Archive of Our Own

(In reality, looking back, it was a bunch of second and third graders who didn’t understand the offside rule yet, playing on half-ice and occasionally managing to dump a puck in the net. There was definitely more luck than skill involved.)

(At the time, though, it felt like the most important thing in the world.)

They had their team windup at an arcade. 

Shane was excited, but when they got there, he quickly realized that he didn’t want to go in. 

He planted his feet in the parking lot and said Mom, no, my tummy hurts, we should go home, I don’t feel good. She tried to tug him towards the doors, telling him that she wanted him to at least try to stay for a bit, that being a good sport meant showing up to team events, but then she noticed the tears welling up in his eyes. 

"You really don’t feel good, honey?"

He shook his head. 

"I’m sorry, Mommy, I know we already drove here, but—"

"It’s okay." She looked back at the building, where a couple of his teammates were walking in with their moms, and then back at him. She handed him the car keys. "I’ll go inside and pick up your stuff, okay? They’re handing out the team photos and the tryout details for next season. I’ll just tell them you’re sick and couldn’t come."

He nodded. He did feel sick. His tummy hurt so bad, mostly when he thought about the other kids on his team making a game out of avoiding him, like they did in the hotel pool after the tournament, laughing and running away when he got too close, even though he just wanted to play. 

He realized they might do that here, too, and it made him feel like he might throw up. 

-

There’s a few boxes of odds and ends that sit ignored for a while when he moves to Ottawa. 

He’s busy, obviously— signing with a new team, getting married, running the camps, then taking off to the cottage for the rest of the summer. 

They come home a couple of days before training camp, which Shane, as a new signing, is required to attend, and Ilya, as captain, should probably make an appearance at. They’ve got a mile-long to-do list, so they decide to divide and conquer. 

Ilya is out to drop Anya off at the groomer’s, and Shane is determined to finish unpacking. 

It goes well until it doesn’t. 

It goes well until he’s standing in Ilya’s— their— living room, holding a framed photo of the 2014-15 Montréal Voyageurs and their first Stanley Cup, rooted to the spot. 

He hasn’t looked at it in years. Dad packed this box— random decor from around the condo, shit that had been sitting on shelves, ignored over the years, only touched by the housekeeper’s dust cloth— and Shane didn’t even know it was in there until he started pulling things out.  

He swallows thickly. 

He loved those guys so much. 

A lot of them still play for Montréal. 

He wonders if, even then, they secretly hated him. 

-

Mom hung the team photo on the fridge when they got home from the arcade. 

Shane stood in the kitchen and stared at it for a bit. 

It made his tummy hurt again. 

-

Before he can think about it, he’s launching the photo at the ground. 

"Fuck," he shouts. 

The glass shatters. The wooden edge of the frame cracks in half. 

The photo itself is still intact, of course, but now it’s sitting in a pile of broken glass, tiny shards having skittered across the hardwood around his bare feet. 

He picks it up from the mess and rips it in half. 

And then he rips it again, and again, and again, until it’s shredded, floating down to join the destroyed frame on the floor. 

-

Mom found him later, sitting at the table with a notebook and some crayons, drawing a picture. 

It was of himself, in his hockey gear, holding up a trophy. The rest of his team was off to the side, crying.

"Shane," she said. "What is this supposed to be a picture of?"

Shane pulled his knees up to his chest, perched on the kitchen chair. 

"It’s where, like, um— they give out a trophy for being the best player on the team, and I won. And everyone is sad, because I’m better than them."

Mom frowned. 

"Remember all our talks about being a good sport?"

Shane shrugged. 

He did remember, but he also didn’t think it was very fair that apparently only he had to be a good sport. He scored the most goals on the team, and he was the fastest, and he always told all his teammates good job after games even if they didn’t play very good, but most of them never usually said it back. 

He’s so weird, they would whisper like he couldn’t hear it. If you ignore him, he’ll go away.

They would make fun of him for getting too excited before games, mimicking the way he sometimes flapped his hands or bounced up and down when the feeling got too big to hold inside, which he didn’t understand. Didn’t everyone love playing hockey? Why wouldn’t you be excited to play? 

Sometimes— only ever with no grownups around— they would pull their eyes back, to make them all squinty, and ask him how he could even see the puck. 

-

Do they play hockey in China? 

I don’t know. I’m not from there. 

