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September 2017, Montreal, Centre Bell, Lower Bowl
David’s hand rests lightly on Yuna’s back as they take the stairs into the lower bowl towards their seats. He loves getting a chance to come and see his son play, trying to make as many home games as he can, though not as many as Yuna attends as his manager.
It’s only preseason, but this is the first time Montreal and Boston have taken the ice since.
Since the cottage, and the awkward conversation, and the slightly less awkward dinner, and the still sort of awkward text messages he sends his son’s boyfriend. He’d gotten Ilya’s number while Shane and Yuna were outside, trying to show Ilya that he really was okay with his son’s relationship and trying to make sure he felt welcomed. He wasn’t sure what to text the man at first, wanting to avoid hockey as he figured it was likely much of what he talked about with everyone else. He didn’t have much luck at first getting information out of Shane about what his boyfriend liked and what his hobbies were; Shane going red in the face every time David brought the subject up. He was finally able to pry the information out of Shane that Ilya likes sports cars, so David has taken to keeping an eye out for interesting cars in Ottawa and sending Ilya the pictures he manages to take of them. The conversation is still largely one-sided, but David has been getting more of a response in the last few weeks.
Tonight, he’ll get to watch his son face off with his boyfriend playing the game they all love. Ottawa born and raised, David’s always loved hockey, though not as much as his wife and son, who made it their careers. He enjoyed his time on the team at McGill and even played a couple seasons in a beer league a few years ago.
They arrive at their seats and settle in, hopefully to watch the Metros destroy the Raiders. He may like his son’s boyfriend, but this is hockey.
It seems they may get their wish when Boston’s goalie, Peterson, takes a nasty shot to the neck from Comeau in the first period. It wasn’t a dirty hit and it didn’t seem to be done intentionally, but it’s enough to pull him from the net and put in their backup goalie, Anders. He’s young, fresh up from the AHL, and he’s trying his best, but he looks to be almost limping off the ice after the siren ends the second period. The intermission has just started and David is standing and stretching his legs when he senses someone standing over his shoulder. Behind him and to the right is a very young and very nervous arena employee. His name tag says “Teddy” and he’s wringing his hands in front of himself.
”Excuse me, sir, are you Mr. Hollander?”
David, assuming this is another fan of Shane’s who has recognized him as Shane’s dad, responds with a wide smile and a quick nod. “Sure am, kiddo, what can I do for you?”
”I am so sorry, but I need you to come with me, immediately.” The friendly smile drops from David’s face and he looks over to Yuna to see if she has any idea what could be going on. Typically people aren’t pulled from the crowd unless they’re visibly intoxicated or obnoxiously rowdy, and David Hollander is neither of those things.
”I’m afraid we’ll need some more information as to why that is,” Yuna interjects before David really even has a chance to gather his thoughts about what’s going on. She’s already standing beside him with her hand lightly on his elbow. Teddy, much like anyone who finds themselves the sole focus of Yuna Hollander’s attention, begins to shake ever so slightly. His eyes are darting around quickly, as if he’s gauging who might be near enough to overhear their conversation. His attention lands briefly back on Yuna before it snaps to David.
”Sir, I’m sorry, but I’ve been instructed to find you…and only you and have you come with me…immediately.” David feels Yuna’s grip tighten on his elbow and he knows without looking that her face has pinched in disapproval. He takes a deep breath while he tries to figure out the most diplomatic way to handle this.
”Son, I understand what you were told, but honestly, this is going to be a lot easier for everyone if she just comes with me, okay?” Teddy glances around quickly again and nods nervously before starting to climb the stairs, David behind him and Yuna at David’s back. Over David’s shoulder she can’t help but question, “What, exactly, is going on? Where are you taking us?”
Teddy glances back nervously and David can see him take a deep breath and a hard swallow. “Ma’am, I can’t really discuss it here, but I was told that the coaching staff needed to see Mr. Hollander urgently.” David and Yuna both stumble slightly at the mention of coaching staff. Their thoughts immediately turn to Shane being hurt or sick, momentarily forgetting that Teddy was sent to get only David and if there was an issue with Shane they likely both would have been retrieved.
The trio enter the hallway in the lower level of the arena, confused when they don’t turn down the hall towards the Metro’s locker room but towards the visitor locker room instead. David and Yuna exchange a quick glance, silently communicating in the way couples who have been together as long as they have that their worry has shifted from Shane to Ilya. Teddy knocks on the locker room door and eases it open a crack to pop his head through, gaze swiveling around the locker room. Shortly after, he’s stepping back from the slightly ajar locker room door to make room for Boston’s head coach, James LeClaire. “Sir, I found Mr. Hollander….uh….Mrs. Hollander is also with him.” LeClaire’s eyes dart quickly between Teddy and the Hollanders, all four of them in the hallway glancing around nervously.
”Thanks, Teddy, you can head out now,” LeClaire says to the kid, who leaves so quickly they can barely make out his rushed “Thank you, sir,” as he trots back down the hall. LeClaire scrubs his hands down his face, again looking back and forth between David and Yuna.
”Jesus Christ, I don’t even know how to explain this and I definitely wasn’t planning on talking to both of you,” LeClaire states, not realizing that the longer the Hollanders stand in the hallway outside the visitor locker room the more nervous they get that there is something seriously wrong with their son’s boyfriend. Yuna reaches down and threads her fingers through David’s, squeezing his hand as they brace themselves for bad news.
LeClaire steadies himself, staring right at David. ”Look, I don’t know how it happened, no one can really explain it other than maybe some kind of clerical error with the records, but you’re on file as Montreal’s EBUG. Peterson and Anders are both out. We need you to suit up and hit the ice.”
There is complete silence in the hallway for at least three full seconds before David Hollander’s laugh starts to echo down the empty corridor. He glances over at Yuna who is standing stock-still with a look of deep concentration on her face. David continues to laugh while LeClaire scrubs at his face again.
Between his wheezes while he tries to catch his breath, David looks at LeClaire and tells him “This is the funniest prank that’s been pulled on me for a while. Whose idea was this? Rozanov? His way of trying to mess with the Metros?”
”Look, I wish this was a joke or a prank, but it’s not. When Anders came off the ice at the end of the second he went to the trainer and they think he pulled something in his knee. They don’t want him back out there until they’re able to do a full check-up on it in case it’s his MCL. We didn’t even think about it when Peterson went down, but with Anders out we realized we needed to pull the EBUG and when the Montreal staff pulled up the records you were it. I know this isn’t ideal for anyone and honestly if I were in your shoes I’d refuse to play. We can forfeit the game because we don’t have a goalie, but if we try to do it before even attempting to activate the EBUG, Crowell will be so far up my ass I can taste his shampoo.”
