Chapter Text
The game had ended less than an hour ago. The mistake had happened in less than a second. A tangle of skates. A stumble. An opportunity. Ilya had taken it because of course he had. Because he was Ilya. Because it was the playoffs.
Because that's what hockey players did.
And now half the league apparently believed Shane had handed him the game.
The same teammates who had celebrated with him. The same organization he'd sacrificed for. The same fans he'd devoted years of his life to.
He climbed into his car and shut the door.
The silence rang in his ears.
For several moments he sat motionless with his hands on the steering wheel.
His phone lit up once more.
Mom.
He answered immediately.
"Hi."
Her voice was soft.
"Hey baby."
The single phrase nearly broke him.
"How are you doing?"
Shane laughed weakly. "I'm great."
"You sound terrible."
For several seconds neither spoke.
Then Yuna sighed. "Shane."
His throat tightened. "I don't know what to do."
"Oh, sweetheart."
His eyes burned.
He pressed a hand over them.
"It wasn't even my fault."
"I know."
"They think I threw the game."
The first tear slipped free.
Then another.
"I worked so hard." His voice broke completely.
"I gave them everything.."
For a few moments he cried.
Not loudly. That was never something Shane did in public.
Just small, wounded sounds escaping him while Yuna listened.
Eventually his breathing steadied.
The tears slowed.
The pain remained.
Then something strange happened.
It simply...
Stopped.
Like someone had reached into his head and flipped a switch.
The grief vanished.
The panic vanished.
The humiliation vanished.
His face relaxed.
His thoughts disappeared.
Yuna was still talking.
He listened without processing any of it.
"Honey?"
"Yeah."
"You okay?"
"Yeah."
His voice sounded distant.
Even to himself.
"Do you want me and dad to come over?"
"No."
"You sure?"
"Yeah."
Another pause. "Call me if you need anything."
"I will."
After hanging up he stared through the windshield.
Nothing moved inside him.
Nothing at all.
A few minutes later he started the car.
And drove home.
----------
The house was dark.
Exactly as he'd left it.
Shane locked the door behind him.
Dropped his keys in their usual spot on the mahogany shelving unit he and Ilya got after the broke the original because Ilya insisted on sitting Shane on it while attacking his face during a particularly long stretch of separation.
Removed his shoes and placed them next to the god awful orange slides Ilya had left last time he was there.
Walked upstairs to the bed he and Ilya had shared so many times.
Showered next to Ilya's curl shampoo.
Changed into Ilya's shirt and a pair of pajama pants.
Every action unfolded automatically.
No awareness beyond the next movement.
When he finished he went downstairs.
The kitchen lights came on.
The counters gleamed.
Everything sat exactly where it belonged.
Orderly and predictable.
Unlike hockey.
Unlike people.
His phone began buzzing again.
Bzzt
He ignored it.
Bzzt
Bzzt
Bzzt
Bzzt
The constant vibration echoed across the countertop.
He looked at it.
The screen glowed with notifications.
The world demanding access to him.
Shane stared for several seconds.
Then calmly picked up the phone.
Walked to the garbage can.
Dropped it inside.
The buzzing became muffled beneath discarded paper towels and food packaging.
Problem solved.
He returned to the counter.
Opened the refrigerator.
Removed several meal-prep containers.
Perfectly portioned carefully measured food.
Prepared days ago in an effort to distract himself from-
He placed a pan on the stove.
Turned on the burner.
Reached for the oil.
Then froze.
The meal-prep container sat in his hands.
Cold plastic against his fingers.
Chicken.
Rice.
Vegetables.
His stomach turned.
Suddenly he remembered.
The diet.
God.
The fucking diet.
Weeks of it.
Months.
Every calorie measured.
Every craving ignored.
Every temptation denied.
He'd spent entire road trips fantasizing about cupcakes.
Dreaming about fresh bread.
Yearning for pasta.
For burgers.
For anything that wasn't optimized and portioned and planned.
He'd done it because he wanted every possible advantage.
Because he wanted to be better.
Faster.
Stronger.
Because championships mattered.
Because the team mattered.
Because being perfect mattered.
And for what?
For those assholes you could never impress.
His breathing changed.
The numbness cracked.
For what?
To get accused of throwing a playoff game?
To have fans call him a traitor?
You are a traitor, you lied to all of them.
To have teammates question him?
To have years of loyalty erased in a single night?
You are a fucking liar.
Something twisted violently inside his chest.
The first sob escaped before he realized he was crying.
His vision blurred instantly.
"No."
His hands began shaking.
"No."
The container slipped.
He caught it.
Stared at it.
The stupid fucking chicken.