Well, you look like you are.  

I’m not. I’m Japanese.  

Whatever. Same thing.  

No, it’s not.  

Sure it is. You all look the same. 

-

Of course, there’s other team photos in the box. 

There’s two more cup-winning teams in there. Faces he once thought of like family, wearing the colours he thought he’d retire in, holding the trophies that represented the legacy that he built. 

The Hollander dynasty. He’s the greatest player they’ve ever had. He brought a historic team back to the top, after years of fading into mediocrity. 

Shane Hollander did that. 

He was supposed to play a twenty year career there, until they retired his number. He was so proud to be a Voyageur. He gave that team everything, for eleven fucking years. 

And they got rid of him. 

One fucking mistake, and they offered him a bullshit contract extension that was designed for him not to take it, to make it look like he walked away by choice. They drove their best player away— made him look like a pussy who couldn’t take the pressure and ran away to his husband. 

It was one stupid bullshit fall that could’ve happened to anyone. One ill-timed reminder that Shane Hollander is, in fact, human… at the end of two seasons of gradually losing his locker room, barely hanging onto his captaincy, watching his team dynamic dissolve around him, learning his teammates’ true colours, and losing his grip on the secret that he knew would destroy his life.

The worst part is that it did.

Being outed destroyed his fucking life, exactly like he knew it would. 

Everything he was afraid of came true. He lost his team, he lost his legacy. He’s been made a joke in the public eye. His personal life is overshadowing his career, the whole world knows he’s a fag, and now he’s playing on his historically-shitty hometown team on a contract that doesn’t pay him what he’s worth, surrounded by a media circus about the gayest team in the NHL. 

It can’t be fucking real, can it?

This has to be a nightmare. 

And everyone expects him to smile about it. Isn’t it exciting to play with your husband? Isn’t it great to be back in Ottawa? Aren’t you proud to be a gay icon?

Isn’t it awesome, and definitely not humiliating at all, to go from captain of the greatest team in the history of hockey to a second-line center on a joke of a team that’s never won shit, surrounded by your faggy new teammates?

Before he knows what he’s doing, he’s smashed and destroyed two more framed photos. 

Three fucking cups for Montreal, and it ends in a pile of broken glass, splintered wood, and shredded paper. 

-

He cried on the drive to tryouts for the next season.

"What’s going on, Shanebug?" Mom said, turning around to face him, once they were parked at the rink. "What are we upset about?"

He was squirming in his car seat, pulling on the strings of his hoodie, unable to stop the tears rolling down his cheeks. 

He couldn’t really get the words out. 

He was upset because he was scared of who might be on his team, in case they were mean to him again, and he was nervous that his coach wanted him to come skate with the U11s to maybe play a division up, but what if he wasn’t good enough? He was upset because he was almost outgrowing his runners so they were pinching his toes, and the seam on his pants was rubbing his thigh, and his seatbelt was digging into his neck. 

"I don’t want to go," is what he managed to sob out.

 "Shane," Mom sighed. "Yes, you do. You love hockey. You’ve been talking about this for weeks."

He’s been walking around the house muttering and then we play hockey! all summer. He just had to wait for the off-season to be over— we finish grade two, then we go to the cottage, then we visit Obaachan and Ojiichan in Montreal, then we go back to the cottage, then we come home, then we start grade three, and then we play hockey! That was how Mom and Dad explained it to him one day, and he held onto it for his whole summer break. 

But then the time to play hockey came around, and it all got kind of scary, because he remembered how bad the end of last season was when his team didn’t like him. 

"I hate it," he said, shaking his head. "I don’t want to. I’m not going."

His friend from school, Jian, played soccer. Shane asked him, once, if his soccer team ever made fun of his eyes— because him and Shane had the same shape of eyes, kind of— and Jian said no. Shane thought maybe he’d rather play soccer instead. 

He didn’t tell Mom and Dad any of that, though. 

"You need to at least get on the ice, Shane," Mom said. "I know you’ll feel better once your skates are on. I think you’re just feeling nervous because we took the summer off— next year we’ll make sure to sign up for a camp over the break, to keep you fresh."

His stomach was starting to really, really hurt. 

"Mommy, I don’t feel good," he hiccuped. "In my tummy. I can’t go in."

