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It had been a close game—too close. If Shane hadn’t managed to win that head to head against Rozanov late in the third period…But he had, and they’d been able to run out the clock on Boston, despite increasingly aggressive, some might even say violent play from the opposing team.
Hayden wasn’t a big guy as far as hockey players went, but he was fast, managing to avoid getting pancaked by Rozanov or, god forbid, Marleau. Shane hadn’t been so lucky. The other team seemed to have it out for him and Hayden was sure to check on him each time they made it to the bench. Shane Hollander did not quit a game for minor things like broken bones so Hayden had appointed himself as mother hen.
If Shane had bruised a rib he was hiding it well. Hayden resolved to poke him about getting checked by the trainer in the locker room after the game. They only had three minutes on the clock. Then two. Then one.
The final buzzer sounded and Hayden breathed a sigh of relief as he glided back towards his teammates. He passed Rozanov, swearing up a storm in Russian, and gave him a wide berth in case he decided to smash his stick on the ice.
Hayden participated in the customary end of game rituals, including getting whacked on the back by an overly enthusiastic JJ and paying it forward by smacking Shane on the helmet as he passed.
Their captain was the last through the boards as was customary and Hayden wondered if he’d gotten lost in composing sound bites for the press in his head when suddenly Shane skated back out onto the empty ice. He stooped, tearing off a glove to pick something up with his bare fingers.
“What’s that?” Hayden asked, falling into step as Shane passed, head down, staring at something small and glittering in his hand. He startled when Hayden spoke, clearly in his own little Shane bubble, where he tended to forget that the rest of the world existed.
Sometimes Hayden envied him that ability, to tune everything else out and focus so singularly. The kids would never let him get away with that though, not to mention Jackie.
“It’s…I found this. I think it fell off of, um…”
Hayden could finally see what Shane was holding in his hand: a tiny gold cross, broken chain dangling from it. He held it gently, reminding Hayden of the time Emma brought him a crushed butterfly, asking if they could fix its wings. It took a second for Hayden to place where he’d seen it before.
“Wait, shit, I’ve seen that! That’s Rozanov’s!”
“What? Oh yeah,” Shane said, eyes unfocused like he was summoning a memory. “I’ve seen him wearing it. In like, interviews. I was gonna give it back…”
“What, now? No fucking way. You can’t walk into the Boston locker room after the beat down we just gave them. We’d never even find your body.”
“Oh, right.”
Autopilot had taken them into their own locker room, full of sweaty hockey players and discarded gear. Hayden trailed Shane over to their neighboring stalls.
“Look, it’s easy. Just give it to Sam, she can mail it back to Boston.”
“Mail what to Boston?” Mitty asked, looking up as they passed.
“The Raiders dicks?” JJ snickered from nearby.
“It’s nothing,” Shane said quickly, starting to shuck his gear.
“Shane found Rozanov’s necklace on the ice,” Hayden declared loudly. “He wants to go give it back and I told him that’s fucking suicide.”
There was a chorus of agreement from the room at large.
“Is that that weird cross he’s always wearing?” Mitty asked.
“It’s Orthodox, idiot,” JJ said, rolling his eyes.
“Why give it back at all?” Berkes scoffed. “Make that cocksucker get a new one.”
“You can’t steal a man’s cross, what is wrong with you?” JJ shouted, setting off an argument that everyone seemed eager to pile onto.
“Shut up!” Hayden cried over the hubbub. Shane was untying his skates, head down, blissfully uncaring.
“Listen, Cap will make sure he gets it! Just not,” and at this, he turned to Shane directly, “by marching into the away locker room and getting his head fucking bashed in.”
Shane gave a curt nod, still not looking up. Hayden eyed him suspiciously. He was exactly the kind of boy scout who wouldn’t realize what sort of trouble he was courting by provoking a bunch of riled up Bostonians. He seemed to think everyone should be level headed and reasonable about things, bless him.
They went through the rest of their locker room routine: gear, showers, clothes, gear. Shane did everything methodically as usual. Hayden kept an eye on him, just in case he got any heroic ideas, but as he was packing, he got a text that seemed to distract him. Hayden didn’t see what he’d done with the necklace, but he hoped Shane had forgotten about it for the moment. He could do anything with it as far as Hayden cared, just so long as he didn’t do it tonight.
