Chapter Text
Sitting in the 5PM gridlock traffic seemed the perfect ending for what was proving to be one of the more frustrating days of Shane’s life.
It was common knowledge to everyone on the Boston campus that the Main Street intersection between the book store and the parking garage should be avoided between 4:30 and 5:30PM. The four-way intersection was the perfect storm - as the afternoon lectures were letting underclassmen out en masse, the grad students were driving back in to scoop up abandoned parking and hurry off to their evening classes. This, of course, was compounded by the fact that most of the campus workers also left at this time to rush home to their families, which would not be so bad if Main Street was clear.
Instead, apparently all of Boston left work at the same time for the distinct joy of sitting bumper to bumper while the stoplights seemed to play a guessing game of who would get a green light next, flashing the colors in no discernible pattern and forcing every poor pedestrian to sprint through the crosswalk or receive an arena’s-worth of abuse from those who had to waste precious seconds of green yielding.
The many lanes of the intersection gave the illusion of choice. A left onto Main Street led towards civilization, with its high rise restaurants and night life just beginning to buzz as the sun sank down. A right led towards the highway, towards which most of the school’s employees and commuter students inched closer and closer, longing for the freedom of open lanes and the minimal presence of radar guns. Straight through the intersection took one away from most of the academic buildings and towards campus housing which, according to Google Maps, was a mere two minutes drive from the Athletics Office.
Bullshit.
After driving through the night, a flat tire and shitty jack in New Hampshire had put Shane way behind schedule, meaning he hadn’t even had a chance to stop by his new dorm this morning to drop off all of the “essentials” his mother had Tetris-ed into the back of his Jeep. He had made it to campus with barely enough time to park and find his first class, and now all he wanted to do was find his stupid dorm, haul all the crap up to his room, and fall face-first into a coma, but this intersection seemed determined to unravel the last thread of his patience.
The reality was that Shane had been sitting at a dead stop for almost 20 minutes in the center lane, and he was about a minute away from abandoning the Jeep in favor of walking. At least those to his right were making some progress in the turn lane.
His head had just hit the steering wheel with a despondent thump when his cell started buzzing in the cupholder. Shane opened his eyes and saw a picture of his mom quickly replace the map on the screen, and he seriously considered letting it go to voicemail.
“Hey, Mom.”
“Hey, honey! We’re just calling to hear about the first day.” Shane could hear an indistinct warble in the background, quickly followed by, “Dad says hi. How did the meeting go?”
Shane shut his eyes and ran a rough hand over his face. “It was good.”
It was not good. After no sleep and a full day of new classes and awkward introductions to his professors, the last thing Shane had wanted to do was navigate through the labyrinth that was the admin building to find the Athletics Office and meet with Athletic Director Crowell, an older man in a suit whose gruff demeanor perfectly matched the terse email he had sent Shane this morning about meeting to “set expectations.”
Shane had to sit through what seemed like an endless lecture about what a headache a mid-semester transfer created, the emphasis Boston put on the “student” in student athlete, and the importance of representing the school well.
In all honesty, it was a bit overdramatic. It’s not like Shane was showing up halfway through the term - classes had only started the previous week, and he had been assured by each of his professors today that he hadn’t missed anything crucial.
Nevertheless, Crowell made it clear: “I haven’t been given the details about why your move from Montreal to Boston couldn’t have been done between the terms, and I really don’t care. What does matter is you, like all other students who come in mid-term, are automatically on academic probation for the first month...”
This could have been an email. Shane held his tongue and fought to avoid rolling his eyes. True, it wasn’t ideal that he was on probation, but he knew that catching up in his classes wouldn’t be an issue. Crowell’s voice faded into background noise. If there are no morning practices, I should be able to work at the library for an hour or two. I guess that will depend on if there are team workouts -
“...until you can demonstrate your ability to maintain passing grades in your classes. Per university policy, students on academic probation are not permitted to participate in university sports events.”
Shane focus snapped back to the director. “What? But Coach Wiebe said -”
“As the hockey coach,” Crowell interrupted, “Wiebe can determine who he allows on the team and for what reasons. However, student athletes do not receive preferential treatment when it comes to school policies.” His gaze was cold. “No matter what their stats are.”
Shane felt himself flush. It was true that his performance at Montreal in his first year had been impressive. Scouts that had followed his performance in Juniors had already been sniffing around him last pre-season, and the pressure had only intensified when the scoring race began. All the attention on the eighteen-year-old had only added to the tension in the locker room, especially from the seniors who were losing playing time because of the explosive new center. But it wasn’t as if Shane was expecting Boston to bow down to him because of his track record, as Crowell seemed to be suggesting. God, that’s the whole reason he was here in the first place. He just wanted to be part of a team again. He just wanted to play.