The stupid fucking rice.
The stupid fucking vegetables.
It was for nothing.
With a wordless cry he hurled the container across the kitchen.
It exploded against the wall.
Rice sprayed everywhere.
Chicken bounced across the floor.
Sauce dripped down white paint.
Shane stared at the mess.
Breathing hard.
Then another sob tore from his throat and everything erupted.
He yanked open the refrigerator.
Food flew.
OUT.
Containers crashed.
USELESS.
Vegetables scattered across the floor.
IT'S ALL FUCKING USLESS NOW.
A bottle shattered.
Something sticky splashed his socks.
He didn't care.
Years of discipline evaporated.
USELESS.
Years of control vanished.
He grabbed whatever his hands touched and threw it.
The crash of breaking glass echoed through the house.
"Fuck!"
Another object flew.
"Fuck them!"
Something splatterd against a cabinet.
"WHY!" His voice cracked.
"WHY CAN'T I DO IT!"
A carton burst against the wall.
"I give them everything and I still-I still can't..." Tears streamed down his face. "What is wrong with me..what can I do.."
"WHAT CAN I FUCKING DO?!"
But he knew what they wanted him to do.
They wanted him to die sad and alone. For him to kill them desire in him to be loved. Then they wanted him to unlove the one man who made him feel like nothing was wrong with him.
But there was something wrong him him.
He just though if he was good enough they could forgive him and ignore it.
Ignore that he gets pleasure from having dick in his ass.
Ignore that he spoke with too flat of an affect.
Ignore that he did not like looking them in the eye all the time.
Ignore that he was a-
His chest hurt.
His lungs burned.
Still he kept throwing.
Kept screaming.
Kept breaking.
Because if he stopped he would have to feel everything.
And feeling everything might kill him.
Maybe that's what I need.
Eventually there was nothing left to throw.
The kitchen looked like a disaster zone.
Food everywhere.
Spilled liquids.
Ruined cabinets.
Shane stood in the center of it.
Sobbing.
Shaking.
Completely out of breath.
Then his gaze landed on the hallway.
The office.
His office.
Without thinking he stumbled toward it.
The room was a shrine, essentially.
Team photos.
Signed jerseys.
Awards.
Framed newspaper clippings.
Achievements.
Proof of everything he'd given.
Proof of everything he'd sacrificed.
For a long moment he stared.
Then he ripped the first frame off the wall.
The glass shattered on impact.
Another followed.
Then another.
Photos scattered.
Awards toppled.
A framed jersey crashed to the floor.
The destruction felt terrible.
The destruction felt wonderful.
He couldn't tell the difference anymore.
USELESS.
Tears dripped from his chin as he tore down years of memories.
Every picture felt like a lie.
USELESS.
Every accomplishment felt hollow.
USELESS.
Every trophy seemed ridiculous.
What was the point?
What had any of it accomplished?
Eventually he grabbed a glass award from a shelf.
The award crashed to the hardwood floor.
Shattering instantly.
The sound echoed through the room.
Shane froze.
The broken pieces glittered beneath the light.
For several moments he simply stared.
Then slowly he knelt.
His sobs had quieted.
Not because he felt better.
Because he was exhausted.
The shattered glass reflected fragments of his face.
I am a useless liar.
Carefully he began picking up pieces around the room.
One at a time.
Dropping them into the trash can.
His tears fell continuously.
Tiny drops splashing onto the broken shards.
When the floor was finally clean he sat back on his heels.
Years of achievement reduced to fragments.
Gone.
His chest tightened again.
But there was no energy left for another explosion.
Only emptiness.
Only exhaustion.
Only grief.
He wiped his eyes.
Stood.
And looked around the ruined office.
The walls appeared strangely bare.
The room felt larger.
Colder.
Lonelier.
His gaze drifted toward the desk.
The space underneath caught his attention.
Without really deciding to do it, he lowered himself to the floor.
Then crawled beneath it.
He curled onto his side.
Pulled his knees toward his chest.
Folded his arms against himself.
The metal surrounded him.
Pressed gently against his knees.
His feet.
His arm as it cradled his head.
The sensation was immediate.
Nothing could get him here.
It was dark and safe and quiet.
Like the desk was holding him together.
Like it could stop him from coming apart any further.
Like he didn't exist and therefore, neither did his problems.
Shane closed his eyes.
The compression eased something.
Not the sadness.
Not the betrayal.
Just the unbearable feeling of being too large for his own skin.
Too exposed.
Too vulnerable.
Under the desk he felt smaller.
The way he sometimes had as a child when emotions became too overwhelming.
He hadn't thought about that in years.
The realization drifted through him and disappeared.
