic banishing motion at his sides again, shaking harder and harder like he could erase all the times he’d touched the boy carefully.
He closed his eyes and took practiced breaths until he felt certain he looked put together enough to go meet with Leary and his new CHL coach.
The meeting droned on, and Shane was only half in it. Leary mostly answered questions for Shane. He ran over how Shane’s play had developed over the summer, and he did feel a small swell of pride, but it couldn’t surge into anything meaningful with the weird thrumming dread his morning encounter Ilya had triggered.
Leary kept glancing over at him in a way that suggested he could tell Shane wasn't fully present, but his new coach seemed satisfied enough that Leary's looks stayed private.
Afterward, Shane walked the ring. Not for any reason. His feet just didn't want to go to the locker room yet.
He thought about the way Ilya always tugged at the hem of his shirt when his words were actually disappearing beneath his tongue. He wracked his brain trying to remember if Ilya had been fidgeting this morning, but he’d been so stuck on saying the right things he hadn’t really looked at him. He swallowed down any sort of guilt, he wouldn’t let himself do that, he wouldn’t let himself absorb Ilya’s fuck up as if it were his fault.
Shane bit the inside of his cheek and kept walking.
Even when Ilya’s words were failing him, he always found some sort of way to get his point across. He used gestures, or described things circularly until Shane was able to figure it out. If he had actually wanted Shane to piece something together, Ilya would’ve given him the tools to do so.
Ilya was always able to use his words well enough to get what he wanted.
So.
Shane stilled in the hallway as he heard the now familiar sound of the Rozanov brothers having a screaming match.
His throat tightened with secondhand embarrassment. He couldn’t imagine shouting with his parents so publicly, and as an only child he knew there were things about siblings he’d never understand, but it didn’t seem particularly relevant in this situation.
Shane peeked out from around the corner to see Andrei dragging Ilya from the locker room to the exit. Ilya walked with his head bowed, his bag slung over Andrei’s shoulder.
He watched closely, his stomach twisting with something he couldn’t quite name.
In that strange paranormal compulsion that had surrounded them all summer, Ilya’s head jerked in Shane’s direction.
He ducked out of Andrei’s grasp for a second. Shane swallowed, he thought for a moment Ilya was about to run straight at him.
Instead, Shane watched as Ilya’s eyes brimmed full of horror, or regret, or maybe something like shame.
Shane swallowed, it felt disproportionate, to the situation.
A strange feeling settled on his skin, his hand reached for the collar of his own shirt, as if he were expecting Ilya’s chain to be there.
Ilya looked like he wanted to say something but Andrei glanced over his shoulder, and Ilya in an obedient stride was at his side again.
Shane winced back into action at the sound of the door closing.
Shane finished his work out alone in the conditioning room. He felt almost stuffed up. He was annoyed with himself for already softening to Ilya. He was so fucking pathetic.
The feeling of impending doom didn’t lift off his shoulders. Not when the endorphins should have kicked in, not when Hayden perched onto the machine next to him, and not when of the older boys on his new junior's teams tossed him a paper with the code for all of the QMJHL-only spaces.
Shane meandered the rink, exploring the rooms he hadn’t been in before now that he had the passkey. He was supposed to be excited, he was supposed to feel some sort of satisfaction, but the new locker room looked the same as his last one.
He recognized a few of the older guys. His junior's team had a lot more kids who had gone to his high school than his previousteam. Probably because his school had a program for athletes, so the kind of players who’d make juniors often transferred over.
The day passed by too slowly and also all at once, until the evening finally arrived, and Shane found himself caught in the parking lot again.
He turned over his shoulder at the sound of his own name.
He squinted at the figure waving him over, he knew he was supposed to know that guy's name. Something with an L, Liam maybe.
The guy was jogging over in a way that glued Shane to his spot. He narrowed his eyes at the group of guys the boy had been standing with. They were staring over at him too, in a way that made Shane bring his hand to rest on his neck in a protective sort of motion.
One of them was a goalie from camp, one of them he thought he maybe saw at Jackie’s party back in June, he didn’t know any of their names.
“Hey,” Shane nodded. As the boy settled in front of him, he shifted his weight forwards and back.
He couldn’t piece together what this kid wanted from him.
“Hollander,” the boy greeted.
“Congrats on making it to the CHL,” he continued, sounding sincere.
Shane smiled awkwardly, “yeah thanks,”
“Just, um. I know we’re not on the same team or whatever, but I’m in your corner.” He said with a hesitant clap to Shane’s shoulder.
“What?” Shane responded, glancing over his shoulder. He blinked and waited for his brain to fill in the information he was very clearly missing.