Shane took a steadying breath, fighting to keep his voice calm. “I understand that academics are important. But I was brought here on an athletic scholarship. If I am not playing hockey for the school -”
“You’ll still be able to practice with the team and travel when the season picks up.” Crowell spoke over him, his attention shifting to the computer on his desk. “We want you to be ready to jump in when your probation is up. But until you get the all-clear from me in one month, you will not be playing in regulation games.”
The director stood and dropped a heavy hand on Shane’s shoulder as he steered him towards the office door. “Work hard. Find your groove with the team. I’ll be in touch, Mr. Hollander.” That’s all Shane got before the door shut in his face.
What the actual fuck?
Now he was here, sitting in traffic, head on his steering wheel, questioning everything. His choice to do college before joining the draft, his sudden move to Boston, his decision to drive instead of walk, to listen to Google Maps about the quickest way to the dorms through this ridiculous intersection that wouldn’t fucking move -
“Shane?” His mother’s voice broke his reverie, and he raised his head from the wheel to see the car in front of him slowly rolling. Desperate for any semblance of progress towards the end of this day, Shane dutifully inched forward, then resolutely thunked his forehead back against the wheel with his eyes squeezed shut.
She had been talking, but Shane’s brain was buzzing too much to catch more than the tenor of her words, and he “mhm” and “yeah”ed on autopilot. He knew better than to tell his mother about what Crowell had said. The last thing he needed was Yuna Hollander flying down to Boston, barging into the Athletics building, making a scene. Although, the thought of her strangling Crowell with his stupid tie… Shane smiled softly.
“And what does the practice schedule look like with your classes?”
“It’s mostly afternoon/evening stuff.” Shane reached blindly for the phone. He had just pulled up the color-coded calendar in his inbox and was squinting to make out the tiny text when a sudden noise began blaring from his left, startling him so badly that the device flew from his hand to the passenger side floor.
Shane jerked upright, his head whipping towards the source. Probably some impatient asshole honking at nothing.
What he didn’t expect to see in the left lane was a beat-up black car filled to bursting - Jesus, it looks like there’s six of them crammed in there - with guys, each shoving each other for space, bodies half hanging out of the windows and laughing through the noise.
The noise. Or, Shane supposed, the music. But God, was it loud. Why the hell were they playing music that loud in stand-still traffic? He didn’t recognize the song, but he was clearly the only one who didn’t, as all of the guys appeared to be belting the lyrics as loudly as they could, rattling Shane’s windows and setting his teeth on edge. A dull pounding began in his head, and he rubbed a hand roughly over his brow.
All of the black car’s windows were rolled down, and Shane could see the dark-haired driver playing drums on the wheel while the five (six? There was one who seemed to be crawling onto the center console and reaching for the aux) other passengers were grooving with reckless abandon. Their arms stretched through the windows, waving to the beat, and Shane could see the poor car bouncing on its axels.
The cars around them had also taken notice. Shane could see the couple in the red Acura in front of him laughing inside, and soon enough their windows were rolled down, hands out and waving along.
Through his rearview mirror, he could see the girls in the SUV behind him were also singing along - Did seriously everyone know the lyrics to this fucking song? - and giggling at the black car each time one of the guys threw a flirty look in their direction. One of them was clearly filming on her phone.
Even the people inching along in the right turn lane were starting to get into it - Shane could see a lone driver wiggling his shoulders to the beat.
The song finally ended after a couple minutes, and Shane’s attention shifted back to his own phone on the passenger side floor, where his mother was probably still on the line. He stretched for it, careful to keep his foot firmly on the brake, but the clamor that suddenly burst from the black car caused him to flinch so hard that he almost rolled into the Acura.
Next he heard what could only be described as a roar from the surrounding cars, as everyone signalled their approval of the newest song, and the surrounding chaos was even louder than before. It seemed like every person but Shane was singing and bopping along; instead, he was pinching the bridge of his nose, willing away the pressure he could feel building behind his eyes, and practically shouting to be heard, “Mom, I gotta go. I don’t know! There’s some kind of - construction, I don’t know. Talk later!” before rapidly hanging up.