Yuna’s lips thin in disapproval at the mention of Crowell, but she squeezes David’s hand again to get his attention. He looks over at her while giving her an answering squeeze. “What do you think, sweetheart? Should I lace up some skates?” She has a faraway look in her eye, clearly remembering a different arena hallway from what feels like a lifetime ago. She’s remembering times she stood in the stands, watching David move with grace in the net at McGill. She’s remembering screaming when he made what seemed like impossible saves. And finally, she’s remembering him showing up at her dorm room during her junior year, face flushed with shower-wet hair flopping down into his eyes. “Babe, you will never GUESS what happened today. The head coach of the Metros was at practice today and he wanted to talk to ME! They know I’m not interested in going any farther with hockey, but I guess word got back to them that I’m staying in Montreal next year while you finish university and they want me to be on the list as an EBUG! I mean, I’ll probably never get to actually PLAY or anything, but I get to go to all the home games and if something does happen to their goalie I’ll get to suit up and sit on the bench while the backup goalie plays.”
True to his prediction, David had never played. Hell, he had never even suited up in the year he spent in Montreal, waiting for Yuna to finish her degree. They married shortly after graduation and David received an offer from the Treasury Board that would bring him home to Ottawa, and Yuna accepted a position with Bank of Canada. Life barreled on in the way that life often does. They had Shane but weren’t able to give him any siblings. David continued to get promoted at work and when it became evident that Shane’s passion for hockey was going to be more than a passing phase or a hobby, Yuna resigned to focus on him, eventually becoming his manager. Now, nearly 30 years later, they were standing in the lower level of Centre Bell, squeezing each others’ hands and trying to figure out what to do next.
”Honestly dear, it’s up to you. I…well I certainly have some feelings about this, but…I mean, it’s your call.” Yuna means it. She’s trying to process several emotions at once. Worry that David could get injured, excitement for him possibly getting to make a lifelong dream come true, and honestly, anger that he’d have to be in the net for fucking Boston of all teams. She remembers the first time she watched Shane take the ice at Centre Bell, decked out in Metros blue and red, and the overwhelming love, joy, and pride she felt at that moment. There’s no way she could rob David of this experience, no matter how nervous the possibility made her. She squeezes David’s hand again and gives him a resolute nod, telegraphing her unwavering support.
David reaches out to shake LeClaire’s hand. “Alright, looks like I’m lacing up.” LeClaire scrubs his hands over his face again before almost peeking between his fingers at the Hollanders. As he turns back toward the locker room they hear him mumble to himself “Jesus fucking Christ this is the worst idea in the history of hockey,” before looking over his shoulder at David. “Let’s get you geared up, yeah?”
Centre Bell, Visitor Locker Room, 15 minutes prior
LeClaire is sitting in the coach’s office in the visitor locker room, working through footage quickly with the defensive coach to make plans for the third period. Anders is too green in the goal and they need the D-line to tighten up and try to keep the Metros from even being able to take a shot on goal. All their plans go to shit when there’s a quick knock on the door and one of the trainers pokes his upper body into the office.
”We think Anders might have an MCL tear. We can’t put him back on the ice.”
The entire office freezes for a short second before bursting into motion with swearing and shouting.
“Fucking hell. Get Essensa and Dunham in here, NOW!” LeClaire roars, hoping against hope that either of the goalie coaches would have a plan for this situation.
”Dunham’s in with Anders right now, I don’t want to pull him because the kid is scared out of his mind, but I’ll grab Essensa. He’s sitting with Peterson, but he’s stable and there’s not really more we can do for him right now.”
”Alright, thanks Stucky,” LeClaire says in the general vicinity of the door before turning back towards the coaches still in his office. “What the fuck are we going to do now?” He asks, dropping his head into his hands. Essensa arrives moments later and LeClaire raises his head and places his palms flat on the surface of the desk. “How fucked are we?”
”Pretty fucked, Jim. Hate to say it.”
”Ah fuck me, I was afraid of that.”
”Look, if this was a home game or regular season and we had the full staff we could put Babineau in, but we didn’t bring all the equipment managers because we didn’t think we’d need them.” LeClaire stares at Essensa, tilting his head slightly and narrowing his eyes. Essensa’s spine straightens and his jaw clenches. “No. No, absolutely not. I’m fifty-fucking-two, I’m not going into the net against Shane Fucking Hollander, are you absolutely fucking insane?”
LeClaire visibly deflates, and shakes his head as if he’s trying to shake the idea away. “Yeah man, you’re right, sorry, it was just one of the first ideas that came to mind. Shit, what are we going to do?” The men stare back and forth at each other, the mood continuing to drop when it starts to become clear that they’ll likely need to forfeit this game. Then one of the assistant defensive coaches clears his throat and tentatively says, “EBUG?” His voice pitches higher at the end, making it sound like a question he’s nervous to put into the universe.
”Ah Christ, yeah, I guess we’re going to have to let the Metros know that we need to not only activate the EBUG but put him on ice. This is going to be an absolute clusterfuck. Dean, jog over and grab Theriault and let him know. I’ll circle the players and we’ll figure out what’s going on. Same defensive plan as before, we need to keep them on the other side of the blue line as much as possible. Lord knows they won’t take it easy on us just because we’ve got an EBUG in the net.”
Centre Bell, Montreal Metros Locker Room, 10 minutes prior
Theriault is in his office with the offensive coaches and his team captain gathered around an iPad, reviewing footage from the second period. “Keep hammering at the goal, even if you don’t think you have a clear shot. Their backup goalie is green and he’ll be easy to overwhelm.” Hollander glances up from the iPad and nods quickly before returning his attention to the footage, his brow furrowing. They hear a knock at the door and it’s opened to reveal one of Boston’s assistant defensive coaches. Theriault narrows his eyes before barking out a quick “What?”
His spine stiffens immediately, not wanting to show that he’s nervous while he’s in enemy territory. “Boston needs to activate the EBUG.” He drops it onto the room like a nuclear bomb, just waiting for a reaction while the Metros coaches just blink at him. Theriault comes back to himself the quickest with a huffed out, “Boston needs to do what?”
”We need to activate the EBUG and he’s going to have to hit the ice.” Theriault rubs his temples, not entirely sure if this is a genuine request. He narrows his eyes at the coach in front of him, his name escaping him at the moment. “LeClaire’s fucking with me, isn’t he?”
