Chapter Text
Six months of unanswered messages sit in Shane’s pocket like a weight.
He does not even open them anymore. He just knows they are there.
The bar is loud. Crowded. Enough that no one is paying attention to him, which is what he wants.
“Holy shit,” a guy says next to him. “You’re Shane Hollander.”
Shane stiffens. “Yeah.”
“That’s insane,” the guy says. “Man, I’ve watched you play.”
“Cool,” Shane says, already turning away.
“No, no,” the guy laughs. “You don’t get to just stand here. I’m buying you a drink.”
“I don’t really drink,” Shane says.
The guy waves him off. “One beer. Come on. You’re Shane Hollander. Least I can do.”
People are watching. Shane hates that he cares.
“Fine,” he says. “One.”
The bottle feels normal. Cold. He takes a sip. Then another.
The warmth hits fast. Too fast.
“You good?” the guy asks.
“Yeah,” Shane says, but his head feels light. Wrong.
“You should get some air,” the guy says. “It’s loud in here.”
“I think I’m gonna go home,” Shane says, pushing off the stool.
“Back alley’s quicker,” the guy says, hand already on Shane’s arm. “I’ll walk you.”
Shane hesitates. His legs feel slow. Heavy.
The alley is dark. Narrow. There is another man standing by the dumpster, watching them.
Shane stops. “I don’t feel good.”
The first guy steps closer. “You’re fine.”
“No,” Shane says. “I want to go back inside.”
The second guy grins. “Relax. You know why we’re out here.”
Shane’s stomach drops. “No. I don’t.”
Hands grab him. One shoves him against the brick wall. Another presses into his back. Someone’s hand slides down his side, grabs at his waist and ass.
“Stop,” Shane says, loud and panicked. “Get off me.”
The first guy laughs. “Don’t act like you didn’t want this.”
“I don’t,” Shane snaps.
A hand yanks at his clothes. Fingers push where they absolutely should not be. The intent is clear. There is no confusion anymore. Shane loses it.
He slams his elbow back as hard as he can. Someone yells. He twists, drives his knee up, lands a hit that knocks the breath out of one of them.
“Get the fuck off me,” Shane shouts.
For half a second, he thinks he might actually get away.
Then a fist crashes into his ribs.
Hard.
Another hits his face. His vision explodes into white. Someone grabs his hair and slams his head into the wall.
“You want to fight?” one of them snarls.
Shane keeps fighting anyway.
He kicks. He claws. He bites down on an arm when it gets too close. He screams. He never stops saying no.
That just makes them angrier.
“Hold him,” one of them says.
Someone pins his wrists and his pants and underwear are pulled down, leaving him exposed
.
Hands return to his body, rough and deliberate, ignoring every word he says.
“No,” Shane sobs. “Please. Stop. I said stop.”
A punch slams into his stomach and he folds with a broken sound. He is barely aware what is happening until he feels like he is being split in half.
His side. His ass. His back. His legs.
“Should’ve just let it happen,” someone says.
Shane curls in on himself, trying to protect his head as the second guy takes his turn with his body. His body feels like it is on fire. Everything hurts. Breathing hurts.
The sexual assault ends only when they are done with him.
They leave him there, crumpled on the concrete, like he is nothing.
Shane does not move for a long time.
His clothes are wrong. His body does not feel like his anymore. His hands shake so badly he presses them against the ground to keep them still.
His phone buzzes in his pocket. Not a text.
Never a text.
He tries to sit up. His arms give out. He slumps back down, breath hitching, pain ripping through him.
He can barely move.
Shane barely manages to get his phone out.
His hands do not want to work. His fingers slip on the screen, smeared and shaking. He presses a name he knows by muscle memory more than sight.
The phone rings.
Once. Twice.
Voicemail.
“Hi, this is Ilya. I will never listen to your voicemail.”
The line beeps.
Shane cannot breathe. He hangs up without leaving anything and immediately calls again.
It rings longer this time. Long enough for his chest to tighten with hope.
Then voicemail again.
The same message. The same stupid joke that feels cruel now.
Shane’s vision blurs. He wipes his face with the back of his hand and smears something wet that is not just tears.
He calls a third time.
The phone rings once.
Then stops.
Denied.
Something in him collapses completely.
He hits call again anyway. Voicemail picks up immediately this time. He does not hang up.
“Ilya,” Shane says, and his voice breaks so badly it barely sounds like him. “Please. I need you. I need you right now.”
His breathing is uneven, sharp, panicked.
“I’m hurt,” he says.
He swallows hard, a quiet, broken sound.
“Please call me back,” he whispers. “I can’t do this by myself.”
The beep sounds and the call ends.
Shane stares at the phone until the screen goes dark.
He does not call again.
The next name he taps is almost an accident.
Hayden answers on the second ring.
“Shane?” Hayden says. “What’s going on?”
Shane tries to talk and fails. All that comes out is a breath that shakes apart.
“Hey,” Hayden says immediately. “Hey, stay with me. Where are you?”
“I don’t know,” Shane says. “A bar. An alley behind it.”
“Okay,” Hayden says. “What bar?”
Shane squints around, eyes unfocused. “I don’t know. Brick wall. Dumpster. There’s a back door with a red light.”
Hayden does not hesitate. “Stay on the phone. I’m coming.”
“I can’t move much,” Shane says quietly.
“That’s okay,” Hayden says. “You don’t have to. Just keep talking to me.”
Minutes pass. Or maybe longer. Shane loses track.
Then footsteps. Fast. Panicked.
“Shane?” Hayden calls. “Shane, where are you?”
“Here,” Shane says weakly.
Hayden rounds the corner and stops short.
“Oh my god.”
Shane is half on his side, half curled in on himself. His clothes are wrong, shoved aside, torn, stained dark. Blood on his face, his hands, his ribs. Bruises already blooming. It does not take effort to understand what happened.
Hayden drops to his knees immediately. “Hey. Hey. It’s me.”
Shane turns his head slightly. His eyes look glassy. Distant.
“They attacked me, I fought back Hayden” Shane says flatly.
“I know,” Hayden says, voice tight. “I know.”
Hayden pulls off his jacket and carefully drapes it over Shane, covering as much as he can without moving him too much.
“We need to go to the hospital,” Hayden says.
“No,” Shane says immediately. Too fast. Panic flickers across his face. “No hospital.”
“Shane,” Hayden says. “You’re really hurt.”
“They’ll ask questions,” Shane says. “They’ll know. I can’t. I can’t let them know.”
Hayden’s chest tightens. “That doesn’t matter.”
“It does,” Shane says. “It will. I can’t let people find out.”
Hayden leans closer, careful not to touch where Shane is clearly in pain. “Listen to me. Anyone who treats you is legally bound to confidentiality. And if you want, I will make them sign an NDA. Every single person who walks into that room.”
Shane shakes his head weakly. “I can’t.”
“You don’t get to decide this alone,” Hayden says gently but firmly. “You could have internal injuries. You were drugged. This is not optional.”
Shane’s breathing starts to hitch. “Please.”
“I promise you,” Hayden says. “Nothing about you comes out of that room without your consent. I will not leave your side.”
Shane looks at him for a long moment. His body trembles.
“I’m scared,” Shane says.
“I know,” Hayden says. “But I’ve got you now.”
Finally, Shane nods. Just once.
Hayden pulls out his phone and calls for help, keeping one hand anchored on Shane’s shoulder so he knows he is still there.
Shane closes his eyes.
He does not let go of his phone.