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Hayden had worked hard to become someone in Shane’s very small, very curated inner circle. He had, over time, perfected his own brand of goofy ignorance that managed to win him the little Shane Hollander label of ‘people that can be trusted’. Years of careful coaxing and a specific type of cluelessness allowed Shane to let out the breath he always seemed to be holding in public.
It had taken a long time to prove to Shane that all his quirks— everything he did or needed that had his shoulders hunching as he waited for someone to make fun of him— were things Hayden took not only in stride, but in full unbothered acceptance. And once Shane had pressed that little label carefully, right above his heart, smoothing out the bubbles so it wouldn’t unstick, Hayden became one of Shane’s people. It was a title he was proud to wear.
Yeah, Shane was a weirdo. But he was Hayden's weirdo.
This was how he knew, despite the mask of calm that had descended over his best friend's face, that a tempest roiled underneath. Despite the fact that Shane looked completely and wholly unbothered, his unnatural stillness gave him away to those who knew him best. This, unfortunately, included one, Ilya Rozanov, who was currently watching Shane with barely concealed worry. It was likely the matching pair to the look on Hayden's own face as they began the first Montreal vs. Ottawa game since Shane had left his former team.
The crowd was ravenous. Their chants were a dull thud in Hayden’s chest. The rumble of their feet as they stomped on the floor in perfect synchrony seemed to shake the entire building.
Hayden was glad he wasn’t Shane right now. Shane, who was possibly the most hated man in this arena full of Voyageur red and blue.
Some drunk idiot in the stands had started the frankly ridiculous chant, “Who’s a traitor? Holl-an-der!” It wasn’t particularly creative, but it caught on, and now the stadium was filled with it. The words, chanted by thousands of passionate voices, shuddering and skittering over the ice towards its intended target, who was skating stone-faced to settle into his starting position.
To match their gathered crowd, both teams were also extra agitated. The Centaurs looked at the Voyageurs like they had personally kicked their dog. Hayden supposed in a way, they had. His own team, on the other hand, shook with barely concealed violence.
Hayden could feel the atmosphere thick and tense as if waiting for a fight to break out. Tonight, he figured, a fight—if not a few fights—was probably inevitable.
Hayden was surprised as Rozanov skated lazily onto the ice, taking the position of left wing. He had assumed they’d have him centring the second line. Shane and Rozanov on the same line was… a horrifying thought.
Rozanov passed by Shane, his hand fluttered lightly at his husband's back like he wanted to touch but wasn’t sure he should. He murmured something in Russian, and Hayden caught Shane’s exasperated “I’m fine, Ilya.”
Hayden took his own place beside Drapeau and Comeau. He tried to catch Shane’s eye, toss him a friendly smile and remind him he still had friends on the team, in this rink that used to be a second home to Shane. When he finally caught Shane’s eye, Shane looked right through him. He was effectively shut down.
Shane stared ahead with that hard glint in his eye that hinted at the machine he could become on the ice. Tonight, he had something to prove. The only thing that betrayed him was the slight twitch in his cheek, which Hayden knew meant he was chewing on the delicate skin there. A nervous habit he had always had.
“Hey Drapeau,” Comeau called to the center, “you think if I flirt with Hollander, he’ll ‘trip’ for me so I can make the winning goal?”
Hayden watched as Shane did his version of a flinch—he stiffened, and then went deathly still. Hayden swore under his breath. This game was going to be a bloodbath. And not in a good way for either team. His eyes automatically flicked over to Rozanov, surprised when he didn’t see the dark fury he thought he would, but instead a frightening smirk and menacing gleam in his gaze.
Oh god.
Everyone was looking at Shane for his reaction, sure that a fight was going to break out before the game even started, but it was like Shane hadn’t heard anything at all.
“You should try,” Rozanov drawled, seemingly unbothered as he replied on behalf of his husband, “it will be your only chance of winning tonight. Too bad you’re not Shane’s type. He likes, how do you say?” Rozanov grinned savagely, “Men.” He punctuated the words with a disdainful once over of Comeau, who gnashed his teeth and glared.
Hayden was right. Rozanov and Shane on the same line should have been a crime, the two of them skating a in a synchronized dance that would put Baryshnikov to shame. They played like they could read each other’s minds, scoring not one but two goals off each other by the time the first period ended.