“No, sir. We need the EBUG and we need him on ice in,” he pauses to look down at his wristwatch, “seven minutes, unless we can mutually agree to a slightly longer intermission, which I know we would appreciate to give us time to find this gentleman and get him into gear and warmed up.”
”Yeah, alright, we’ll extend the intermission, you think 10 minutes extra will be enough?” The Boston coach nods while Theriault pulls up the Central Registry. It spins for a few moments before the screen loads and when it does the Montreal Metros head coach, infamous for his quick temper and stony demeanor, smiles widely before he begins to chuckle. Every eye in the office turns toward him, faces full of confusion. He pushes away from the desk, gesturing towards the iPad with the Central Registry page loaded, now laughing so hard he’s not able to speak. Shane is the closest to the iPad and peeks down at the screen in front of him, immediately feeling his stomach drop at what he sees. There, staring back at him from the screen, is a photo of his father, sweaty in hockey gear and decades younger. His head snaps up and he begins to look around the room in panic, the sound of Theriault GIGGLING behind him in his ears. One of the offensive coaches edges him out of the way to retrieve the iPad and sees why his star center has gone pale. He whispers, almost to himself, “Oh shit,” before handing the iPad over.
Theriault composes himself slowly, still tittering slightly. “Grab arena staff, tell them to locate David Hollander immediately and bring him to LeClaire.” Behind him, Shane is weaving, feeling like he may not be able to stay upright in the face of this news. Surely his dad will say no, right? Or when Boston sees that their EBUG is a 50-something government employee from Ottawa they’ll forfeit? He’s gradually working himself into a panic when Theriault barks out a quick “Hollander!” His attention snaps over “Yes, coach?”
”Go tell the team about the extended intermission and the possibility of an EBUG for Boston. Up to you if you want to tell them who the EBUG might be,” Theriault says with an almost mean grin. Shane nods, and heads out of the office back into the locker room. He knows he’s supposed to gather the team, but first he needs to talk to Hayden. He figures he can justify not doing exactly what Coach told him to do because Hayden wears the A. He beelines over to his stall, the quick movement registering in Hayden’s peripheral vision.
“Whoa man, you okay? You look pale.” Hayden’s face is a map of concern instead of his usual bright, open smile. Shane shakes his head rapidly, trying to take deep breaths and calm himself down.
”Boston’s calling the EBUG.”
”Oh HELL yeah! I mean, we already thought we’d have an easy third with their new goalie, but this is something else. Why do you look like you’re going to throw up?”
”It’s my Dad.”
”Oh shit, was there an accident? Is he sick? What’s going on?” Hayden starts to snap into the problem solving mode the way only someone with four kids can - immediately and without all the information.
”No, Hayd, the EBUG is my Dad. I was in Coach’s office when he pulled up the Central Registry and there was a picture of my Dad from, like, way before I was even born looking back at me. How is this even happening? How is my Dad on file as Montreal’s EBUG? We can’t take shots at my Dad, dude. We just can’t. What are we going to do? He’s going to decline, right? Or Boston will forfeit? There’s no way my Dad’s going to get on the ice, IN THE NET, for Boston, is he?” Shane has worked his way fully into a panic attack at this point. Hayden’s seen this happen a few times before and mostly knows how to pull him back. He turns and grabs Shane’s elbows, forcing Shane to turn towards him. He starts to breathe deeply, four in, hold for four, four out. Shane starts to mimic him, not even realizing what he’s doing until Hayden can feel the tension in his arms slacken and sees Shane’s eyes clear.
”Look man, I think it’s pretty unlikely that your Dad’s gonna hit the ice tonight, but if he does,” Shane releases a strangled yelp at the thought, “If he does, you know the team’s got your back, yeah? We’re not gonna gun for your dad or let him get hurt, okay? Shit, it’s more likely Boston would pull something just to fuck with you, yeah? It’s exactly the sort of dirty shit Rozanov would pull, the sneaky fucking Russian.”
Shane shakes the last of the panic free before gathering the team. He tries to make sure he stays calm and steady sounding when he let’s them know that there’s been a mutual agreement between teams to extend intermission by 10 minutes. J.J.’s Québécois cuts through the chatter of his teammates, “Pourquoi ce temps supplémentaire?” Shane’s eyes cut over to Hayden quickly before quickly scanning the room.
”Boston’s had to call up the EBUG, if he agrees to play he’ll need some extra time to gear up and warm up. But that’s a big if. We may be looking at a forfeit and not finishing the game.”
”Shit, bro, that’s gotta suck,” Berkes shouts from the back of the room, near his stall. “I know how fucking hype you get to play Boston.” Shane nods, absentmindedly, wondering if they’ve found his dad in the stands yet, if they’ve asked him to play. Surely, news would be coming through any minute now that he’s declined and Coach will come out and tell them all the game’s over and to hit the showers. He angles his chin up, looking over his teammates back towards the offices and sees the same assistant coach from Boston slipping back out of the locker room. His eyes snap over to the office door where he meets the almost manic smile of his head coach, and he knows, without being told, what decision his Dad made.
Fuck.
Centre Bell, Visitor’s Locker Room
Ilya fucking loves playing Montreal. He always has. Getting to see Shane in his element, plus the time they spent together before or after the games in recent years. Those games were the rare times he wished he wasn’t Captain. Wished he didn’t have to lock in, babysit everyone, do stupid media afterwards. He just wanted to play the game then get out and see Shane. He’s trying to keep the guys in the zone and pumped up when he sees a cluster of coaches and a trainer huddled around the offices. He ambles in that direction, hoping to get an idea of what’s going on and pauses to watch the goalie coach barrel through the office doors. Ilya had forgotten that Peterson took that nasty hit and that they have their backup goalie in the net. He thought Anders looked a little green coming off the ice, but assumed it was just nerves from playing in his first NHL game. Peering into the office and seeing the look on LeClaire’s face, he’s betting it might be more than that. A defensive coach peels out of the office quickly and Ilya turns and heads back to his stall.
“Rozanov!” LeClaire’s voice booms through the locker room and he makes his way back towards the offices, invited this time. LeClaire slaps him on the shoulder and tells him that they’re going to have to call the EBUG and that bare minimum it’s going to be a longer intermission. They don’t know who the EBUG is for Montreal or whether they’ll even agree to play, especially since they’d be in Boston’s net. Ilya nods and gathers the Raiders up quickly.
