Chapter Text
CERTIFICAT DE DIVORCE
(art. 12(7) Loi sur le divorce)
J’atteste que le mariage de CATHERINE MARIE FORTIER (HOLLANDER) et de SHANE HOLLANDER célèbre à MONTREAL, QUEBEC, le 2014-07-19, a été dissous par jugement qui a pris effet le 2021-08-11.
Shane stares at the piece of paper before he looks up with a tired smile that doesn't reach his eyes.
“Really gets to the point,” he quips wryly. He can feel sweat prickling at the back of his neck even as they stand in the air-conditioned courthouse hall, the tag of his dress shirt scratching against his skin.
Maybe he should feel worse right now, he thinks - but they both know that they made their peace with all of this months ago. It's been a year, almost to the day, since he packed his things and moved out of their house in Hampstead to a lonely apartment in downtown Montreal. There's been a lot of time for him to ruminate on his mistakes.
“It does,” Cate agrees, but her smile is equally thin, her green eyes a little distant. Despite everything, she looks as beautiful and composed as she always has, dark blonde hair swept up out of her face. She looks down to tuck her copy of the certificate into her purse and Shane can only shift on his feet, his own copy folded and stuffed inside his suit jacket just so he has something to do with his hands. He simultaneously wants this to be over immediately and never wants to have to face the outside world.
The problem is that Shane, for all the time he’s had to think about this moment, doesn't really know what he's supposed to do right now. It’s not like there’s any sort of manual for what to say to the woman who's just become your ex-wife after seven years of marriage, no matter how amicable the split.
And it had been amicable. Shane is grateful for that, though he wouldn't have expected any less. Cate has always been more gracious with his shortcomings than he's deserved. She's always been the one to try and make it work, right up until they both had to acknowledge that it simply wasn’t going to.
“I can come by the house,” he offers, knowing how little sense it makes. “I'd… like to see the kids. If that's okay.”
Cate smiles, almost sad, but she shakes her head. “Maybe we should wait until Saturday,” she says finally, her French Montreal accent curling around her words. “Just… keeping with the agreement. I don't want to confuse them any further.” Her tone is apologetic, but it leaves no space for argument either.
Shane nods, though it does sting a little. “...Okay. Of course. I mean - that makes sense.” He rubs the back of his neck and huffs a laugh but it's painfully humorless. There’s a beat of silence between them that makes his skin itch. “Well. I don't really know what to -”
He isn't able to finish the sentence before Cate pulls him into a quick hug, kissing his cheek. Strangely enough, even under these circumstances, it relaxes him, Shane returning the embrace.
“It's okay,” she says simply. “It's all done now, mh? We can just move forward.” She pulls back, but her hands are still on his arms. Her eyes are misty when they meet his again. “You know, I hope you can figure out what's going to make you happy, Shane. Really.”
“...Yeah. You too,” he says after a moment. He means it, but it also just seems like the thing he's meant to say.
They had been so young when they'd gotten married, but that had just felt like the thing to do, too. At least at the time. He was in a good spot, after all. He had been making great money and playing amazing hockey. He was an Olympic medalist.
After two years, things with Cate were still good. They had fun together, felt safe together, and everyone liked her - his parents, his friends, the other WAGs. Yuna had started reminding him with increasing frequency that his grandmother’s ring was his to take, if he wanted it. So obviously getting married was the next step.
The ceremony had been small but lovely, held at an intimate venue in Montreal. Of course Yuna had been in her element, helping to coordinate as many details as she could conceivably manage. They had exchanged simple vows and silver bands and it had all felt nerve wracking but right, as far as Shane could remember.
(If anyone had noticed that they were married in July and Aimi was born in February, they were kind enough not to point it out.)
Life had moved fast. It had been fine. There were challenges, of course. Hockey and all that came with it kept him busy and away from home, and sure, he had missed some things. He had missed Aimi's first steps (they'd been in the playoffs against Chicago). He had been just an hour late to the hospital the day Leo was born (an afternoon game in Seattle, he'd missed the call and hadn't been able to get a flight in time). He had missed their third wedding anniversary and forgotten to order the flowers (a brutal loss to Ottawa of all teams, how had that happened?).
But he loved his wife and his kids and he really was trying to make it all work. They had a spacious home outside Montreal, a comfortable living, the sort of life he had always known people dreamed of. Anyway, he was Shane Hollander, and he was good at everything. He had to be; he had never not been.
He didn't really notice anything had been missing. It had all been fine.
Until he found Cate crying in the kitchen. Until he tried to take her hand and she blurted out, “you haven't touched me in months, Shane.”
It was an unspoken thing that had been there for years that Shane had never looked in the face. Of course he knew their sex life had never been active. But he had always felt there were good reasons: they were both busy, or tired; they really needed to be careful about it, especially during the season; it should be something special.
Eventually, she had asked, carefully, about marriage counseling. He'd agreed and tried to take it seriously, worked on doing and saying the right things to make it better. It was only during those sessions that he had really let himself think about how maybe things weren't quite as fine as he'd imagined.
During what turned out to be the final session, they had finally gotten to the sex. He'd sat on one end of the pleather sofa, avoiding eye contact with the counsellor by staring at the wall behind her and trying to think of a safe way to answer her questions about why he wasn't having sex with his wife. He had tried to figure out ways to express how he felt without simply saying I don't know. I just don't want to.