To his left, the guys in the black car were practically screaming the words. The one who was hanging over top of the center console now seemed to be in a tug-of-war match over the aux cord, his opponent wearing a backwards camo hat and gesturing wildly. The other two in the back had their torsos completely out of the rear windows now - one appeared to be motioning at the surrounding vehicles like he was conducting an orchestra, and the other was pointing out specific individuals and hollering “Yeah!” when he saw particular dance moves he liked.
It seemed like everybody in the surrounding cars was getting in on the fun. Everybody except Shane. He sighed in frustration. He felt awkward, a lone still figure in the middle of a midday karaoke session, and he had to make the conscious decision to relax his shoulders and unclench his jaw. Shane wasn’t into music at the best of times, and he doubted that he would have felt like dancing even if the meeting with Crowell had ended on a good note and if his brain didn’t feel like it was about to start leaking out of his ears.
Nevertheless, his overall stiffness in direct contrast to the joy of his fellow commuters felt like one more strike against the day. How was it even fair that a few guys playing music way too loud at a stoplight could make him feel so out-of-place when he already felt like coming to Boston might have been one big mistake?
Shane realized he was now openly glaring at the black car when he caught sight of the man sitting in the front passenger seat.
Whoa.
For a moment, Shane forgot his irritation at the noise, at the intersection, at Crowell, as his brain went completely blank.
He didn’t even know people could look like that in real life. That face belonged in a painting. It was meant to be stared at from behind a velvet rope and admired in hushed whispers. Like a goddamn cherub. The man was all blond curls and movement, and Shane let his gaze linger. He too was singing, and Shane couldn’t help the way his eyes tracked how the boy’s angular jaw moved, how his mouth wrapped around each word, how the right corner of those plush pink lips lifted into a smile that-
He suddenly turned, his blue eyes locked onto Shane’s, and Shane forgot to breathe. He felt as though he had been caught. The guy in the black car seemed to read his mind in an instant, and that cherubic smile quickly transformed into a cocky smirk as he took in Shane’s stiff posture.
Shane felt all of the noise and frustration from the day come crashing back, and he suddenly felt the irrational urge to bash the guy’s teeth in. Fuck him and his stupid loud friends. Fuck this day. Fuck this stupid light.
Intuitively, Shane knew that his anger was grossly misplaced - this whole mess was just some random college kids trying to make the best of a shitty situation - but he honestly couldn’t care less. He felt his scowl deepen, and he kept his hands locked at 10 and 2 to resist the urge to flip the guy off.
Undeterred, or perhaps encouraged by Shane’s lack of response, the blond asshole decided to up the ante. Without breaking eye contact, he quickly reached down into the car and brought his fist back up slowly, clutching - Is that a fucking slide? - in his hand, which he began using as a microphone. The other hand was now pointing at Shane, the only person in the intersection who was not participating in the impromptu flash mob, and Shane could swear he felt the eyes of all the vehicles turn to train on him.
Fuck this guy. Shane was not going to let this asshole get to him. He refused to break eye contact or move his hands, especially as the blond started making a frankly dirty gesture that Shane quickly realized was him motioning for Shane to roll down his window.
Shane shook his head once. Not a chance.
The blond’s eyes narrowed, clearly not expecting to be denied. He made the gesture again, and it was Shane’s turn to smirk. He kept his hands firm on the steering wheel and his eyes locked on the blond’s. Ignoring the pain shooting through his head, which seemed to pulse to the bass of song blasting through the car’s shitty speakers, Shane raised an eyebrow.
If looks could kill, Shane would be dead, but it was so worth it. The blond was now openly glaring at Shane, and the smug satisfaction that Shane felt at interrupting his fun might honestly be the highlight of his day. He kept staring back, refusing to yield and daring the blond to do something about it.
This exchange was caught by the guy still hanging from the rear passenger window, who paused his crowd conducting for a brief moment to lean forward with a sly grin and chirp at the blond. The blond broke eye contact with Shane - Ha! - to slap at the guy with his shoe microphone, but the slide hit the side of the car with a resounding thwack as the black car suddenly lurched forward and the window-sitter nearly went toppling onto the street.
Shane felt a surge of triumph at winning that little faceoff, which was compounded by the fact that the light was finally blessedly green. He tailed the Acura as close as he dared and resisted the urge to pause and pull up Google Maps again. 2 minutes.
He saw the black car turn left, with one of the backseat window guys still hanging out - it looked like a pair of hands was holding him by the waist - as he frantically made number signs with his hands at the SUV of giggling girls who were following Shane’s Jeep straight through the intersection.
As he finally made his way towards the dorm, Shane could still hear that godawful music blasting, and he was surprised to feel a small smile tugging at his lips.