”LISTEN THE FUCK UP!” He shouts, getting all eyes on him. “Look, they took Peterson down and now Anders is injured. We are going to have to use emergency goalie. They are finding him now, hopefully, despite living in Montreal, he will come to his senses and realize he will be much better looking in Boston jersey. If he agrees, we will keep him safe, yes?” He’s answered by whoops and the sounds of sticks clattering against lockers and the floor. He glances around, catching the eyes of as many players as he can while nodding before he steps back to his stall.
”Fucking hell, the EBUG? He’ll probably refuse to play just to fuck us over, fucking Montreal fans,” Cliff grumbles next to him.
”Maybe. But it will be his call to not play, not ours.”
”Yeah, yeah, I know, ‘crush Montreal’ and ‘send Montreal home crying’, don’t worry, we know you fucking hate the Metros.” Ilya just grins in response, sharp and almost mean. The defensive coach that slipped out earlier jogs back in and closes the door behind him once he enters LeClaire’s borrowed office. A few minutes later, they hear a sharp knock and the nervous face of a young man who’s clearly on the arena staff peeks in. LeClaire locks eyes with the kid, then pushes away from his desk and quickly jogs over to the door, slipping outside.
”Must have found him,” Ilya remarks to Cliff. “Now, let’s see if he wants to play.” The door pushes open, LeClaire stepping through and bellowing for Dean, the assistant defensive coach that’s been running all over Centre Bell tonight. They exchange words quickly, LeClaire coming in and Dean slipping out, the door held open for their EBUG to walk in. Ilya finds himself looking straight into the eyes of his boyfriend’s father and immediately feels like he’s about to be sick. Cliff hears him suck in a deep, rattling breath and immediately begins to look around for the source of the panic. He catches sight of the man standing behind Coach LeClaire and blinks in confusion.
”Is that…is that fucking Hollander’s DAD?”
”Da.”
”Oh, okay, we’re being Punk’d right? Where’s Kutcher? I didn’t know that show was even still on the air, but we are definitely being Punk’d, yeah?”
”Marly, shut up.”
”LISTEN UP BOYS!” Comes the shout from LeClaire. “I know Rozanov filled you in that we were calling in the EBUG. Well, here he is. Raiders, David Hollander, Hollander, the Boston Raiders.” David raises his hand slightly in a sort of timid wave. Ilya still feels like he might throw up. This has to be a dream. Or a nightmare. Or an alternate reality. Something. Anything but this. But David playing on his ice, on his team, in his net. Ilya likes David. He’s a nice man, an even nicer father. He didn’t realize until meeting the Hollanders that fathers could come in a style that was kind. That laughed, and joked, and clapped your shoulder, and called you ‘son’, and said things like ‘I’m proud of you’, and made you pasta, and sent you pictures of cars. That had confused him at first. He finally asked Shane why his father kept sending him car pictures. “He’s trying to bond with you, asshole,” had been the grumbled reply. “So why not talk to me about hockey. He likes hockey, I like hockey, you love hockey, your mom IS hockey. Why send me cars? Is weird.” Shane had glared at him through the video call, like he took personal offense to him calling David weird and told him, “He thinks you probably talk about hockey enough and wanted to find something else you like to talk about.”
Ilya and David continue to stare at each other, blinking and confused, until Dean slips back into the locker room. “Roz, uh…in the hallway, you, uh…there’s…well, someone needs to see you, in the hallway, urgently.” He looks over at Dean, who seems to be one more task or one wrong word away from either passing out or quitting on the spot. Ilya just tilts his head, confusion flickering over his features. Finally, with an agitated huff, Dean replies “Yuna Hollander is in the hallway, she says she needs to talk to you and that it’s urgent.” With that Dean, stomps away, back to the offices while the locker room goes eerily quiet.
“Fucking hell, Roz, what’d you do to end up on her radar, man?” Dubek whispers, the fear evident in his tone. Ilya just shakes his head, already moving towards the door. When he passes David, he claps the man on the shoulder quickly, asking a quick “You are well?” David, now looking around the room in a daze, just nods. Ilya slips out and finds himself face-to-face with Yuna.
”Yuna, hello,” he says quickly, his arms awkward at his sides not knowing if he should shake her hand or hug her or pretend she’s still nothing other than nightmare fuel. He can see the worry in her face, which is alarming for an entirely different reason. He has never seen Yuna Hollander look anything but completely composed. Unable to be rattled. Now, now though, she looks nervous. She solves the dilemma for him when she pulls him into a quick, tight hug, glancing up and down the hallway.
”Ilya, hi,” she says, not letting go of his biceps and holding him at a distance to look him over. “It’s good to see you, you look good. Preseason going well so far?” Ilya nods, looking younger, almost shy. “I’m sure you know by now that somehow David was still on file as Montreal’s EBUG and he’s going to play?” Another shy nod from Ilya. “Look, please, just keep him safe. He’s in great shape for his age but there’s no way he can handle a full period of NHL hockey, no matter how much yoga he does. I’m sure once Shane realizes what’s going on he’ll pull his guys back, but, just, please, watch out for him, okay?”
”Of course, Yuna. He is Raider now, we look after our own,” Ilya lets his mouth tug into a smirk, knowing that seeing Yuna be irritated is much better than seeing her look scared. She answers him with a quick smack to his bicep and then shoves him back. “I can’t believe I’m going to have to fucking cheer for Boston,” she grumbles, which makes Ilya laugh and lightens the tense mood in the hallway.
”You will need to go back to your seat. We need to prepare for third period. I will keep him safe, I promise you,” Ilya tells Yuna, looking the other way and pretending he hasn’t noticed her eyes go glassy. She gives his biceps another quick squeeze before heading back down the hallway, toward the entrance and the stairs back up to the fan seating. Ilya watches her leave, waiting until she’s fully turned the corner before he exhales a sharp breath, shakes out his arms, and turns to re-enter the locker room.
Inside, the first thing Ilya notices is that David is no longer standing by the door. He is over by the doorways that lead to the trainers’ rooms and seems to be in an intense conversation with an equipment manager and Essensa. The second thing Ilya notices is the noise. All of his teammates are shouting at once and speaking very fast and his brain is very tired already trying to separate out what everyone is saying. He looks around the room quickly, trying to gauge the mood of the room when he notices David is beginning to pull on the bulky goalie pads. His teammates are continuing to shout rapidly at him and he looks to Cliff for help but realizes he is also yelling.
”EVERYBODY SHUT UP!” Ilya roars to the locker room, waiting for the blessed quiet to return. “Is too much English too fast, what the fuck is everyone’s problem?” They glance around nervously, before finally seeming to have nominated Kohn, a third-line right winger to speak on their behalf after Cliff raised his arms to signal he wasn’t going to be involved any longer.