Hayden could feel his own team growing increasingly agitated as Rozanov’s words rang true, and he reminded them of it any chance he got;
“Now’s maybe a good time to get on your knees for my husband.”
“You want me to put in a good word for you with Shane?”
“Too bad Shane left Montreal, huh? Maybe you’d be winning right now.”
But as Rozanov’s chirps got louder and more boisterous, the response also rose.
“You gonna let your girlfriend fight all your battles, Hollander? Or wait—are you the girlfriend?”
“Maybe that’s why Hollander never fights, cause he’s the pussy in the relationship.”
Shane took it all quietly, expression giving nothing away. He played hockey with the dogged determination that he always did.
Rozanov, on the other hand, was cracking. Hayden watched as his jaw ticked and his skating became violent and messy. He hit an angry shot that cracked off the goal post with horrifying power, and Hayden hoped he never managed to be on the receiving end of that jaw-breaking puck.
Halftime and Hayden sprayed water messily into his mouth, enjoying the way some of it splashed down his neck and into his jersey, cooling him off. Everyone was sweaty and unhappy, grumbling under their breath, making nasty comments about Shane and Rozanov.
When Hayden got close, the comments stopped, and eyes slid towards him suspiciously. Hayden sighed. He supposed this was what he got for speaking up in his own locker room.
“I’m getting the same treatment,” J.J. Said, skating up from behind him.
“Yeah,” Hayden said, eyeing the Centaurs on their side of the ice as they gathered together. “But at least we can sleep at night.”
“Chin up, buddy.”
“I’m gonna say hi to Shane before the period starts,” Hayden said.
The back of his neck prickled at the stares of his teammates as he crossed the no-man's land that the rink became between periods. He didn’t care. He was one of Shane’s people. He had worked hard to become one of Shane’s people, and the Voyageurs couldn’t take that from him.
“—Enough, Ilya.” Hayden caught the end of Shane’s clipped sentence.
“Lyubov—”
“I said enough. Just ignore them, okay?”
“How can I ignore the things they say to you?” Rozanov hissed, and Shane’s jaw ticked.
“If I can do it, you can, too.”
“I cannot,” Rozanov said indignantly, “if you won’t stand up for yourself, I do for you.”
“Ilya—” Shane said exasperatedly.
“No. You can’t expect me to sit by while they say these things. I will kill Comeau.”
“Don’t kill Comeau.”
“He deserves to be killed.”
“Ilya, I can’t have you stuck in the box for any amount of time. I need to win, and I need you to do that.”
Rozanov sighed, “Okay, maylsh. For you, I will try.”
“You’ll do better than try,” Shane said sternly.
“Welcome to couples therapy,” Zane Boodram greeted Hayden with a flourish as he skated up, a group of Centaurs watching Rozanov and Shane go toe to toe.
Hayden winced sympathetically. “Yeah, sorry.”
“Don’t be. It’s like this every game,” Boodram said.
“Every game?” Hayden asked incredulously. “I didn’t think the other teams were as… bad as us.”
He cringed. He hated using the word ‘us’ when it came to his bigoted team, but he figured it was the price he had to pay for choosing to stay. If this were another life—if he didn’t have a family to think of—he would have left this team a long time ago.
“Oh,” Boodram waved a hand, “they’re not. But hockey is hockey. There are guys like that everywhere. Roz can’t help himself; he’s spent more time in the penalty box this season than he has on the ice.”
“We’ve all been waiting for the thing that's gonna make Hollzy snap. I think Roz is worried it’s going to be messy,” Evan Dykstra said, leaning up against the boards.
“I can’t imagine anything will get him to snap at this point,” Boodram mused, “I’ve fuckin heard it all at this point, man. Hollander’s like an unmovable force.”
“We’ve got bets going,” Dykstra said, his eyes still trained on Shane and Rozanov.
“Hah,” Hayden barked out a laugh, “well, my money’s on Shane. I’ve never even seen the guy look like he even wants to drop gloves.”
“What about that one time with Hunter?”
“Oh yeah? The one time, like a decade ago, that Shane yelled at Scott Hunter for approximately 20 seconds after a game ended. That time?”
“Okay, fair point,” Dykstra laughed, raising his hands.
