Chapter Text
Shane Hollander learned early that hunger could be useful.
Not the kind that made your stomach growl during practice or woke you up at 3 a.m. on a road trip. This was a quieter hunger. Sharper. The kind that cut through noise and left behind something clean and focused. Coaches called it discipline. Trainers praised his “elite conditioning.” Commentators talked about his jawline, his speed, the way he seemed carved rather than built.
No one asked how he stayed that way.
By twenty-two, Shane’s life ran on control. Ice time. Calories. Sleep. Reps. He tracked everything with the same ruthless precision he brought to his shot. When he was a kid in Saskatchewan, control had been a luxury. His parents’ divorce. The financial stress. The way people talked about him—too flashy, too arrogant, too much. Control was something he built himself. Brick by brick.
Hockey rewarded it.
The NHL loved a player who never seemed to need anything.
On the ice, Shane was untouchable. Off it, he was hollowed out in ways he didn’t have language for. Hunger wasn’t a warning sign; it was proof he was doing it right. Proof he was stronger than everyone else. Proof that nothing—no pressure, no expectations, no feelings—could get the better of him.
Especially not feelings.
Then there was Ilya.
Ilya Rozanov was the opposite of control. Loud laughter. Late-night room service. Pasta before games. A body that was powerful because it was fed, not punished. Ilya didn’t think about food the way Shane did. He ate when he was hungry. He stopped when he wasn’t. It seemed careless. Dangerous. Shane told himself it was cultural. Russian metabolism. Genetics.
Anything but envy.
Their rivalry was supposed to be simple. Hate him. Beat him. Prove you’re better.
Except hatred took energy. And Shane was already running on fumes.
The first time it went wrong, really wrong, was mid-season. A back-to-back in Minnesota. Shane hadn’t eaten properly in two days—just protein bars, coffee, water. He told himself he felt light. Fast. During the second period, the rink tilted. His vision narrowed. He missed a pass he never missed. When he sat on the bench, his hands were shaking so badly he shoved them between his thighs.
The trainers blamed dehydration. Stress. Travel.
Shane nodded and promised to do better.
He didn’t.
He couldn’t.
Because eating meant giving something up—sharpness, control, the sense that he was winning a private battle no one else even knew existed. He’d built his entire identity around being exceptional. What did it say about him if he couldn’t even manage his own body?
Ilya noticed before anyone else did.
Of course he did. Ilya always noticed things Shane didn’t want seen.
“You okay?” Ilya asked one night, voice low, eyes too perceptive, as Shane pushed food around his plate without eating it.
“I’m fine,” Shane snapped, automatically.
Ilya didn’t push. He just watched. That somehow felt worse.
The disorder thrived in silence. In hotel rooms. In early mornings before practice when Shane told himself he’d eat later. After games when adrenaline killed his appetite and he took that as a sign to skip meals entirely. It wasn’t about weight anymore—not really. It was about deserving food. About earning it. About punishing himself when he felt weak, when he missed Ilya too much, when he wanted something he wasn’t supposed to want.
Especially Ilya.
The breaking point didn’t come during a game. It came during a win.
Shane scored twice. The crowd roared. The reporters praised him. In the locker room, surrounded by noise and celebration, his heart started racing for no reason at all. His chest felt tight. His hands went numb. He locked himself in the bathroom and slid down the wall, gasping, forehead pressed against cold tile.
This wasn’t control.
This was fear.
He thought about how tired he was. Bone-deep tired. How his world had shrunk to numbers and rules and rituals. How much effort it took just to get through a day without falling apart.
And for the first time, he wondered what would happen if he stopped fighting food like it was an enemy.
Asking for help felt like failure. Worse—it felt like exposure. But the truth had already been leaking out of him in missed practices and shaky hands and hollow smiles. When he finally spoke to the team doctor, the words came out flat and careful, like he was describing someone else.
“I think I have a problem.”