He couldn’t think of anything that he could slot in to make sense of the situation in front of him.
“I mean… like, I’m sure loads of the guys at the rink will be assholes. But um, my sisters a lezzy, so I sort of get it. You’re still—.” He paused squinting as he spoke “Just uh, it doesn’t change anything, man.” He said with a self-important nod.
It hit like a puck to the face. Shane’s lung collapsed, his tongue swelled up in his mouth, all the moisture in his eyes vanished, leaving them painfully dry. His body shook in an unsteady tremor, the kind of shaking you get before you puke.
He swallowed. Maybe he misunderstood. He took an inhale and pinched his wrist.
Fuck.
“Good for her?” He pushed out.
He glanced around the carpark; nobody was looking at him really. It must have been some kind of misunderstanding.
His stomach lurched, and before Liam could say anything else, he opened his mouth again “I have to go. Um—see you around,” he rushed out.
If running in a backpack weren’t one of the most humiliating things Shane could imagine he would’ve sprinted all the way to the metro, instead he slipped his sweatshirt back on, and despite his skin still being flushed from cardio, and the twenty-eight-degreeweather, he tugged his hood up.
Tuesday
Shane woke up early. Really early. He wanted to feel a bit exhausted. He wanted to walk to the rink. He ate oatmeal on his bedroom floor. There was something too empty about his family's kitchen right now. It was strange, usually he loved being left home alone, but he wanted nothing more than to rest his forehead on his mother's shoulder.
He went on a run up the mountain, his thighs burned as he sprinted up a staircase to the lodge on top. He kept pushing through episodes of vertigo thinking about that boy from the rink, his hand clapping Shane’s shoulder.
It had to be some sort of coincidence. It had to be some sort of mistake.
He misunderstood.
It was some sort of weird prank.
He blinked cold water into his eyes and hunched over his bathroom sink as he washed his face. He had no idea how long he’dbeen home for; he had no idea how long he had run for.
He walked all the way to the rink. He dragged himself into a Depanneur and bought a Gatorade, which was incredibly unlike himself.
Ilya drank Gatorade. The blue one.
Shane brought the yellow one. He thought maybe it would help settle the weird aching that had been pulsing where his spine met his skull for the past four days.
It coated his tongue in sugar, and it soured as he swallowed. It did nothing for his headache. It made his nausea worse.
He made it to the rink at a reasonable hour. He had to move his stuff from his U17 cubby to his junior-team locker. He had to pick up his new jersey. He wasn’t sure why he wasn’t excited.
He saw that the rink schedule was posted for August through to the start of the real season in October. He paused at the bulletin board, his eyes grazing over it. He would have to try and remember the important things so he could relay them to his mom over the phone later.
He stood for long enough that his body swayed without his permission.
He blinked back into the space and headed towards the locker room.
“Shane!” Hayden’s voice cried out.
Hayden appeared at his shoulder, his hair sticking to his forehead a bit, despite the air conditioning.
“You okay?” Shane asked, taking in Hayden’s flushed and glistening skin.
” Yeah, yeah. Just where are you uh off to?” He saidYeah, yeah. Just where are you uh off to?” He said leaning on the wall.
His foot darted out to stop Shane from walking forwards.
“I was gonna move my shit,” Shane responded, puzzled.
“Right just um, there’s- someone’s sick in there.” Hayden said a little panicked sounding “I was just in the locker room, and like Leblanc is shooting out—“
“Okay gross, Hayd,” he said, his lip curling.
They stood in a strange and needling silence.
“Is it fine to go in super quick though? I wanted to get ice time—“
“J.J. was in there already, he could bring it out, we could call-“ Hayden said quickly.
Tingles ran down Shane’s back, he rolled his shoulders and instinctively looked over them. His head swung back to look at Haydenwho seemed incredibly uneasy.
Shane narrowed his eyes and took a step forward, towards the locker room.
Hayden pushed off the wall instinctively blocking Shane’s path.
“Hayden.” Shane said harshly, batting at the boy's arm.
“Just—you really shouldn’t go in there-“ Hayden said again, his voice tight.
“What the fuck.” He gritted out, “what’s going on?” He pressed.
“Nothing! Seriously, Leblanc is just…” Hayden’s voice trailed off as Leblanc and Lemaire crossed in front of them, notably not emerging from the locker room, their heads down as they looked at something in Lemaire’s hands.
Shane picked his speed up.
“Shane-“ Hayden said stressed “Don’t go in there-“ he warned again, his own stride lengthening.
Though he wasn’t proud of it, Shane broke into something that was sort of a half-run.
Hayden was at his tail, stammering out warnings and excuses, but they both knew Shane would be swinging through the locker room door.