Hayden glanced at the clock, “I’m just gonna say hi,” he said.
He was met with a sweet singing “good luck,” as he skated towards an irritable Shane and a murderous-looking Rozanov.
“Am I interrupting something?” Hayden asked lightly as he skated up, holding out a fist to Shane, who bumped it with his own automatically in a show Hayden knew the league would be using to combat the chilly nature of tonight's game. He was sure it would be a viral clip before the night was over.
“Hayden, hey,” Shane said with a tired smile. “You sure you aren’t going to get in trouble for being over here?”
“Nah,” Hayden said, shrugging. “How are you holding up?”
“I’m fine. Really,” Shane insisted as he got a doubtful look from both Rozanov and Hayden.
“I wouldn’t blame you if you decked Comeau,” Hayden said and almost laughed at the hopeful look Rozanov directed at Shane.
“Look what you made me do, Shane,” Rozanov complained, “you made me agree with Pike.”
Shane rolled his eyes at his husband, ignoring him. “I don’t do fights, Hayd. I play hockey. You guys both know this.”
Hayden shrugged easily. “I’m just saying.”
Shane gave him a good-natured but slightly exasperated smile. “Well, don’t. And you,” he pointed at Rozanov, who was giving his best impression of a puppy dog. “Behave.”
Rozanov saluted, “Yes, Alternate Captain, sir.”
Shane squinted at him, assessing. The buzzer announced the start of the second period.
Things only escalated. As the voyagers realized their taunts weren’t getting them anywhere, they turned to physical force.
Shane couldn’t catch a break. Even with a team that did their best to defend him, the Voyageurs played like they had a personal vendetta, and Hayden was sure he’d be going home to a body mottled with aches and bruises.
He was surprised Rozanov didn’t snap sooner than he did, impressed with the Russian player's restraint.
It was when Stedlund shoved Shane into the boards hard and pressed up against him longer than necessary that Rozanov lost his cool.
“Hey! That’s a fucking check from behind! You gonna call that or what?” Rozanov snarled as Shane shoved Stedlund off him with a disgusted look.
“Watch it, Rozanov,” came the measured reply, and Hayden gritted his teeth.
It was home ice after all. No one wanted to see the Centaurs beat a legacy team. Not in this arena.
Comeau skated past with a muttered, “You probably liked that a little too much, huh, Hollander.”
And Hayden figured it was Shane’s creeping blush, the reddened shame that was the first crack in his calm demeanour, that had Rozanov rapidly in Comeau’s personal space.
“So what? You’re fucking molesters now?” He growled.
“Ilya,” Shane barked out a warning.
Rozanov paused, just long enough for Comeau to mime a dog on a collar.
“Woof woof bitch.”
And then Rozanov's gloves dropped, and his fist connected with Comeau’s face.
It was quick and dirty, and Hayden wasn’t quite sure who was winning until they managed to pull the two apart and then it became pretty obvious that Comeau was sporting a broken nose. Rozanov smeared a sleeve across his face and sniffed. He had blood coming from a very minor split in his lip, but otherwise seemed to be in working order.
There was a clear winner.
“Ten minutes in the box, both of you!” The ref barked.
“Seriously, Ilya?”Shane’s disappointed voice filtered through.
“Lyobov—“ Rozanov had the good sense to look at least slightly remorseful.
“Save it,” Shane snapped.
Rozanov really did look like a kicked dog as he skated, head down, to the penalty box.
Things only went downhill. The second period was much worse than the first. Shane had been right; losing Rozanov to the box was detrimental to the Centaurs' game, and the Voyageurs quickly took back their two points, tying things up by the beginning of the third.
Everyone’s vitriol and aggression were pointed directly at Shane, and Shane handled it like a champ. He played clean and fast, and Hayden couldn’t fathom how he let things roll off his shoulders like that.
Even young Luca Haas looked a little shell-shocked at how dirty the game felt.
When Rozanov finally skated back onto the ice, the first thing he did was tap helmets with Shane.
“I’m sorry.”
“You can make it up to me by winning those points back.”
Rozanov nodded with the fierceness of someone trying to win back his lover's good graces. “I will do it.”
“I’m not losing this fucking game, Ilya”
“I know, maylsh.”
The rest of the game was a lesson in patience for Hayden. If the Voyageurs thought they had any chance at all against the Centaurs, the third period was where they learned they were sorely mistaken.