His breathing slowed.
The tears stopped.
The office remained silent around him.
No phone buzzing.
No reporters.
No teammates.
No fans.
No expectations.
Just darkness beneath a metal desk.
His body gradually loosened.
The shaking faded.
The pressure in his chest eased.
His mind retreated somewhere distant where nothing could touch him.
The blankness returned like a heavy blanket settling over every sharp edge.
The grief remained somewhere outside it.
Waiting.
But for a little while he couldn't reach it.
And it couldn't reach him.
Shane lay curled beneath the desk as the ruined house sat around him.
Food drying on kitchen walls.
Broken memories scattered across office floors.
Glass resting in garbage bins.
Evidence of everything he could no longer contain.
Yet beneath the desk there was only stillness.
His face relaxed.
His breathing steadied.
His eyes remained closed.
And eventually he became so quiet that the house itself seemed to forget he was there.
-----------
The Centaurs' locker room was chaos.
Music blasted from a speaker Dykstra had balanced on top of a stall. Equipment lay everywhere. Players shouted over one another, laughing, celebrating, reliving every shift from the game that had just sent them one step closer to the championship.
Ilya should have been happy.
He should have been standing on a bench screaming with the rest of them.
Instead, he sat in front of his locker staring at his phone.
He had already checked it three times in the last ten minutes.
No message from Shane.
Which wasn't unusual.
Not after a playoff loss.
Still.
Something felt wrong.
"Ilya!"
Troy Barrett appeared beside him with two sports drinks.
"You look miserable my guy."
Ilya rolled his eyes.
Before Ilya could chirp back, his phone started ringing.
Yuna.
His stomach immediately dropped.
He answered on the first ring.
"Yuna?"
"Hi, Ilya."
Her voice sounded strained.
Every muscle in his body tightened.
"What's wrong?"
"Have you spoken to Shane?"
"No. He isn't answering."
Ilya sat up straighter.
"What?"
"We talked earlier."
Now David's voice joined the call.
"He sounded...upset."
Very upset, David didn't say.
But Ilya heard it anyway.
"We've been calling for almost an hour."
Then David. "We've texted."
"Nothing."
The locker room suddenly felt far too loud.
Ilya stood. "Maybe he fell asleep."
Even as he said it he didn't believe it.
Yuna didn't answer immediately and that terrified him.
Because Yuna was usually the calm one.
The rational one.
The one who could talk Shane down from anything.
"I don't think he fell asleep Honey..."
Ilya was already moving.
Crossing the locker room.
"I call him."
"Please."
The call ended.
Immediately Ilya hit Shane's contact.
Ring.
Ring.
Ring.
Voicemail.
He called again.
Nothing.
Again.
Nothing.
Again.
Nothing.
His chest tightened.
Twenty seconds later he started texting.
Where are you?
Call me.
Baby.
Please answer.
Are you okay?
Shane.
Answer your phone.
I love you.
Please.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing.
The messages showed delivered.
No response.
No typing bubble.
No read receipt.
Nothing..
"Ilya."
He looked up.
Bood was standing nearby.
Concern replacing his earlier smile.
"What happened man?"
Ilya swallowed.
"Shane is not answering."
Zane frowned. "Maybe he's asleep...after that game I would be, the guy was a beast."
"His parents cannot reach him." The words came out too fast.
"They call me. Nobody can reach him." A knot formed in Ilya's stomach.
The kind that told him something was very wrong.
The kind he had felt in a much smaller stomach, many years ago.
He called again.
Twenty messages became twenty-five.
Still nothing.
His hands started shaking.
"Hey." Zane gently took the phone from him. "Look at me."
Ilya did.
"You don't know what's happening."
His voice cracked. "No, something is wrong."
Because Shane always answered eventually.
Always.
Even if it was only a single text.
Busy.
Later.
Love you.
Something.
There was always something.
This silence felt different.
"I need to get to him."
"You will."
"The bus."
The realization hit him again.
The team bus.
They'd traveled together.
His car wasn't here.
Neither was Shane.
Neither was anybody who could help.
For one horrible second he felt trapped.
Then he remembered.
Pike.
Immediately he called.
The phone rang twice.
"What's up Rozanov?"
"Can you go to Shane's house?"
Hayden's tone changed instantly.
"What happened to him?"
"I don't know." And hearing himself say it made everything worse.
"I don't know, Hayden..."
The silence on the other end stretched.
"We're going."
"Call me when you get there."
"We will."
The call ended.
Ilya stared at the screen.
The longest 43 minutes of his life began.
----------
Hayden knew something was wrong the moment they pulled into the driveway.
The house was dark.