“Hayd where the fuck have you been!” J.J.’s voice called sounding agitated.
Shane turned the corner, his core fully engaged as if waiting for someone to sucker-punch him.
It did nothing to weaken the blow.
J.J. glanced up immediately, alarmed as his eyes traced Shane’s figure.
He was surrounded by clothes, pieces of paper, and hockey gear.
Shane’s bag was deflated on the locker room floor, his shit spread across the space as J.J. sat cross legged by the bag trying to re-pack it.
“What’s going on?” Shane demanded his voice strained.
J.J.’s face grayed, he sucked his lips in for a moment and stared at the ground.
“I don’t know,” he said his own voice breaking.
J.J. Had a terrified look in his rounding eyes. He had always been horribly empathetic.
”Fuck” Shane cursed catching sight of his fleece that sat in a soaking pile beneath a row of showers “fuck” he said quieter digging his right hand into his left trap with enough to pressure to make it impossible for him to cry.
“What the fuck!” He said a crazed laugh escaping his throat.
Hayden came behind him and brought his hand up towards Shane's shoulder. He batted it away without even glancing. He spun in a slow circle around the space, he had socks scattered across the room, his good tape was entirely used up, wrapping across the front of empty lockers, his baggy of helmet screws had been emptied, his mouth guard sat on the floor in front of one of the stall bathrooms.
He couldn’t hear. He might as well have been standing on a plane strip; some sort of commercial jet perpetually zooming over his head. The breaths he took weren’t quite reaching his lungs. He blinked in quick succession until he felt like the lights were actually flickering on and off.
He took inventory of everything on the floor; Ilya’s cornflower blue shirt was missing.
“When did this happen?” Shane asked, his voice was raw.
Hayden and J.J. shared a look.
“Guys,” Shane said sharply.
“This morning, I think,” Hayden said commiseratively.
“Maybe at some point yesterday,” J.J. added “I came early today,” he said in a tight voice.
“Why?” Shane pressed, and he felt like wind was picking up around him, it was still hard to hear. He thought he already knew the answer.
“Nobody told us shit,” Hayden said, crossing the locker room and picking up Shane’s fleece with a wince.
“How long have you guys been here.” Shane insisted.
J.J. looked down, “it was just more tape,” he said quietly.
Shane could feel his heartbeat in every part of his body, it pounded in his left calf, and suddenly it was cramping in a way that made it hard to stand, he let out a strange noise of anguish as pain fire up his leg. He tripped forward, and landed in the arms of shame, he didn’t want to see the pitying looks on J.J. and Hayden’s faces.
His eyes landed on his emptied cubby. In thick sharpie, seeping into the woodgrain somebody had scribbled “omo”, tacking it on to the end of Shane H.
“Get out.” He said urgently, “Can you guys get the fuck out?” He added, his voice still wrecked.
“Shane-“ Hayden started carefully.
“Get the fuck out!” Shane felt himself shout, the sound didn’t meet his ears, with each step towards his cubby it felt like he was stepping on pieces of broken glass, he could hear that: the crunching of his feet, drips of blood spilling on the floor. The room smelt and tasted like blood too, a thick metallic tanginess replacing Shane’s saliva.
J.J. and Hayden left the room together.
Shane picked his things up off the floor methodically. He folded his shirts. He put his socks back into pairs. He had to lie on the bathroom floor to dislodge his coin-pouch from where it was tucked behind a toilet.
He couldn’t hear his own thoughts, he couldn’t see his own hands.
He threw his fleece into the trash bin. His mom would have wanted him to salvage it probably. He didn’t want to look at it again. His nose twitched as he broke his nail scratching the sticker off of his cubby. His eyes stung, he wasn’t going to fucking cry. He wouldn’t.
He took a deep breath and pressed his head hard into the cubby-edge.
His hand scratched his neck. He wanted to get out of his shirt, now that it had been on the fucking locker room floor, but all of his changes of clothes had been there too.
He went home early, he carried all his gear with him.
Wednesday
Shane woke up in his parents' bed, his eyes are stuck together, and his headache is back with a vengeance.
He had to go to the rink to pass his C on to the new captain of the U17 team. It’s the first time he didn’t want to go to hockey since he was an over-sensitive and perpetually outcasted kid
He thought about his mother while he remade her bed. He thought about the way she walked into rooms with her back straight and her chin up even though she was often the smallest person there. He thought about the grace she deployed when she was underfire.
He thought about that horrible kid—Brett Cormie—that was on his U14 team, back in middle school.
He’d gotten the team into the habit of mispronouncing Shane’s last name. His parents had been appalled, fairly. When Shane had come home with tears he refused to shed in his eyes, and R’s taped over the L’s on his team hoodie.