Rozanov played with the renewed vigour of a wild animal. He scored a goal in the first five minutes of the third, almost single-handedly. After that, their on-ice chemistry was back. The two of them are shooting down the ice, almost impossible to keep up with.
Ilya shot the puck through Schneider's legs, and it seemed to slide like a magnet onto Shane’s stick. There was a scuffle at the net between Shane, Drapeau, and Hayden before Shane — in a move that Hayden couldn’t decide was stupid or genius— simply swiped the puck into the net with the butt of his stick.
Ilya whooped delightedly, and Hayden saw his friend crack the smallest smile as he skated back to his side to the boos of thousands of Voyageur fans.
They were up 4-2.
Unfortunately, in their race to cover both Rozanov and Shane, they had overlooked the rookie. Luca Haas scored a beautiful goal in the top left corner, over Mitka’s shoulder on an assist from Shane, in the last 4 minutes of the game.
The buzzer rang, announcing the Centaurs' win. 5-2.
It was after the game that everything fell apart.
“Sorry for your loss.” Rozanov mimed a tear falling down his face as he passed Drapeau, “Maybe next time you can try flirt with my husband and see if it makes a difference,” he smirked and—like a literal child- stuck out his tongue
“You’re a piece of shit faggot, Rozanov.” Drapeau snarled at him, “No wonder your mother killed herself.”
It felt like everyone froze. Voyageurs and Centaurs alike sucking in a collective breath. Mothers and wives were off the table. It was the unspoken rule they all followed. Even the worst of them knew mothers and wives stayed off the ice. Off limits.
Rozanov reared back like he had been slapped, a look of abject horror on his face. A reaction Hayden had never seen pulled from the man— an obvious sign that Drapeau had solidly hit his mark.
The only person who didn’t feel like they were stuck in some strange slow-motion state was Shane, who was shucking off his gloves and advancing on Drapeau with an uncharacteristic snarl.
“What the fuck did you just say to him?”
Drapeau sneered, “Nothing that wasn’t true.”
“Drop your gloves.”
“Oh,” Drapeau laughed stepping up to Shane and pulling up to his true height in a show of intimidation, almost a head taller than Shane, “little Hollander’s gonna pop his fighting cherry for me?”
Hayden winced. He wasn’t sure how Shane stood his ground when even Hayden felt the threat of Drapeau’s huge form. He hadn’t realized until now that he felt better when Shane’s massive 6’2” Russian husband fought most of his battles for him like some romance book bodyguard.
“Unless you’re too scared to fight me,” Shane said, voice dripping with fury, “drop. Your. Fucking. Gloves. Right. Now.”
That got a few laughs from the Voyageurs around Drapeau. It was enough to have Drapeau scoffing and pulling off his gloves and advancing on Shane.
Drapeau swung.
Once.
Twice.
Shane stepped backwards, always so graceful on his skates and leaned back, dodging the first swing. He side-stepped, dodging the second.
Then, faster than any of them could react, Shane was moving into Drapeau’s space and fisting his hands into the thick fabric of Voyageur's jersey.
Hayden watched, jaw dropped, as Shane—in an insane feat of physical prowess that Hayden could barely follow—flipped Drapeau, head over heels, like a sack of potatoes, and slammed him flat on his back with a sickening thwack onto the ice.
Hands still fisted in his jersey, Shane lifted him a few feet and shoved him back down to make a point.
The whole arena was in quiet shock.
Drapeau coughed and wheezed, the breath clearly knocked out of him. Shane lowered his face so it was inches away from Drapeau’s.
“You so much as look the wrong way at my husband again,” Shane said lowly, dangerously, “I will fucking kill you. I don’t care if you are an old teammate or my fucking best friend, you talk to him like that, and I will lay you out.”
Shane pushed up and away, barely out of breath, jaw working.
He paused at the way the Voyaguers stared at him. Then he glowered.
“What?” He barked out, and Hayden tried not to smile as they all backed up a few paces. None of them was willing to escalate the fight that Shane had so obviously finished.
Hayden wasn’t even sure whatever just happened could be called a fight. Shane hadn’t thrown a single punch. No one was bloodied. Hayden wasn’t sure Drapeau was even truly injured. Just had the breath knocked out of him.