”Roz, we were just talking, and this is bullshit right? Like, dude’s older than some of our coaches and his son’s the fucking captain of the other team. Why are we even considering this? If you told LeClaire you wanted to forfeit, he would listen.”
”I do not want to forfeit, is why I will not tell LeClaire.”
”So we just let this dude throw the fucking game for his son?” Sebbin, a second-line D-man asks, seemingly finding his courage after listening to Kohn speak. Ilya is angry enough that he’s having trouble finding English words, trying to calm himself while clenching and unclenching his fists. Everyone turns when they hear the sound of throat being cleared in the corner. David Hollander is standing there, fully kitted out in goalie pads with borrowed skates on his feet.
”Look, I know this isn’t how any of us thought tonight was going to go. I know it’s surely not what I was expecting when I came to see my kid play tonight.” David starts to look around the room, making eye contact with as many of the Raiders as he can, which he finds is a surprising amount. He assumed, seemingly correctly, that they would consider him the enemy and refuse to even look at him. “Some of you have played against my son for a long time. Some of you took the ice against him tonight for the first time. Regardless of that, I hope one thing has been very clear, and that’s that hockey is sacred to the Hollanders. I know I’m usually in the stands, cheering for your demise, but as long as I’m in these colors, you’re my team. It’s been a long time since I’ve been between the pipes, but I promise you boys, I’ll give it my absolute best out there, yeah?”
Ilya watches as several of the Raiders who were shouting the loudest are now hanging their heads, clearly embarrassed at being called to task by David Hollander of all people. Ilya claps loudly to get the team’s focus back on him while a PR person weaves through the crowd to grab David and gather some information, Ilya only catching roughly every third word he says. “ALRIGHT LISTEN UP FUCKERS!” Ilya shouts. “Same plan as before, keep them out of offensive zone, keep them on other side of blue line, keep goalie safe, got it?” His teams roars back, rattling lockers and slamming sticks even harder than before. He grabs Marly, Vic, and the rest of the first line and pulls them aside. “Look, I don’t care if you are wing, if you are D-man, if you are Santa fucking Claus, you do not let the Metros get near the net, da?” They all nod, quickly slapping shoulders and bumping gloves before they head out to begin warming up with their new goalie.
Ilya hangs back, quickly grabbing David. “I tell team I do not want to forfeit, but you say so and I tell LeClaire now the game is over, okay?” David claps him on the shoulder and gives him a nervous smile. “It’s alright son, we’re going to go out there and have some fun, yeah?” And with that, David tromps past him to head onto the ice.
Centre Bell, Montreal Metros Locker Room
Hayden Pike is many things. He is a father of four, a devoted husband, alternate Captain for the Metros, and Shane Hollander’s best friend and left wing to name a few. One thing he is not, is especially observant. Which means it’s saying a lot that he realizes what’s happening by the grin on their coach’s face and how Shane has gone pale again and dropped down in front of his stall. He manages to catch Shane’s eye, who grimaces and looks like he may need to go vomit and realizes that he’s going to need to step up and address the team.
”Alright guys, looks like we just got word that the EBUG is taking the net for Boston!” The announcement is met with whoops and cheers from most of his teammates, but he still catches the gasp and wince that Shane lets out. “Hey. HEY! So, I know this would usually be a situation where we’d want to hit them even harder, but uh…,” Hayden rubs the back of his neck, wondering how he got himself into this situation. “Look guys, there was some kind of paperwork fuckup or something and the EBUG is Shane’s dad. So, like, go easy on him, okay?”
They can all practically feel the snarl Theriault lets out. “Absolutely not. We go with the same strategy we had. We hammer their goalie with every shot on goal we can get until we overwhelm him and he crumbles.”
Shane makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat and stands up. “Coach, that’s my DAD. I can’t…I can’t fire slap shots at my Dad! What if he gets hurt? How could I ever look him or my mom in the face again if one of my teammates hurt my dad?” Theriault snorts, sneering at Shane, disgust evident in his expression. “If you can’t play the game I need you to play, just let me know Hollander, you can ride the pine, maybe even for the rest of the preseason.”
Shane’s logical brain knows it’s an empty threat. He’s the top scorer on the team and a powerhouse center. He knows it would be absolute lunacy for the coach to bench him at all, let alone for multiple games. Unfortunately, Shane’s lizard brain is in control right now and sending out panic signals to Shane’s entire nervous system. He begins to rapidly shake his head before he’s able to find his voice. “No, no problem coach,” he manages to finally respond, but his voice sounds thready and weak. Theriault claps his shoulder before heading back to the office, leaving Shane to spiral in his wake. Hayden recognizes that he’ll need to pull Shane out of this one as well, but first he grabs Comeau and J.J. “Look, I know what coach said, but we’re gonna take it easy on David, okay? Let the guys know.” Comeau responds with a sneer that could compete with Coach’s before returning to his stall, clearly not on board with this plan. J.J. offers a brisk, “Oui,” before bounding across the room. Hayden turns toward Shane and drops into a crouch in front of him. “Hey buddy, fuck Coach okay? We’re not gonna let anything happen to your dad, alright?” Shane nods, clenching and unclenching his fists as they rest in his lap. Hayden reaches out and squeezes Shane’s knee, which seems to ground him and start to bring him back to himself. Hayden shakes his knee then releases him to stand up. He offers Shane his hand to pull him up and says, “Let’s go play some fucking hockey, yeah?” Shane laughs, but grabs his hand and stands.
Centre Bell, Lower Bowl
Yuna has returned to her seat, noticing that the crowd has gotten restless. Intermission never lasts this long, unless it’s a special event, and while yes, to her, her husband’s NHL debut is a very special event, she knows it’s not the same for everyone else. She’s trying not to fidget nervously when she feels a tap on her shoulder. She looks back and raises her eyebrows, silently letting the tapper know to continue. The tapper looks to be a few years older than Yuna, with curly silver hair peaking out under her toque. “Excuse me, do you know what’s going on? It seems this intermission is taking a while and I know that you and your husband went somewhere with that young man.” Yuna smiles and brushes imaginary lint off the arm of her sweater, worn under one of the many HOLLANDER 24 jerseys she owns.
”I’m not sure I’m allowed to talk about it, sorry,” Yuna replies, knowing that the reason for the longer intermission will become very clear soon. She turns back towards the ice, allowing her right leg to jiggle while she waits. A few minutes later, the music volume begins to lower while the announcer’s voice breaks in.
