Chapter Text
All my brothers they have flown away
But I still got something left that I wanna say
It's that sometimes you know what you know
You'll never be free if you can't let go
-“Last Hawk” by Shovels & Rope
Things had not been going well with the Metros. Part of Shane’s insanely detailed plan to live happily ever after with Rozanov had included coming out to the team once Ilya made the move to Ottawa and the Irina Foundation was underway. Hayden had volunteered to do the same with him, but he was secretly relieved when Shane had asked him to wait. He felt bad about it when the guys started treating Shane like he was some stranger, but Shane insisted that having Hayden stick up for him was more help than joining him in quasi-exile.
“It helps that they think you are straight, fucked up as it is,” he’d said, and Hayden doesn’t like how true it is. J.J. has been the only one who’s been unquestioningly supportive, but off the ice J.J.’s a lover, not a fighter, and he has seemingly assigned himself the task of peacemaker and soother of hurt feelings. It’s nice, Hayden guesses, he just wishes they had more people on their side. Wishes there weren’t any sides at all.
Everything really goes to shit once the video leaks, though. It was such a small thing, some over-excited wannabe influencer filming themselves, not having any idea who the two guys kissing in the background are. But other people notice, and it goes viral, and the entire team and a good chunk of the NHL lose their minds. Unfortunately, that includes almost the entirety of the Metros, who are now no longer bothering to even try to hide their disdain.
“Maybe they are going to try to straighten him out,” someone says in the locker room after Shane gets pulled in for yet another talk with the GM. Hayden’s shoulders tighten, and he sees J.J. cast a look at him.
“Gonna be hard, what with how he’s all over Rozanov’s—”
“Alright, now, that’s enough—” J.J. starts in his ‘let’s all get along’ voice, but Hayden isn’t in the mood to get along with these assholes.
“Shut the fuck up, Comeau,” he snaps. He’s angry, really angry in the way he rarely gets, after almost a year of this shit, “if you can’t respect the captain that put the Cup in your miserable hands three fucking times then just. Shut. The fuck. Up.”
“Oh come on, Pike, this whole time he’s been shacking up with the enemy and you expect—”
“How fucking old are you?” he snarls, cutting him off, “’the enemy,’” he mimics, pitching his voice high and grating because he knows it will annoy Comeau more, “we play fucking hockey, we aren’t liberating occupied Holland, get a fucking grip.” Someone in one of the far corners of the locker room sniggers, but Hayden doesn’t look to see who.
“I think we have a right to know if our ‘captain’ has been—” And Hayden knows where this is going, has heard enough muttering from the guys about “potential collusion,” as if Shane would ever.
“Has been what? What, Comeau? Has brought us through three winning seasons and a half dozen more playoffs over nearly a decade as some kind of long con to eventually throw games to Boston or Ottawa? Are you really that fucking stupid? When has Shane ever played at anything but 100%? You think his stats are worse against Rozanov than against anyone else?”
“They aren’t,” a voice pipes up, and Hayden whirls around to face Corey Henderson, one of their third line wingers who has seemingly memorized every statistic in the league. He knows the kid is probably trying to help, but he still feels annoyed that the little twerp bothered to figure it out to see if it was true. Corey shrinks back a bit at the look on Hayden’s face.
“Careful, Pike,” Comeau says, and his voice has gone cold and quiet, “people might think you’re like Hollander, too.”
“Comeau, shut up,” J.J. warns, moving to stand next to Hayden, seemingly done playing nice.
“And what the fuck if I was, huh?” it’s the closest Hayden has ever come to saying it out loud, his outrage on Shane’s behalf overtaking his self-preservation, “what fucking difference would it make? What fucking year do you think it is out there, you moron?” He laughs, a ridiculous, hysterical sound.
“This is a team, Pike, not a fucking pride parade,” Comeau fumes.
No, this isn’t a team. Hayden thinks, as J.J. snaps something at Comeau in French, gets up in his face about it. But Hayden’s anger has finally run its course, and now he just feels tired, empty. Shane’s leaving, he knows. He’d told him over the weekend; he is going to Ottawa to be with his boyfriend and try to work his magic on the Centaurs. And Hayden, Hayden isn’t fucking staying here without him. He looks Comeau dead in the eye.
“You’re a fifth-rate talent and an asshole, and you’re never going to see the playoffs again, let alone the Cup, before you retire.” Hayden grabs his bag, and walks out. He still has a year left on his contract, but fuck it, he thinks as he digs his phone out of his pocket and pulls up his agents contact, there are other ways to get off a team. Veronica is a hard-nosed middle-aged woman who’d been recommended to him by Yuna Hollander. She isn’t particularly warm or comforting, but she’s effective, and she seems to like Hayden more than some of her other clients because he so rarely causes her problems. So she picks up promptly when he calls.
“I want out of Montreal,” he says, bluntly. “I don’t care how you do it, but I’m not playing another game for these bastards,” and then he draws in a deep breath, and tells her why.