"You feel nervous, Shane. That’s what that is." She reached over the console to squeeze his knee. "It’s okay. We’re gonna go inside anyways, and you’re gonna be brave for me. You’ll feel so much better once you get started."

Shane shook his head again, then thumped it once against the seat behind him. 

"No, no. Mom, no. I don’t want to."

"Shane." Mom sounded exhausted. "Enough. We don’t have time for a tantrum right now. I need you to take some deep breaths— you don’t want to cry in front of all the big kids, and we have to go in right away or we’ll be late. Today isn’t a real tryout, just skating and getting used to it again after the summer. There’s nothing to worry about."

She got out of the car to grab his gear from the trunk. 

He let himself cry for ten more seconds. 

He wiped his eyes, unbuckled his seatbelt, banged his forehead against the seat in front of him a couple times, and gave his hands a good shake. 

And then we play hockey!

This is what he was waiting for all summer. 

-

"Shane?"

The voice sounds kind of far away. 

Shane blinks. 

"Hey, woah." That’s Ilya’s voice, getting closer. "What the fuck happened? Are you okay?"

Shane is kneeling in a pile of broken glass, he realizes. 

He smashed those pictures, without even thinking, and then he must’ve collapsed to the ground or something, because he’s right here in the middle of the mess. 

"Shane," Ilya repeats. Shane can’t look up at him, eyes fixed on the floor. "Боже мой. What is going on? Can you please look at me?"

Shane’s hands are pulling on the strings of his hoodie. He’s wearing a hoodie and shorts— it’s a cloudy, not-too-cold summer day— and his bare knees are pressing into the shattered frames, and his hands are pulling on the strings, over and over.

Eight years old, in the back of Mom’s car, pulling on his hoodie strings and crying.

Is he crying?

Glass crunches under Ilya’s house slippers as he steps closer to Shane. 

"Your legs are bleeding, солнышко." Ilya sounds really gentle. "I don’t know what happened, but we need to move away from the glass, yes? Come here."

Shane’s breath hitches.

He is crying.

Ilya’s hands are on him, scooping him under the armpits to move him to the couch, and Shane can’t will his body to do anything helpful. He just goes.

It’s quiet for a moment, Ilya standing in front of him. Shane still can’t look at him.

"These were pictures of your team," Ilya finally says.

Shane nods. Ilya crouches down in front of him, into his line of sight, looking heartbroken. 

"Oh, my Shane…"

Shane sniffles. 

We don’t have time for a tantrum. 

He lets himself cry for ten more seconds, then stops. 

"I’m sorry," he says, voice flat and level. "I didn’t mean to… make a mess."

"I am not worried about mess," Ilya says, really softly. "I am worried about… you. What happened?"

Shane blinks. Swallows. 

He’s done crying. He’s fine. 

"I think…" He trails off. Almost laughs at the absurdity of what he’s about to say. "I think I really hate my fucking life right now."

Ilya stares at him, visibly taken aback. 

"You— what?"

There’s something in his eyes that makes Shane’s gut twist. Hurt, maybe. Concern, mostly. 

"Sorry," Shane rushes out, shaking his head, squeezing his eyes shut. "No. I can’t say that. That’s bad. I didn’t mean—"

"Hey," Ilya whispers. "No, no. You can say anything. I want to— know how you feel. You can say this, I just… I don’t know. Why?"

It’s a good question. They’ve only been married for a few weeks. He hasn’t even had his first skate with the Centaurs yet. He’s moving into a home in a quiet neighbourhood with his husband and their dog. They’re about to be the most stacked, unbeatable team in the NHL, with two legendary, generational talents sharing the ice, and everyone’s talking about how they’re going to dominate this season. 

On paper, it’s a happy ending, isn’t it? 

Ilya is certainly happy. He says it every day, every morning— he smiles at Shane while they’re lying in bed, and he declares how happy he is. 

So Shane does laugh, now— a short, bitter burst of sound— because it’s all just fucking ridiculous. 

"My whole fucking life fell apart," he snaps, without meaning to. "I gave Montreal everything I had, for eleven fucking years, and it’s gone. It’s over. Everyone knows I’m a stupid fag who couldn’t take the pressure anymore and fucking gave up."

Ilya still looks stunned.

To be fair, Shane has kept a pretty fucking tight lid on all these feelings, up until now. He’s been performing happiness very, very well, because that’s all his stupid life is— a performance, a game of how do I keep everyone from hating me that’s rigged against him at every turn.