Not unusual, the guy loved mood lighting.
But Shane's car sat crooked.
One tire half over the edge of the driveway.
That wasn't Shane.
Shane parked perfectly.
Always.
Jackie noticed too.
Her expression immediately tightened. "Oh fuck...."
They hurried to the front door.
Hayden knocked.
No answer.
He tried the handle.
Unlocked.
The door swung open.
The smell hit first.
Jackie froze.
"What the fuck happened?"
Hayden stepped inside.
Then stopped. "Oh my God..."
The kitchen looked like a bomb had gone off.
Food covered the walls.
Broken glass glittered across the floor.
Cabinet doors hung open.
Containers lay shattered everywhere.
For several seconds neither moved.
The destruction was unbelievable.
This wasn't Shane.
Nothing about this was Shane.
Jackie grabbed Hayden's arm.
"I will never, I mean never forgive you for letting Shane walk out of that locker room Hayden Jeffery Pike. God, I could punch you right now."
"I know Jacks. I-I'm a fucking asshole." He said as he looked at the walls.
"Look."
The office.
Hayden's stomach dropped.
"Shane?" He called as he and his wife moved down the hallway and into the room.
No answer.
He moved through the wreckage.
"Shane!"
Still nothing.
Then Jackie gasped. "Hayden."
He turned.
She was staring beneath the desk.
And suddenly he saw him.
A shape curled into itself.
"Jesus."
Hayden rushed forward.
"Shane."
No response.
"Shane."
Nothing.
Then he finally noticed the tiny movement.
Breathing.
Thank God.
Relief hit so hard Hayden nearly sat down.
"Hey."
Still nothing.
"Buddy."
No answer.
Jackie crouched beside him trying to mis the tiny pieces of glass.
Gentler.
"Shane?"
A slight flinch.
That was all.
But it was something.
"We're here."
Nothing.
"We're not leaving." Jackie said calmly. She sounded so sweet and beautiful Hayden could have kissed her if she wasn't so fucking mad at him right then.
Still nothing from Shane.
Hayden immediately pulled out his phone to call Ilya.
"Hayden?" Ilya said from the other end.
"We found him."
The relief on the other end sounded painful.
"Спасибо, мама."
"He's under his desk."
Silence.
"What?"
"He won't answer."
Ilya stopped breathing.
Hayden could practically hear it.
"What do you mean he won't answer?"
"I mean he won't answer."
Jackie was still speaking softly.
Still getting no response.
"Can you get him out?"
Hayden looked at the narrow space.
The way Shane had folded himself into it.
The rigid posture.
The complete silence.
"I'll try."
It turned out to be a mistake.
"Shane."
Hayden crouched.
Reached carefully.
"Come on."
Nothing.
A hand touched Shane's shoulder.
Immediately everything changed.
The reaction was instantaneous.
Shane jerked violently.
Like he'd been electrocuted.
"No..."
The word came out small.
Hayden tried again.
"Come on, buddy." Hayden tried to yank him out with two hands on his shoulder.
Shane's entire body seized.
A sob tore from his chest.
Then suddenly he was shaking so hard Hayden pulled back in alarm.
"Okay."
Jackie immediately intervened.
"Back up."
Hayden let go.
The moment the pressure disappeared Shane brought his fists up to his face and began to bang on it in sickening thuds.
Sobs ripping through him.
"Go! 'MSorry okay!"
Jackie looked horrified.
Hayden felt sick.
The phone was still connected.
Still carrying every sound.
And then they heard Ilya.
"Ilya?"
No answer.
Only breathing.
Broken breathing.
--------
The Uber felt impossibly slow.
Traffic lights were evil.
Every car in front of them was evil.
The entire city was evil.
Ilya sat forward so far he was practically in the driver's lap.
Beside him Zane remained calm.
Or at least pretended to.
"He's alive."
Ilya nodded.
Then shook his head.
Then nodded again.
His eyes were wet.
His hands wouldn't stop trembling.
Hayden's voice crackled through the phone.
"He got worse when I touched him."
Ilya closed his eyes.
Of course he did.
Shane hated being touched when overwhelmed.
Not by strangers.
Not unexpectedly.
Not when emotions got too big.
He should have told Hayden.
He should have—
No.
No.
That wasn't fair.
Nobody knew.
Nobody could have known.
"Ilya?"
Jackie's voice now.
"We think he can hear us."
The image destroyed him.
Shane curled beneath a desk.
Thinking nobody wanted him.
Thinking nobody loved him.
After everything.
After all these years.
"I need to talk to him."
"Okay."
Then:
"Shane?"
"I know you can hear me."
More sobbing.