Nobody took his mother seriously when she insisted it had been a malicious act of racism.
After the meeting with their coaches went astray, Cormie’s mom took every chance she got to jab at Yuna.
His mother still showed up to the games and sat next to his teammates' catty mothers. She was scathingly refined. She stepped on people's toes only by walking perfectly in line until their frustration pushed them into her way.
Shane had been told he was a lot like his mother.
He bit the inside of his cheek the whole walk to the rink. His gear bag was freshly washed, along with everything inside of it. He was relieved nobody had gone as far as messing with his skates. He ignored the dryness of his throat, and the pain between his brows, and the way his skin tingled with new levels of anxiety.
He was always anxious. He wasn’t stupid, he knew that about himself, but this was a corporeal nervousness, as if there was some sort of wildcat stalking him, as if some sort of beast had its eyes on him, and he only could sense it subconsciously.
His new locker room had doors on the cubby. He’d gone to Pharmaprix late the night before to buy a lock.
Hayden wouldn't be at the rink today. J.J. was bringing his stuff to his new arena in Laval. It was better that way though, to have nobody there to fight his battles for him.
He wrung his hands out and paced around his new uninhabited locker room.
He clutched the C with a force so hard his hand cramped as he walked down the hallway.
He kept checking over his shoulders. He swallowed too many times as he walked the few metres down the hall.
He ducked his head as he walked through the door, his heart pounded expectantly in his chest.
He tried to clear his head in that apex-focus sort of way, but his head only cleared in a bunny-stuck-in-the-middle-of-the-freeway sort of way.
His eyes found his old cubby immediately. Something settled in him a little bit when he saw a new name already tacked onto it, something else was thrashing in him where the black sharpie ink was still visible behind the white sticker.
He cleared his throat, and tapped at Leblanc’s shoulder.
Leblanc was one school-grade younger than Shane, and had another year left on the team. It was weird seeing some of the guys he’d played with all the way up until now standing with the roster they’d always referred to as ‘the younger boys’.
Leblanc made a whistling noise capturing the groups attention.
He pulled Shane up onto a bench.
“Hey! Our fucken former captain has a speech for us” he hollered.
Shane shot him an appreciative look.
Which was reciprocated, but Shane didn’t miss the awkward distance between them.
He’d never been close with Leblanc, but Leblanc always had his arm slung around shoulders, or his hand clapping on backs. The ruler’s worth of space between them was a canyon.
Shane coughed in his hand to disguise the fact that he was gagging on his own bile.
The boys gathered around them, and Shane exhaled and wrung his hand out, trying to regulate himself.
He cleared his throat again.
“I’m not gonna make this long because nobody wants that.” Shane said lightly, his tone much brighter than he’d actually felt in days.
“This team’s been great to me, the coaches, the guys, um the side-of-ice team. You’ll learn a lot here, like hockey, and how many French swear words the Anglo staff don’t know.”
There were a few huffs of laughter, and Shane finally let his shoulders drop.
He’d fucking prepped his stupid speech back when he’d taken the C from Barza.
“I know Leblanc will be good to you guys. Um, I’m not going to lecture you on what wearing the C means. Obviously it means captain.” He said in a playfully monotone way as he passed the sleeve to Leblanc.
Through the quiet Shane picked up on someone whispering something about the C being for something that involved the word cock, and his stomach dropped.
His head turned suspiciously as he tried to find out where he had heard it but everyone was watching him expectantly.
“Um,” he muttered, the room was spinning again, there was a whistle in his ear “I mean,” he cleared his throat.
“Can you finish your gay-ass speech faster!” Someone called from the back of the room.
Shane’s head snapped, his eyes locking with Fredericks, one of the back-up goalies.
His throat tightened.
He glanced around in what he hoped was well concealed terror as snickers spread through the crowd. The laughter sounded loud in Shane’s mind, amplified by his dizziness, or maybe everybody was finding the humour in it.
“Alright! Cut it out” Shane demanded a little unsteadily, “a speech is tradition” he insisted his throat was too tight to guard his dignity, his stomach churned as the group continued their low and cruel conversations. Nobody was fucking paying attention anymore.
“Just, don’t fucking ruin our winning streak,” he said cutting his speech short “allez les royaux” he added flatly, nobody replied, he could only hear his heartbeat and low murmured chirps.
His stomach lurched; he turned to Leblanc.
“I’m not gay,” he said in a forceful voice.
Leblanc looked down at the floor, his weight shifting as he stepped off the bench.
Shane followed suit and flinched as the guy closest to him jolted away.
“I mean, buddy, there’s a video,” Leblanc quipped, his tone edging to mockery.