Even the refs didn’t seem to know what to do. The whole thing was over before they could even blow a whistle.
“You—“ Rozanov started as he stared at Shane in shock.
“Hey,” Shane said, gently skating up to him, reaching a hand out to rest on his cheek. A blatant display of PDA by Shane’s standards. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. What—“
“He shouldn’t have said that to you.” Shane said darkly, “That was so far out of line. I should have killed him.”
“I think you maybe already did,” Rozanov said, glancing behind Shane to where Drapeau was still lying on the ice trying to get his breath back.
“Are you sure you’re okay, Ilya?”
What Shane didn’t seem to realize in his fussing was that his husband was no longer hunched and wide-eyed from the horrifying insult, but instead, had his gaze locked on Shane with a heat that made Hayden feel like he should look away.
“Shane,” he started lowly, “you—“
“Hollander,” Boodram's startled laugh interrupted.
Shane turned to the other side of the rink, where the centaurs had gathered, standing with equally shocked expressions as they stared at Shane.
His face morphed into something innocent, real confusion poking through. “What?” he said again, frowning slightly at his teammates.
“What the hell was that?” Boodram laughed.
Shane shrugged, dropping his hand from Rozanov’s face, but remained protectively in front of him as if someone else might come up and insult the Russian player at any moment. Rozanov stared down at him with a mixture of awe and pure want.
“What was what?”
“You just threw a grown man in full hockey gear like he was a 10-pound sack of flour.”
“I’m a Ni-dan”
J.J. laughed incredulously from behind Hayden, startling him. “What that fuck is a Ni-dan?”
“It’s Judo,” Luca piped up as he skated to the front of the gathered players with awe in his voice, “it’s like a level above a black belt.”
“Oh my god,” Dykstra let out an almost hysterical giggle. “You’re kidding. You’re fucking kidding me. This is why you don’t fight?”
“I could really injure someone,” Shane said sternly in his captain's voice, “I have a responsibility not to use my skills for violence or confrontation.”
He sounded like he was reciting something an instructor told him once.
Shane’s brows pinched. “I really shouldn’t have even done that…” he trailed off with a worried glance back at Drapeau.
“How did I not know this?” Rozanov asked incredulously just as Hayden said,
“When would you even have time for that?”
“Oh,” Shane glanced at him, “my mom had me in classes until I started playing professionally. I think I stopped when I was 16.”
“You’re kidding,” Dykstra said again, unable to tamp down the giddy little-kid giggles that were bubbling out of him.
“Fucking prodigy’s,” J.J. muttered under his breath.
“I mean, Judo is called the gentle way. It’s all about responsibility and stuff,” Luca pointed out, and Shane pointed towards him as if to say see?
The ref took that moment to skate up, looking confused between Shane and Drapeau, who was now being helped off the ground by Mitka and Comeau.
Shane waved him off. “We’re fine. It’s done.”
“I can’t lie. That’s really, really fucking hot,” Troy Barrett said nonchalantly, and Rozanov’s head snapped back to glare at him.
“Game is over now, yes?” He said, suddenly turning to the ref, “You have a penalty for him? Fine? What?”
The ref looked at Rozanov helplessly. “I don’t… I don’t know.”
“Good. League can contact us later if they need something.“
He grabbed his husband by the sleeve and started dragging him towards the locker room.
“Ilya, what—“
“Time to go now, Shane.”
“Oh god,” Boodram groaned, but the effect was lessened by the grin that was splitting his face, “we’re gonna need to give them at least 20 before we go back into that locker room.”
Some of the others laughed in agreement.
“What?” Hayden asked dumbly.
Boodram fixed an exasperated stare on him.
“What— in the locker room?!”
“You have no idea what we deal with now that they’re on the same team,” Evan Hayes said, rolling his eyes.
Hayden watched as Shane stumbled behind Rozanov; whatever aura of uncharacteristic ferocity that had taken over his body completely melted away in the face of his husband. If Hayden hadn’t witnessed it himself, he wouldn’t have believed it.
By the next morning the clip had gone viral. Shane Hollander was the number one trending phrase on Twitter. People had made edits, zoomed in, slowed down the clip and analyzed it. There were screenshots of Drapeau’s skated feet flailing in the air above Shane’s head.