Shane suddenly stuffed his phone in his pocket and began tossing things into his bag haphazardly, not even bothering to fold his undershirt. Warning bells went off in Hayden’s head. When Shane zipped his bag hurriedly and made a beeline for the door, Hayden unceremoniously dumped the remainder of his junk in his own bag and hurried after him.
As he suspected, Shane did not make for the exit, but instead wound his way through the tunnels toward the visiting locker room.
“Shane!” he called, hurrying to catch up. But Shane was already a twist or two in front of him. Hayden broke into a jog, sure Shane would be just around the next bend, but he turned a corner to find a long corridor with the locker room door at the other end: empty.
“Shit,” Hayden muttered.
Well, he’d come this far. And if his captain was about to get into it with a bunch of decidedly unfriendly Raiders against all sense and repeated warnings, he was going to need back up.
He walked down the corridor, straining his ears for the sound of a fight brewing, but the place seemed deserted. It was only when he poked his head into the locker room itself that he heard voices, low and fretful.
“...I’m sorry, the chain is broken…”
“Is okay. That can be fixed.”
“I would have just had it mailed but…”
“No, thank you. I was very worried when I realized it was missing.”
“I know. I know what it means to you.”
Hayden wasn’t sure if he was more shocked by how grateful Rozanov seemed or how kind Shane was being. To that asshole? The one who never let an opportunity go by to tell everyone how much better than Shane he was?
He drifted forward, almost unconsciously. Peering around a bank of lockers, he caught sight of them, standing opposite one another, a few feet of distance between them, like one of those Hollander vs Rozanov graphics on NBC. And yet, they looked right at each other with nothing close to the malice one might have expected.
For once, it struck Hayden how similar they really were. Two phenoms, generational talents, drafted at 18 and immediately thrown into the fray to rise to the rank of Captain in just a few short years. It was a lot to put on the shoulders of such young men, and in their own ways, they’d both risen to the challenge with grit and determination.
The only difference was that one was an angel child who needed Hayden to protect him from everyone including himself, while the other was a complete and utter asshole.
“I should go,” Rozanov said, voice surprisingly soft. “They are holding the bus for me.”
“Straight to the airport?” Shane asked.
“The downside of afternoon game.”
“Yeah.”
“Okay, well, see you next time, Hollander.”
“Right, yeah. See you…”
Rozanov turned, deliberately checking Shane with his shoulder as he passed. Hayden gritted his teeth, but Shane just took it with a chuckle, like he would have from JJ or anyone else on the team.
Shane turned, a rueful smile on his face and walked away, passing Hayden’s erstwhile hiding spot.
“Why do I feel like nobody ever listens to me?” Hayden asked, and felt a twinge of guilty satisfaction at the way Shane jumped a foot in the air.
“Jesus fuck, Hayd! Did you follow me?”
“Well, yeah. When I tell someone not to do a thing, and then they immediately go off to do that thing, I like to follow along beneath them with a net, just in case.”
Shane glared at him. “Did you forget I’m your captain, not the other way around?”
“Yeah, and it’s my job to keep my captain from getting hurt. And even if you weren’t my captain, it would be my job as your friend.”
Shane gave a bitchy huff and turned away, stomping back toward their own locker room.
“So,” Hayden said, turning to follow right behind. “I guess Rozanov can be a decent guy when he wants to be, huh?”
“Guess so.”
“Who would have thought it?”
Shane muttered something under his breath.
“What was that?”
“I said, people always seem to become what everyone wants them to be. The league wanted a cocky show off, they got Ilya Rozanov.”
Hayden chewed on that for a minute. “And what if,” he asked carefully, “they wanted a perfect saint, white knight with a heart of gold who always follows the rules?”
Shane stopped, not looking back, but just standing there for a long second. “Yeah, I expect they’d get that too.”
Hayden nodded, feeling like he understood a little better why this had been important to Shane. “Well, I’m glad they did, buddy. I’m glad they did.”
He clapped Shane on the shoulder and side by side, they walked back to their own locker room together.