Thursday
“What am I doing?” Shane said harshly, “in the fucking video,” he added.
Jensen squirmed away from Shane’s hand which was clutching the front of his jersey.
His brow furrowed, and then he let out a gasping laugh, his eyes widening in recognition.
“How many gay videos of you are there?” He said his jaw hinging open in an almost joyful way.
Shane shoved at him with the flat of his hand.
“Fuck off” he gritted out, “fucking show me.” He added.
“Why? So you can get off to it?” The boy jeered.
Shane went in with his forearm, but Jensen moved out of the way on time.
“I don’t have it,” he said plainly.
“Who does,” Shane hissed. He already knew the answer to the question.
The guy shrugged, “I think it was Rozy’s.” He glanced away, then he turned back with a wicked grin “Actually, I heard you wanted to suck his dick,”
Shane's stomach clenched so hard and fast he thought his heart would stop beating..
“What?’ He said, his voice cracking more than he wanted it to.
“You fucking heard me, fag” the boy snarked, finally having startled Shane enough to shove himself out of Shane’s grasp.
Shane yanked him back and his fist collided with the boy's nose before he knew what was happening.
Shane’s knuckles screeched in delight. His hands didn’t have the tick to start their nervous wringing. The screeching in his ears only got louder though.
“You’re fucking dead Hollander,” Jensen snarled, fury in his eyes, he was clutching his bleeding face in a weakly positioned hand, blood dripping down his neck as it slipped beneath his pinkie finger.
Shane clearly had made a stupid fucking decision. But he was always good at picking up on his cue to leave. He turned on his heel and sprinted away.
He stilled in a staircase to catch his breath.
He had his first practice with the junior team that morning. It had gone terribly.
The behaviour was fine on ice.
Aside from the slashing.
Or the unnecessary slams into the boards.
Or iff he ignored the relentless chirping.
It certainly could have been worse.
It could have been a lot worse.
At least that’s what Shane had to tell himself.
His breathing had been so erratic he was certain his lungs were bruised from hammering against his rib cage.
He sat with a spinning head against the wall for what felt like a few minutes.
It must’ve been much longer, because he heard thundering footsteps, and the cruel laughter of some sort of gaggle of boys.
He heard the nasally sound of Jensen’s too-loud voice, and it shocked him into motion. He scurried out of the stairway, and darted to the nearest hall. He should have fucking left the rink.
He swallowed hard, he was at what was basically a dead end. He could go into the rink, into the locker room, or into a fucking closet.
He burst into the locker room and shut himself in the second to last bathroom stall. He pulled his feet up as he sat on the toilet lid,he brought a fist to his mouth to silence his stuttering breathing when the door slammed open.
“Are you sure he didn’t go home?” One of the older players said, bored.
“Holy Holly never goes home early,” Lemaire parroted.
Fuck. Lemaire?
Shane brought a second hand over his mouth as he heaved into them.
“Holy Holly?” Jensen snorted, “nothing fucking holy about being a fucking homo”
“I don’t know, I heard priests like little boys” somebody snickered.
His nose burned, and his jaw hurt from clenching his teeth down. His hand was digging into the skin by his lips so hard he thought he’d rip a layer off if he ever got to pull them away.
“Homo Holly?’ A third voice offered.
His lung burnt from holding his breath.
“Hollander!!!” Someone sang.
Shane's core hurt from engaging so hard, he felt a bead of sweat trickle down the back of his neck, and he tilted his head to look at the ceiling as his face squeezed shut until his eyes hurt.
He tried to silence the question. He tried not to think about what they wanted from him. What they wanted to do to him.
He choked a little, and his body tremorred as he suppressed a cough. Fuck his lungs burnt.
The voices were still swirling around him, but the ringing in his ears was too loud to splice out any real words.
His foot was slipping, he realized. His foot was fucking slipping.
He bit down on his tongue. He tried not to listen as the group talked about different ways they could haze him.
He shifted his foot as quietly as he could, his hands pressing so hard into his mouth he wondered if his teeth were flaring backwards. He had to though, because he couldn’t bite back a fearful noise for any longer.
It died against his palm.
He heard one of the bathroom stall doors bang open.
It smacked against the stall with a noise that made Shane’s heart squeeze for a moment, then pain burst into his chest. He wondered if that was what a heart attack felt like. As he thought about the sensation it happened again, this time with such force his shoulders curled in and his head bowed, his body trying to protect his chest from strikes that weren’t real.
“Nobodies down here,” the guy groaned, his voice pouring in low, like he was checking the gaps under the stalls.
“Well we’ve got all year,”
“He’s fucking here somewhere, I know it” Jensen gritted out.