”Ladies and gentlemen, we apologize for the delay in kicking off the third period, but we have quite the special treat to make up for it. For only the second time in NHL history, we have an emergency backup goaltender taking the ice. Making his NHL debut in the net for Boston, welcome to the ice Ottawa’s own, the pride of McGill, David Hollander!” Yuna is on her feet, screaming and clapping while the final syllable is still hanging in the air. The announcement is repeated in French, but the roar of the crowd, realizing that they’re witnessing history, drowns it out. Boston white jerseys soon flood the ice, most players skating lazy laps while David skates one quick tight lap before moving into the crease and scraping the ice. Ilya skates past Yuna, quickly glancing over and giving her a small, tight nod. She nods back, letting him know she saw him, before moving back to her seat. Almost immediately after she’s sat down, the tapper is back at it.
”Oh my goodness! Is that your husband that they announced as filling in for the goaltender?” Yuna answers with a polite nod, not wanting to encourage a long, drawn out conversation that could cause her to miss even a second of David’s time on the ice. Tapper clearly does not pick up the hint. “I thought that might be the case when he didn’t come back with you. Plus the name, ‘Hollander’, is the same one on your shirt. Was this something planned? Is that why you have your name on your shirt?” Yuna realizes that while Tapper means well, she’s clearly not a hockey fan. Or if she is, she’s clearly not a fan of the Metros. She huffs out a little breath before twisting in her seat to answer.
”Oh no, believe me, this definitely wasn’t something that was planned. At all. We, well, we’re actually here to watch our son play. Shane Hollander? He’s the captain of the Metros. It’s…well it’s very awkward to say the least that David’s been asked to play.” Tapper nods, her curls bobbing while she gives Yuna an apple-cheeked grin.
”Oh my, how exciting though! Your son is a professional hockey player and a captain and he’s getting to play against his dad! I bet that doesn’t happen very often!” Tapper gestured quickly between herself and the silent man sitting next to her. “We’re not much for hockey, to tell you the truth, but our grandson is and he got us all tickets for the game. Then he spotted a group of his friends and went to watch with them instead. But we’re sure having fun! Ernie, make sure you remember to ask Andy if he’s a fan of that Shane Hollander, okay? I’ll bet he is and he’ll be kicking himself in the shorts when he realizes he coulda sat and watched the game with Shane’s parents!” Yuna decides that she’s been released from this conversation and turns back towards the ice to see Shane and his team skate out to the thunderous applause of the home crowd. She cheers for him, not quite matching the same fervor she cheered for David, and waits for the third period to begin while she sends up a quick, nervous, “Please keep them both safe.”
Centre Bell, Center Ice, Face-Off Dot
Shane and Ilya both know that no matter what either of their coaches had to say, they were the ones who would take the face-off at the top of the period. It would be the only way they could talk and they were both nervous about what was about to happen. They skated in and both crouched down.
”We will keep him safe Shane, I promise,” Ilya said quickly.
”Thanks, Hayd and J.J. talked to the guys, we’re gonna try to pull back as much as we can, but our coach wants us to hammer him.”
There’s so much more to say, but neither get a chance before the puck is dropped. The face-off is sloppy, considering it’s between Hollander and Rozanov, but Ilya manages to win and they’re soon battling it out. The Raiders are doing everything they humanly can to keep the Metros on the other side of the blue line, out of the offensive zone, and far away from David Hollander. To their credit, while the Metros do seem to be trying hard to get around Boston, they also aren’t fighting as viciously as they usually do. They aren’t slamming Raiders into the board to steal the puck quite the same as they would be on any other night. The puck is mostly staying towards the center of the ice, with neither team seeming to be pushing that hard towards the goal, Boston returning the favor that Montreal seems to be doing them by not trying to murder their captain’s dad.
Comeau is the first Metro to break through and speed toward the goal because of course he is. He’s an absolute asshole and honestly no one on either team is surprised. Marleau chases him and slams him into the boards before he gets a chance to make a shot. Marleau flashes him a shit-eating grin and skates backwards away from him, swinging by the goal first to tap gloves with David. “Got your back, man,” he shouts as he whips toward the bench for the end of his shift.
Stedlund is the next Metro to try it, and Sebbin slams into him so hard he takes a two-minute minor roughing penalty. Ilya nods to him from the bench and he skates toward the box, smiling wide. Ilya manages to catch Shane’s eye, giving him the slightest nod. They don’t get long to watch the action before their lines are called back to the ice. Comeau barrels across the blue line and this time no one on the Raiders is quite fast enough to stop him from taking a shot. David manages to swat it away, but Comeau gets the rebound and swings around, his movements sharp and angry.
”Damn Gil, if you’re this sloppy in the hole, no wonder your first wife left you.”
The chirp lands like someone lobbed a live grenade on the ice. Comeau is so stunned he skates into the boards without being checked. Marleau practically skates into Ilya, still trying to register what just happened. Ilya is whipping his head around, like maybe if he looks hard enough he’ll find some mystery seventh Raider on the ice who said that. Instead, he locks eyes with David Hollander, who grins widely before giving Ilya a quick wink. Marleau grabs the collar of Ilya’s jersey and begins to tug him back toward the bench, both men having trouble staying upright as the gravity of the situation has finally landed on both of them and they’ve started laughing hysterically. By the time they finally reach the bench, they’re both wheezing and LeClaire is practically purple wondering what the actual fuck was going on out there. Marleau recovers first, but just barely.
”Hollander fucking chirped Comeau. Threw him off so bad he skated himself into the boards. None of us even touched him. Fucking funniest thing I’ve ever seen.” LeClaire looks around, like this is maybe part 2 of whatever elaborate prank is clearly being played on him to end up in this situation. Ilya can see his confusion and nods. “Is true Coach. Was not expecting it, but is true.”
Play resumes and the lines shift off and on the ice. Boston’s main objective is still to keep the Metros as far away from the goal as possible. And while some of the Metros are respecting their captain and trying to do right by David, more of them have been screamed at by their coach and are beginning to push through the human wall the Raiders have set up on the ice.
Gagnon breaks away and speeds towards the crease. He releases a quick slapshot but it goes wide, pinging off the side and Varkov snags the rebound and fires it back to Cadyn. Both teams get tangled up momentarily and it’s only a line-change call that keeps Varkov from dropping his gloves and swinging at Gagnon.
Taylor is the next Metro to charge through; he tries to deke that he’s shooting left but fires right, which David easily stops.
”Now I understand why you’re on-and-off with your girlfriend if that’s your idea of commitment!”
Laine pulls Taylor back before he lands himself a goaltender interference penalty after he sees Taylor ready to drop gloves. They skate back to the bench, Taylor glaring at the ice. Shane gets his attention, his brow furrowed. “Dude, what the fuck?”