Or when we have sex it feels like I'm just trying to get through it, the same way it's felt with everyone else.
Or I know it’s going to be disappointing for both of us even if she won’t say so.
Or if I think too much about it I feel like maybe something is just fucked up inside me.
Instead, he’d made something up about the season and the kids and anything else he could think of, desperately clawing for answers that were technically honest but wouldn’t hurt her feelings. He hadn’t made eye contact with either of them as he spoke, just trying to focus on willing the tightness out of his chest.
That was the night they'd stood together in the kitchen, a silence settled over the house once the kids were in bed. Cate had poured herself a glass of wine, and she had been remarkably composed as she looked at him from across the island.
“I think -” She had started, one of her manicured nails digging into a chip in the marble countertop. “I don’t think this is working anymore. I think maybe we both… need something else.”
“...What does that mean?” He had asked, trying to stifle a sudden wave of nausea. She had just smiled sadly when she looked at him.
“I think you already know.”
Despite the fact he’s lived in it for so long, his apartment is still sparsely decorated. It’s just not something he’s ever been good at - making things nice, moving beyond pure practicality. His mom still fusses about it whenever his parents visit. “It’s too much like a sad bachelor pad,” she says, like he isn’t already perfectly aware of how pathetic it is. He looks around as he slumps onto the couch, loosening his tie, and thinks maybe he could hire someone to make it look like somebody actually lives here.
Shane takes the divorce certificate out of his inner jacket pocket and just looks it over again, letting it sink in. He realizes just how miserable it feels to be holding something that so plainly says in black and white something that Shane has never really had to grapple with before.
He failed.
It’s a thought he can’t voice out loud without everyone rushing to tell him it’s not true. That marriage is hard work, or that sometimes it’s just not meant to be, or that they had given it their best shot. But he knows, somewhere in the back of his mind, that he fucked this up. And the worst part of all of it is that he still doesn’t really understand how.
“Fuck.” He drops the piece of paper onto the coffee table and tugs the tie a little too roughly out of his collar, his head falling back against the couch. He fights the urge to pick up his phone, where he’s bound to find a handful of well-meaning, sympathetic texts from the few people who knew the court date was today
As low as he feels, he can’t really bring himself to face their well-intentioned pity. Because that’s what it would be - pity for the guy who fumbled what should have been a perfect life. Before he even turned thirty.
Within the hour he’s changed his clothes and escaped to the Metros training facility. He has nowhere else to be, and it’s easier to get out of his head when he has the comfort of a routine. The space is empty when he arrives, just as he’d hoped it would be, and he can focus his energy on his burning muscles and controlled breathing. It helps the time pass faster, and the faster time passes, the sooner this fucking day will be over.
The noise in his head has quieted considerably by the time he reaches his cooldown, and he thinks maybe he’ll even see about going out with someone tonight. He’s bent in downward dog, just breathing deep through the stretch -
Then the door to the training room opens, followed by a familiar voice he vaguely recognizes from the Team Services staff.
“-all the equipment you could need - Oh, shit. Are we interrupting?”
Shane straightens up and takes a deep breath in through his nose, trying his best to be diplomatic despite the sudden break in his concentration. “No, I was just finishing up.”
Of course the guy from Team Services isn’t alone - another man just a step behind him. He doesn’t quite look nervous, but there’s something to his expression that shows he isn’t comfortable either. He seems familiar, but Shane can’t place why until the staffer fills in the gaps.
“Um - sorry. Shane, this is our newest arrival: Ilya Rozanov.”
All the air suddenly seemed to be knocked out of Shane at once.
He’s seventeen again, the wind biting at his cheeks as he approaches another boy who’s just lit up a cigarette on the sidewalk in Regina. He’d been impressed watching the practice and maybe a little envious and possibly too eager to introduce himself, and Russia’s star player had smiled at him in a way that made his stomach twist with what he’d told himself was jealousy. Shane remembers being so certain that Rozanov was going to be his toughest competition in the MLH draft - but Rozanov hadn’t entered, and Shane hadn’t seen him since.
Shane realizes he’s been staring and not listening to a word from the staffer about the tour he’s giving his new teammate. He nods in Rozanov’s direction with the most convincing smile he can conjure. “...We’ve met. It’s.. nice to see you again.”
“Yes.” Is Rozanov’s voice deeper than he had remembered? He smiles back at Shane, but there’s just a bit of an edge to it. Like he knows something Shane doesn’t.
Shane swallows then, feeling frozen in place, but he nods again, tongue darting over his lips. “...Well. Welcome to Montreal. I’m sure you’ll like it here.”
The awkward pause lingers for a beat before the staffer apologizes again to Shane and leads Rozanov to the door. Before he follows, Rozanov nods back, and his smile seems to widen just the slightest bit. “I am sure I will.”
And then just as abruptly as he’d been interrupted, Shane’s alone again. He lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding and runs a hand back through his hair, suddenly realizing the strands are damp with sweat.
He doesn’t understand it but something deep in the pit of his stomach says quietly, simply, but clearly:
we’re in trouble.