He keeps talking.

"For my entire fucking life, I put up with everyone’s shit. I let them call me stupid names; I let them ask if I spoke Chinese, no matter how many times I told them I fucking don’t; I let them give me shit for being boring and a robot and too intense; and then I sat in that locker room for two fucking seasons, waiting for everyone else to shower before me, so they wouldn’t think the fucking faggot was looking at them naked. And now it’s over, and— and none of it even matters! None of it was worth it! People kept promising me it would all work out, and it didn’t, but I’m supposed act like it did, and—"

He cuts himself off, falling forward into Ilya’s arms, and simply breaking.

This is the only thing that’s okay. He has Ilya. They’re here. They’re still together. They’re married, and they don’t have to hide anymore.

But at what fucking cost?

"Shanyechka," Ilya whispers, wrapping his arms around him.

It’s the sweet, tender, Russian diminutive that Ilya made up himself, because there were no existing nicknames for Shane. He’s got a few that he uses— Shenya, Shanechik, Shanyshko— and they all sort of feel like varying ways to say I love you.

He has his Ilya, at the end of the day. His Ilyusha, Ilyushka, Ilyushenka. 

I love you, I love you, I love you. 

And yet he’s so deeply unhappy with everything else. It’s selfish.

"This has not been fair to you," Ilya mutters into his hair, while Shane cries. "I am so sorry. So, so sorry, Shane. I did not stop to think— I was too happy for me, happy to have you with me, I did not maybe think about how sad you must be."

"I’m not," Shane chokes out. "I’m not sad. Please don’t think— don’t think I regret anything, okay? You’re worth it. I promise you’re worth it. I’m just— I’m really, really mad that it cost fucking everything to have you."

His knees are bleeding from the glass.

They have shattered picture frames and shredded pictures to clean up.

Shane can count on one hand, the people who genuinely care about him. 

Everything he worked so hard for is ruined.

But he’s here.

Stories don’t end at the part where everything goes to shit. No good movie would roll the credits at the part where the character has lost everything.

Unless that character is the villain, which Shane has always considered that he might be.

But no—

Maybe, maybe, the happy ending is still coming.

He has Ilya. They’ll clean the floor, and clean his legs, and he’ll meet his new team, and he’ll play hockey with his husband.

It has to get better.

He’s not sure how much longer he can take it, if it doesn’t.

-

The 1999-2000 Ottawa Hornets U11AA went almost half the season before they finally won a game.

They weren’t even a terrible team, really, but they were among a lot of other really, really good teams. The calibre of youth hockey in the area was crazy, and the competition was a lot more intense than in the U9s. The pace was faster, the bodies were bigger, and the skill sets were stronger.

Shane kept up, of course. He was the best on the team, even being the youngest, though his talent wasn’t usually enough to save them from lopsided scores and those quiet third periods where the enthusiasm dimmed because they already knew it was a wash.

No one teased him for getting quiet and upset after losses.

They tried to cheer him up, in fact— they gave him piggybacks around the locker room, and they fist-bumped him for his goals and passes, and they told him they couldn’t believe he was only in grade three, because even the grade sixes on the team agreed that he was cool enough to hang out with them. 

They were a rare, kind, oddly-sweet group of boys, and Shane was reminded, for a year, that he didn’t actually hate hockey. 

-

He drives his own car to the first day of training camp. He tells Ilya he needs to get his head on straight. 

In the parking lot, his stomach hurts. 

You feel nervous, Shane. That’s what that is. It’s okay. We’re gonna go inside anyways, and you’re gonna be brave for me. You’ll feel so much better once you get started.

He breathes. 

Texts Mom a smiley face, just because. 

Good luck, honey! she texts him back, immediately. She sends him a picture of his eight year-old self in an Ottawa Centaurs jersey, beaming at the camera. Do it for him!

Little Shane looks pretty happy. That picture was taken after he went to a Centaurs game with his U11 team, and decided he definitely wanted to be a hockey player when he grew up. When a puck flew up and over into the stands, the guys decided Shane, the littlest and best player on the team, should be the one to keep it.  

Shane smiles, despite himself. 

Everything sucks fucking shit right now, but a good team makes a difference. 

The 2021-22 Ottawa Centaurs are a good group of guys. 

This year might be okay.