”I’ll tell you what the fuck, your dad’s an asshole, that’s what!”
Shane, his face drawn in confusion, looks around like he might find the answer sitting in the air next to him. David Hollander is a government employee who reads the New Yorker, does jigsaw and crossword puzzles, and makes awful Dad jokes. He’s not an asshole, so what the fuck is Taylor even talking about?
The pattern continues and the number of Metros who return to the bench glaring at Shane increases, along with the statement that David Hollander is an asshole. Shane grows more and more confused as to what’s happening out on the ice.
Berkes has a clear shot, should be easy, but it goes wide instead, not even catching the pipes.
”If that’s how you handle a stick, I understand why your fiancée left you for a woman!”
This time the gloves are dropped, but Olsson and Roy are able to physically restrain him, despite Berkes swinging and shouting, red-faced, “You old motherfucker!” Boston is also blocking him from reaching David, but Dubek is struggling to stay upright he’s laughing so hard. Olsson and Roy pull him back to the bench and Shane thinks Berkes might take a swing at him, instead.
The minutes are ticking down and the period has been scoreless, leaving the Metros up 2-1. Theriault is getting angrier by the minute. “Fucking hell, they have an EBUG in the goal! We shouldn’t be scoreless! Fucking Mitty should have a goal by this point! I swear, if this score doesn’t change, the whole team’s doing bag skates, suicides, and wind sprints every practice for a month!” He’s red in the face, screaming at the Metros bench. Shane looks around nervously, realizing that between Coach’s yelling and his teammates’ glaring that he’s not going to be able to pull back anymore. They’re going to have to go for it, and do it aggressively. Hayden claps him on the arm quickly before their line hits the ice again.
Hayden gets into the offensive zone mostly by accident. It’s not that he’s not trying, because he is, it’s mostly that he’s distracted by Rozanov slamming into Shane who whips the puck around him to land right on Hayden’s stick. He turns and pushes down the ice, managing to deke around Marleau and is at Boston’s goal before he knows it. He hesitates slightly and shifts to the side, knowing he has to take the shot but also knowing that Yuna would straight up murder him if David got hurt. He fires a quick wrist shot that David bats away easily and St-Simon is able to snag the puck on the rebound.
”Are you as lazy with your kids as you are on the ice? Is that why Jackie made you get snipped?” Hayden is so startled he stumbles, trips over his own skates, and crashes face first into the ice. Rozanov is looping around the goal to come up behind St-Simon and actually pulls up to a sudden stop. He bends over with his hands on his knees, almost like he’s panting and trying to catch his breath. It takes a moment for Hayden realize that Rozanov isn’t winded, he’s laughing himself silly. Shane has looped back around with the awkward pause in play, trying to figure out who hit Hayden for him to be sprawled out on the ice. Given the cackling from Rozanov he decides that clearly he must have been the one to hit Hayden and barrels toward him to defend his teammate. Hayden manages to catch Shane’s attention before he can charge the Russian and he spins, coming over to help Hayden to his feet.
”What the fuck did Rozanov do to you?” Shane asks, glaring over Hayden’s shoulder in his direction.
”Nothing. But Taylor’s right, your dad is an asshole, dude.” They skate back to the bench for the end of their shift; Shane left even more confused than before.
As a defenseman, J.J. doesn’t put up the goals some of his other teammates do, but he’s still able to knock it in when it counts. He manages to scrape the puck away from Marleau behind their net and races down the ice with Shane, passing back and forth to keep the Raiders confused and on their toes. Shane still has the puck when they slide into the offensive zone and slots it over, clearly not wanting to take a shot on his own dad. He stays in motion, preparing for a rebound or possibly having to fight it out to get it away from Boston. J.J. slides close to the net and snaps a backhand that wobbles and goes low and to the left, easily seen and stopped.
“Ce tir était presque aussi laid que ta mère!” The barked French makes J.J.’s spine stiffen and he feels the anger rise into his chest. Shane manages to catch just a bit of the comment and his jaw drops and things start to click into place for him. His dad’s been chirping his teammates the whole time. No wonder everyone’s been coming back pissed off and glaring. They power back towards the bench for a line change and when they’re off the ice and have finished gulping down water J.J. gives him a serious look before finally confirming, “Oui, ton père est un trou de cul.”
Shane’s clenching his jaw sitting on the bench. The Raiders have managed to score, tying up the game and with a minute left on the clock causing the very real possibility of overtime, meaning his dad, who’s apparently been wreaking havoc all period, could be in the goal even longer. He realizes he’ll have to take a shot on his dad; SCORE on his Dad to end the game and keep him safe. His line launches back onto the ice and he pokes the puck away from Dubek while he’s swapping over with Ilya. He charges down the ice knowing the Raiders won’t be able to catch him in time. He barrels towards the goal, firing a backhand off quickly and preparing to circle if needed. Instead the puck is slapped back at him with a quick grunt and a shout of “Good thing your mom’s backhand isn’t that weak!” paired with his dad lewdly stroking his hockey stick up and down.
Ilya beats him to the rebound, mostly because Shane’s entire world and everything he thought he knew and understood just imploded with a single chirp. Ilya’s tearing down the ice; Shane isn’t even trying to catch him at this point. He’s just staring into the middle distance, blinking. He looks as if he’s a robot that’s been hard reset and is now trying to reboot but there’s a critical bug in the programming. He hears the horn and realizes that someone on the Raiders, probably Ilya, has scored, putting Boston up 3-2 with seconds left in the game. All Boston has to do at this point is keep possession and they’ll win the game. Boston will win the game with a 50-something EBUG in the net who shut out the Metros for an entire period.
The final horn sounds and Shane still hasn’t moved. Boston is celebrating like they just won the cup, and honestly, a part of Shane can’t even blame them. They just did the impossible. The only other time in NHL history that an EBUG took the ice, he was in net for less than 10 seconds. David Hollander just played a full 20 minute period of NHL hockey and kept the net empty. Shane breaks tradition and skates over to Boston’s goal, muscling his way into the celebrations. He has to laugh because while Ilya has an arm wrapped around his Dad’s shoulder, Marleau is apparently trying to lift him into the air in something that looks like the ugly love child of a wrestling move and the Dirty Dancing lift. Marleau finally releases him and Shane taps his gloves to get his attention. Once David realizes it’s Shane standing there, he grabs him in a quick hug, whispering “Proud of you, kid,” into his ear. Shane smacks his arms quickly and pulls back, the proud smile dropping and Shane putting on his “Captain face” to glare at David.