“You sound so sure Jenny… is he waiting in the showers for you?” someone teased.
Shane’s hands started shaking as the voices grew distant. There was some stupid joke about dropping soap in the shower.
He stayed stone still for thirty seconds after the door clicked shut.
A guttural sound escaped him when he finally slumped down, his feet on the floor, sitting on the fucking toilet seat with his clothes on.
He stayed put until M. Grandchamp came in to clean the locker room.
He got home around midnight, and he let himself sob at the door, his head bent, pressed into his forearms, which were strewn across his knees.
He had to cook dinner. He had to make sure all the doors were locked. He wanted his dad to be home. He missed his mom.
He could have called their cellphones. They wouldn’t mind being disturbed so late. Not when Shane was like this.
But then he’d have to tell them. His body released a groan of pain at the thought, it struck his chest in a dizzying hit.
He used his cell phone to call the landline, he listened to it ring through the house, he let out a wail of anguish when his parents horribly cheesy voicemail message spilt into his ear.
Friday
Leary’s office was too small. But also, it felt a little safer. Safer than the locker room at least.
Shane sat on his hands so the tremor wasn’t visible. He sat with his jaw set.
His hair was greasy. He needed to shower. He hadn’t showered in two days. Which was more than abnormal, because usually he showered at the rink as well as at home.
“Kid, there’s been some complaints,” Leary said his voice tight.
Shane hummed, but it came out pained, he hinged forwards his elbow darting out against the desk so he could catch his head with his palm.
He nodded into it, he couldn’t look at Leary. He wouldn’t look the man in the eyes.
“locker room concerns,” he added, clearing his throat “there’s been an ask that you use the handicap stall… just for a bit, I’m sure whatever is going on will blow over.”
Tell me you’re on my side.
Shane willed.
Tell me you’ll ask them to stop.
Help me.
He bit his tongue.
He drowned Leary out.
His mom would know what to say.
He would never fucking tell her about this.
He couldn’t tell anyone.
What the fuck would he say.
You were all fucking right about Ilya Rozanov. I am naive, and too trusting, and I’m a fucking stupid gay kid with a disgusting crush, and now I’ve ruined the only place I’ve ever fit into.
He needed a plan.
A really good one.
Like, a really good plan. The best plan. A plan as good as his hockey was.
He sucked on his bottom lip.
When his parents weren’t sure if his dad would be able to come home at all during the week, they’d talked to the coach of the Ottawa Groundhogs. It was a last resort, a good team. Known for favouritism.
That was okay, though. Shane was always his coaches favourite.
“Ottawa” he blurted out, his head jerking up to look at Leary, “My dad has to move to Ottawa,” he said again, he swallowed hard “I might go with them. So I don’t have to worry about CEGEP” he supplied his voice flat “So I can graduate school and just do hockey, I don’t need such an in depth back up plan” he continued.
“Shane—“ Leary started.
Shane licked his lips, his eyes were tracked on Leary’s name plate “I think it would be better for my career.” He said sharply “in Ottawa.” He supplied, “I don’t agree with their coaching style… like, morally, but it would be good for me. The one on one time” he rattled off.
He nodded to himself “Is that still an option?” He said staring into Leary’s eyes with more desperation than he would like to acknowledge.
“I think so,” Leary responded tensely.
Shane called his parents that night.
He told them he didn’t want the family split up. That the coaching style was better for him. That he wouldn’t be playing with anyone he actually liked in Montreal anyways. That it would be good to meet more players and coaches, that he’d be better connected in the MLH. That Ottawa was a smarter city for him, that it was more conducive to focus, that it was less distracting. He said he didn’twant to add any more strain on his parents' relationship.
He didn’t need to start training in Ottawa until September. They had time to sort things out. He needed this.
His dad asked him if kids were saying things. A round about way to ask him if the team was racist.
He told them he wasn’t making this decision lightly.
Shane knew his parents knew it was a coverup. He was lucky they were trying to dig out the roots to something that had long since settled.
Saturday
Shane stared at the carpeted floor beneath his parents' glass coffee table.
J.J. was sitting on the other side of the couch, and Hayden was perched uncomfortably on the ottoman.
Shane hadn’t seen either of them since Tuesday, and there was a humiliation seeping out of his skin like sweat, it made his temperature climb, it made him feverish.
J.J. shifted, “it’s like, cool… if you are,” he said slowly.
Shane pushed his skin up by his temples until his hands caught into his hair and tugged.
“I don’t fucking know, okay? I don’t care about any of that. I only care about hockey.” he said a little more sharply than it needed to come out.
“You are though… right?” Hayden said, worrying at his lip.