"I love you Shane.."
The crying immediately intensified.
"Oh мой милый мальчик." Ilya's voice whisperd.
"I love you."
Ilya's voice cracked. "I love you so much."
A sound came from beneath the desk.
The first response.
"...sorry."
Everyone froze.
Jackie looked at Hayden.
Hayden looked at Jackie.
The phone nearly slipped from Ilya's hands.
"Shane?"
"...sorry."
Another sob. "Sorry."
"No."
Ilya was crying openly now.
"No, don't apologize."
But Shane kept going.
The same words.
Over and over.
Like a prayer.
Like a punishment.
"Sorry."
"Sorry."
"Sorry."
"Shane."
"Go away."
The words were muffled.
"Please."
His voice cracked.
"Go away."
"No."
"Leave me alone."
Another sob.
"I can't."
Then came a sharp sound.
Jackie frowned.
"What was that?"
Hayden immediately leaned closer.
"Shane."
A hand.
Against his own face.
"Hey."
Jackie moved closer. "Sweetheart, don't start again."
"Sorry."
Ilya made a sound that didn't even sound human.
"Please stop Shanyushka. Please."
"Sorry."
"Shane..."
"Sorry."
Hayden quickly switched the call to speaker.
Maybe hearing Ilya more clearly would help.
Instead Shane's distress exploded.
The crying became louder.
More frantic.
More desperate.
"No."
He grabbed his hair.
As if trying to keep himself together.
"Shane."
Ilya was openly sobbing now.
"I'm coming."
No response.
"I'm coming."
"Don't."
The word shattered him.
"I don't want you to see."
The entire Uber went silent.
Even the driver looked devastated.
Because everyone understood.
Shane thought he was broken.
And he didn't want Ilya seeing it.
"Baby."
"I ruined everything."
"No."
"I ruined everything."
"No Shane."
"I ruined everything."
The words wouldn't stop.
Like he couldn't hear them.
Like he was trapped inside his own head.
Zane wrapped an arm around Ilya's shoulders.
Grounding him.
Keeping him upright.
Because otherwise he might have collapsed.
Eventually Ilya couldn't do it anymore.
Couldn't listen.
Couldn't hear Shane crying.
Couldn't hear him apologizing for existing.
His hand shook as he lowered the phone.
"I can't."
Nobody blamed him.
Not even Hayden.
"We've got him."
The call ended.
And Ilya cried into his hands.
Several minutes later Zane's phone rang.
He answered.
"Harris?"
His expression darkened.
"Troy's with you?"
More silence.
"You've got to be kidding me."
Ilya looked up.
Immediately alarmed.
"What?"
Zane hesitated.
Tried to think of a way not to say it.
"The media."
Of course.
The fucking media.
"The replay is everywhere."
Ilya felt cold.
"Harris says people think Shane did it on purpose."
For a moment the world stopped.
Then rage replaced everything.
"What?"
"People are saying he threw the game."
"No."
The word came out deadly.
"No!"
"It's all over social media."
Troy's voice appeared through the speaker.
"They're tearing him apart. His own teammates are liking hate posts."
Ilya stared out the window.
Unable to breathe.
Unable to think.
Unable to process how cruel people could be.
Shane had given everything.
And now strangers who knew nothing about him were destroying him because they needed someone to blame.
The thought made him sick.
And suddenly he understood.
At least a little.
Understood what Shane must have seen.
What Shane must have read.
What Shane must have felt.
The accusations.
The betrayal.
The hatred.
All of it landing on top of a playoff loss.
Landing on top of years of pressure.
Years of secrecy.
Years of trying to be perfect.
Ilya pressed his hands against his face.
And cried again.
Not because Shane was too weak to handle it.
But because nobody should have had to carry that much alone.
The driver glanced into the rearview mirror.
Then quietly said:
"I can get there faster."
Ilya looked up.
"Please."
The driver nodded.
And pressed harder on the accelerator.
Streetlights blurred.
Buildings streaked past.
Every second felt unbearable.
Every minute felt impossible.
Shane was waiting.
Curled beneath a desk.
Convinced he was worthless.
Convinced nobody wanted him.
And Ilya needed to get there.
Needed to hold him.
Needed to tell him the truth.
That he wasn't a failure.
Wasn't broken.
Wasn't worthless.
That he was loved.
Desperately.
Completely.
Forever.
The city rushed by outside the windows.
And for the first time since Yuna's call, Ilya prayed.
Not for a championship.
Not for hockey.
Not for himself.
Just for enough time.
Enough time to reach Shane before the darkness inside him convinced him of something that wasn't true.
Enough time to get home.
Enough time to bring him back.