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The Montreal Metros locker room is a riot of blue and red under unforgiving white lights. Jerseys hang in orderly rows against lacquered stalls, waiting to become armor. The tile floor is still damp from the pre-game mop up. Tape rolls litter the benches. Someone's speaker hums low with bass in the corner before being abruptly turned off by Drapeau, who insists that goalies need "a controlled sensory environment."
Shane barely notices any of it. He's halfway through his routine, Metros-blue compression shirt clinging to his shoulders, towel slung carelessly around his hips while he reaches into his locker for fresh socks. He's thinking about matchups. About zone entries. About Ilya's left edge.
Boiziau is mid-story about a disastrous Tinder date when his voice falters.
"Eh," he says slowly, like he's just spotted a ghost in broad daylight. "Capitaine."
Shane doesn't turn around. "What."
There's a silence that spreads outward in stages. Hayden freezes with one skate unlaced. Comeau leans sideways around Miitka to see what suddenly captured everyone's attention. Gagnon's jaw physically drops. Olsson blinks once. Twice.
Drapeau, from across the room, exhales a single, reverent, "holy hell."
The marks are impossible to miss in the locker room lighting. Long, red streaks carved down Shane's back in unmistakable arcs. Fingertips dragged deliberately over muscle. Several crescent shaped impressions that'll probably darken by morning. Lower still, at the dip of his hips, the bloom of bruises that can only come from someone gripping hard and refusing to let go.
They aren't injuries. They're the marks of enthusiasm.
JJ lets out a sharp, delighted laugh. "Who attacked you like this, hein? You wrestle a lynx on the metro?"
Shane frowns and finally glances over his shoulder. "What are you talking about?"
Hayden stands and walks closer, then immediately regrets it. "Captain," he says with genuine awe. "Those are absolutely not from hockey."
Mitty makes a strangled noise. "WHOHURTYOU?" he blurts.
"Boston Lily?" Gagnon offers, as though naming a hurricane. "Is she a fucking panther?"
Olsson shakes his head slowly. "That's... athletic."
The room erupts.
"Cap got climbed like Everest"
"is that OHS approved"
"should we call animal control"
"blink twice if you need assistance"
"is that why you're so tired? you look hydrated but spiritually drained"
Shane twists, trying to catch sight of his reflection in his locker mirror. He can't see enough. He can, however, feel the heat climbing his neck.
"Shut up," he says automatically, though there's no real force behind it. Yet.
Hayden gestures helplessly at Shane's entire spinal column. "No. Hell no! You can't tell us to shut it when you look you just lost a very competitive match in your own bed!"
JJ clutches his chest. "Non, non, this is beautiful. This is art. Notre Cap'taine! Like this! I am very proud."
Comeau whistles low. "That's commitment."
There's applause now. Actual applause.
Shane straightens slowly. The noise swells. He feels it shift, the subtle tipping point where embarrassment could turn into retreat.
He does not retreat.
He rolls his shoulders once, calm as if they were discussing line changes, and says clearly, carrying over the laughter:
"If you think this is impressive, you should see the other guy."
The room goes silent.
Tape stops unrolling. Someone drops a water bottle and doesn't pick it up.
Hayden's mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.
JJ blinks.
Mitty makes a high, startled sound that Shane will absolutely be weaponizing later.
For one long second, no one knows what to do with this information.
And then the place detonates.
Shane doesn't stay to enjoy it. He walks, measured and unhurried, into the bathroom and shuts the door behind him while the entirety of the Metros roster collectively loses their fucking minds.
Inside, the fluorescent lights are even harsher. The echo of laughter filters through the walls.
He turns toward the mirror.
There they are.
Red marks down his back like someone had tried to write their name in muscle. Bruises low and darkening. Proof.
He flexes without thinking about it. Just enough to sharpen the lines.
Takes a photo.
Texts Ilya.
Shane: locker room loves you
Ilya: for what
Shane smiles faintly and sends the photo along with the caption:
for your work.
The typing bubble doesn't disappear this time. It pulses.
Ilya: you're doing this on purpose
Shane: doing what?
Ilya: trying to make me lose focus
Shane: how could that possibly affect you, fucking white walker
Ilya: do not insult me
Shane leans one shoulder against the tile wall, satisfied.
Ilya: you sent this before puck drop.
Ilya: you are evil mastermind
Shane: you left fingerprints
A longer pause now.
Ilya: I can't play if I'm thinking about this
Shane: that sounds like a discipline issue.
Ilya: you will pay for this.
Shane's smile sharpens.
Shane: promise?
Ilya: fuck you
Shane: looking forward to it
The typing stops.
He pockets the phone and walks back out into blue and red chaos.
JJ points at him immediately. "We are not finished with this conversation."
Hayden adds, "we need names. We need details! We need diagrams."
Drapeau just shakes his head, resigned. "Win the game first, at least, damn," he mutters.
Shane sits down at his stall like nothing in the world is out of place. He pulls on his socks. Tightens his pads. Laces up his skates with steady, deliberate movements.
The noise continues around him; chirping, speculation, exaggerated reenactments.
He says nothing.
He just smiles.