Shane squeezed his eyes shut.
“Fuck. Sure. I don’t fucking care,” Shane said, his arms protectively wrapping around himself.
“Are you okay?” J.J. asked tentatively “I’ve heard that-“
“I’m sick of people hearing things.” Shane responded soullessly.
J.J. nodded.
He let out a sigh, “Fuck, no. I’m not okay. I only have you guys. You can’t-you guys won’t…”
“We’re here.” J.J. said immediately, loyally, with a confidence that pumped relief throughout Shane’s body. His headache eased up a little.
“It’s always been the three of us,” Hayden agreed “And, I mean, if you want to talk about anything…” Hayden started.
It was clunky, and weird. It wasn’t the kind of thing they did.
“I don’t need to talk about my emotions all of a sudden because you guys think I’m gay” Shane said, his eyes not moving from the spot of carpet he’d been glaring at.
“That’s…” Hayden’s voice died on him.
Shane sighed, his hands dragging over his face.
“Sorry,” he murmured, “I’m just tired as shit.” He said, his palm flattening against his forehead as he let his other arm drop down. “But I really don’t want to talk about this. There’s nothing to say… Fucking Rozanov fucked me over.”
J.J. shifted, “So it was Roz?“
Hayden cut him off, “like, yeah. What like… started it all?”
“I was hoping you guys would know,” Shane said in a horribly vulnerable way, “but-fuck, I don’t know.” His hand came up to his forearm, his nails dug into it a little “do you guys know Ian Jensen?” He asked.
“Not really,” Hayden replied with a shrug, “he’s in juniors, yeah?”
Shane nodded.
J.J. furrowed his brow in concentration, then his fingers began to snap, he jerked his head upwards “He sells ciggies.” He landed on.
“So?” Hayden responded folding his arms.
“He sold ‘em to our summer team. Leblanc, Sinclair, Rozanov… I don’t know, they’d be the boys to ask”
“Have you guys seen the video?” Shane added, his cheeks burning as the question escaped his lips.
J.J. and Hayden exchanged a panicked look.
“No, I haven’t seen anything” Hayden said looking genuinely puzzled.
“Video of what?” J.J. asked slowly, he leaned in, his eyes full of worry.
Shane shrugged.
“Like, a gay video?”
Shane’s face scrunched in disgust, "don't say it like that.” He commanded.
“It’ll blow over,” Hayden provided unhelpfully.
Shane laughed into his hands, which he had brought up to cover his face again.
“He’s such an ass,” Hayden added.
Shane nodded, then in the most sensitive he’d let himself get, he opened his mouth again “I saw his face, when he left on Monday,” Shane murmured “he looked at me like… just fuck. I don’t fucking know. It’s his camera, and apparently he said I want his—just whatever. Fuck that.” Shane hissed out.
“Wait—“ J.J. piped up.
“No. No. Guys I’m done.” Shane said sharply “I need you guys to be normal.” He gritted out, “please” he added for good measure.
He hardly ever begged for anything.
2 months later, Thanksgiving
October, 2007
Shane didn’t hate Ottawa.
Time moved faster the moment they left Montreal. He kept space from his parents in a way he never had to before. At least he had juniors to lean into. He had always been a kind of work-horse, but following a strict schedule was the only thing that cleared his mind. He was the best, now. By a landslide.
Not just because Ilya was gone. For good. But also because he actually knew how to fucking work hard. He hit a growth-spurt, and his body ached at night, his arms filled out. He kept his head bent down at school though. His bigger stature seemed to draw more attention to him, and ever since August, any eyes tracking him made him feel sick to the stomach.
The additional vigilance helped him on the ice. His reflexes had improved exponentially. He’d gotten better at taking punches too.
The rumours still clung to his jersey in whispered threads that kids were always trying to tug at and unravel.
Shane knew better now though. Even when some boyish looking girl from the women’s team had tentatively approached him he knew not to let his stupid fucking guard down.
He’d fucking dug his own grave by liking Ilya Rozanov, and he sat in it as a willing participant as the boy buried him into the dirt.
He wouldn’t fucking do that again. He couldn’t afford to.
Hockey had been slipping away from him, and it was the only thing he always had. It was the only thing he could control.
He was the picture of restraint now. He was meticulous, and impenetrable. He had packed his childishness in like powdered snow. He made it small, and cold, and harder. With a little heat and pressure he was holding onto something lethal.
He only faltered sometimes. Like when the laughter got boisterous down the hallway and part of his body begged to go cower in a stall. Or every time his parents started a story with ‘so-and-so told me…’ and he felt like he might puke.
His parents asked him about Ilya. Lying about the boy was weirdly easy. Maybe because a match seems manageable when you’rewalking out of a burning forest. He told them he went back to Russia, that his dad wouldn’t let him call. He let his parents have the fantastical ending to the stupid fairytale he’d spent the summer believing in. He tried not to grimace too obviously when his mom cooed sympathetically for the boy and his dad shook his head and said ‘poor kid’.
Thanksgiving crash landed into Shane's new and precarious life.
Luckily, it came with the cottage, which meant a forced sort of stillness. It was the kind of thing Shane had been both desperate for and desperately avoiding.
He was lying on the floor of the cottage by the small fireplace. It was cold in the mornings now. The lake’s blues became grey and the tree branches spilt dew when they shivered in the wind. His parents were grocery shopping, and being alone in the cottage unfurled something in him.
When the phone rang, at first he was certain he was imagining it.
He picked it up with shaking hands.
He’d been banishing his thoughts lately. He’d told Ilya that his family always went to the cottage at thanksgiving to close it. Shane’s mother had made Ilya recite the landline number when the two of them went on hikes, or wandered in to town just the two of them.
It was a ridiculous thought, though. Ilya had not bothered reaching out at all, and Shane preferred it that day.
He’d seen the guilt on Ilya’s face as he left the rink, he knew who had that fucking camera.
It sounded like Ilya; to tell everyone Shane wanted to suck his dick.
He hit the green talk button.
“This is Shane,” he said quietly into the phone.
It was probably his grandmother, or Hayden, or maybe his parents were calling, maybe he needed to pull the chicken out of the freezer so it defrosted in time for lunch.
“Shane” a voice breathed out.
His accent had gotten thicker.
Shane exhaled through his nose at the confirmation.
He’d gone back to Russia. Shane had read over the OHL’s roster lists a trillion times since moving to Ottawa, he had been dreading their first face-off.
At least, though, if Ilya were in Toronto, he would know when that would happen. Now he had to wait for worlds.
Shane swallowed hard, his eyes stung at the sound.
Shane wanted to hang up, he wanted to hang up right then, but he was frozen, his body wouldn’t move, his lips wouldn’t open, his vocal cords couldn’t make a sound.
He knit his ribs together until his core started to ache and it dislodged whatever was muffling his own voice.
“Don’t call me,” he said sharply, “I don’t want to talk to you.”
There was silence on the other end.
Shane wondered if Ilya would hang up on him for a moment.
“Because of after the party with J.J.?” The voice said in a flat tone.
Shane almost laughed, because even through the phone he could tell that Ilya knew it wasn’t because of fucking J.J.’s.
“No! I would have—“ Shane sucked in a breath, hating what he was about to say as it was halfway out already “I would have gotten over that.” He resigned “I’m fucking pissed about what you did after.” Shane spat.
The silence was long. Shane was ready to hang up.
“The video,” Ilya affirmed.
Fucking calling to gloat. Fucking calling his family at Thanksgiving.
Over the summer he’d imagined having Ilya at the cottage in the fall. When the trees peacocked with their vibrant reds and oranges. If it weren’t for the ice, the short span of colour before the trees became bare-boned probably would have been Shane’s favourite time of year.
“Yeah. Fuck that.” Shane said, “Why did you call?”
He could hear Ilya make some sort of sound, but it wasn’t a familiar one, Shane couldn’t picture the facial expression that would match it.
”Well?” Shane prompted, his anger obvious in the almost haughty tone he put on.
“I didn’t… I didn’t mean to tell-“
“Oh fuck off,”
He hung up in one swift panicked motion. He didn’t want to hear anymore.
He didn’t fucking care if Ilya had meant to, he fucking cared that he had to move rinks, that he had to move cities.
He had watched his dad block telemarketers before, *58, and then pound six to input the most recent caller. His hands shook as he put the phone back into its cradle.
He settled onto the floor in front of the fire again. He wasn’t sure how much time passed before his arm started burning up.
He rolled over, stretching his arms as he shifted. The fire might as well have spluttered out—cold washed over his body, as he saw a peak of red fabric spilling out from beneath the couch.
He pulled himself to his feet, and tugged the hoodie out with him.
He gritted his teeth as he marched to the boathouse. He shoved it into the left, with his childhood life vests, his and Hayden’s old water guns, and the molding pool noodles.
He didn’t jump when a fat-bodied spider crawled right next to his hand.
He moved past the lake like a ghost. He couldn’t look too hard as he walked back to the cottage, lest he see the dock. He swallowed hard, his right-eye twitching as he tried not to cry.
His hand came up to the bridge of his nose, where he still had more freckles than usual. He couldn’t wait for winter, for them to fade, for them to be erased into something close to nothing.