”What the fuck did you say to my team out there?” Shane shouts to be heard over the continuing noise of Boston’s celly. David at least has the manners to look sheepish and almost slightly ashamed.
”Did you know they used to call me ‘Motor Mouth’ back at McGill?” David asks, smiling in a way that makes his eyes crinkle. This was, objectively, not information that Shane had previously. He remembers being small and just learning how to skate and then how to handle a hockey stick and his dad standing loosely in the goal blocking shots with gentle encouragement. Nothing that happened tonight could be described as gentle or encouraging.
A loud shout of “HOLLANDER!” in a familiar Russian accent causes both of them to look over to where Ilya is standing, visor pushed up on his head. “HOLLANDER, WE MUST CELEBRATE, DA? YOU COME OUT WITH TEAM TONIGHT?!” Shane quickly realizes that his boyfriend is not talking to him, but is instead inviting his dad out to the post-game celebration. David looks between Shane and Ilya quickly and rubs the back of his neck, chuckling to himself.
”Ah, no, son, I’m afraid not. I need to get out of this gear and then likely have your trainers beat me back into some sort of shape vaguely resembling myself. They’ll probably need to chip out the entire rink to get enough ice to fix this,” he says, motioning up and down at himself. He wraps Shane in another quick hug, parting ways while each of them head to separate locker rooms.
Centre Bell, Montreal Metros Locker Room
The mood in the locker room is somber. Theriault is on a tear as if the team just lost game 7 of the Cup finals instead of a preseason game that has no bearing on the team’s actual standings. His face is red and spit is flying from the corner of his mouth. He reaches a point where he’s apparently shouted himself out, now just making angry noises before turning back toward his office and slamming the door, leaving Shane to address his team as their Captain. This has always been his least favorite part of being Captain, and now it’s even worse.
“Alright guys!” he shouts out, several heads turning his way. He can see the anger and irritation on their faces. “This was a shitty loss. I know it, you all know it. Thankfully it’s preseason so while this stings, it doesn’t go on the boards.” The team is continuing to glare, uniforms being angrily ripped off; equipment being tossed. He knows he’s lost them, so finishes up quickly “We’ll get ‘em next time, yeah?!” which is met by more grumbling and angry looks as teammates pass him to hit the showers. Shane stands in front of his stall, numb, knowing it’s just a matter of time before he gets pulled for media. There’s no way he’s going to escape without sitting down with the press, he’s just not sure if he’s going to have time to shower first. He strips down to his under layers as quickly as he can, grabbing a snack and some water, and sits in front of his stall, waiting.
He doesn’t need to wait long before he’s grabbed and brought to the press room, sitting down next to his dad, both Hollander men red faced and sweaty. Ilya and LeClaire have joined from Boston, but Theriault was too pissed and sent an assistant. Marcel, the PR guy is posted in the back of the room, somehow looking extremely busy and insanely bored at the same time. Shane places his palms on the table and waits.
Centre Bell, Visitor’s Locker Room, 5 minutes prior
David Hollander has moved through the team, through the tunnel, through the shoulder slapping and the helmet tapping and the whooping and screaming and all he can think is that he can’t remember the last time he was this exhausted. He’s pretty sure it was half a lifetime ago when Shane was a newborn with colic and reflux and spent what felt like 23.5 hours a day screaming or vomiting and he’s pretty sure him and Yuna only slept in 10-minute increments for what felt like months. David feels three times as exhausted now and is fairly certain he’ll need to take sick leave for the next week to give himself time to recover.
His legs feel like jelly as he wobbles his way over to the stall he’d claimed earlier. He wasn’t kidding; he needs to get this gear off, now. He’d forgotten how heavy the goalie pads are, or maybe they’ve changed, or his body has, all of which are likely. He can see movement in front of him and spots Cliff Marleau, Boston’s PR guy, and Ilya all working their way towards him. The PR guy manages to weave around Cliff and arrives first.
”Mr. Hollander, congratulations, excellent performance tonight.” David nods with a grimace while he continues unfastening his left shin guard. He could probably wait for an equipment manager, but he’s worried he may collapse soon and would prefer to be as unweighted as possible when it happens. His mind is on the buckles which he doesn’t remember being this complicated when he played and he almost misses it when the PR guy continues talking. “And of course, we’ll want you in the media room tonight.” David’s head pops back up, the shin guard buckle momentarily forgotten.
“Media?” He is not a shy man. He doesn’t lack confidence. But speaking with people and dealing with the media is much more Yuna’s wheelhouse than his own. They joke about him at the office that he would rather be left alone with his spreadsheets than to join his coworkers for happy hour and while that isn’t actually the case, it’s also not necessarily untrue. His social battery has never been the largest and the charge seems to get smaller as the years pass.
”Yes, Mr. Hollander, media. You made history tonight, in more ways than one. The press is already clamoring to speak with you and it’s honestly a miracle we’ve been able to keep them out of the locker room.” David nods, realizing that even if Yuna were here, she wouldn’t get him out of this. Not that she couldn’t, but she would recognize the opportunity that the exposure brings and would tell him that it’s ultimately his choice while clenching her jaw in that way that says he better not choose wrong. David gives up entirely on the shin guard buckle, looking up again with exhausted eyes and a tired nod.
”Okay. Media. First, could someone get a gear guy over here to get me outta this mess?” As he deflates back down, his innate Canadian politeness kicks in and he offers a quick, “Please!” The PR guy turns, slapping Ilya on the shoulder and offering a quick, “They want you in the room, too,” before weaving back through the locker room. Ilya and Cliff are standing, staring down at David who is slumped in front of a stall looking like he’s just come off of a week-long bender.
”Holy shit, man. I’m not sure I’ve ever heard chirping like that and I’ve been playing with this asshole for YEARS!” Cliff’s voice is booming and echoes through the space.
”Yes, was something, for sure,” Ilya responds, while slipping David two water bottles and a fistful of protein bars. “Even I am not so vicious. I almost felt bad for Pike, was such a surprise.” This makes David laugh. He’s known Hayden Pike for years, he’s a good kid, maybe not the brightest, and if wasn’t for Jackie running their household like a Swiss watch he’d probably crumple in on himself while living off of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and microwaved ramen.
”Damn, yeah, that was fucking mean. And so specific!” Cliff is smiling wide, not the same mean grin he uses on the ice, and David thinks he’s probably an alright guy. He’s heard Shane talk about him off and on over the years in the context of Boston and of course after he took that hit earlier this year. Shane was very clear that he held no ill will against him, that it was a clean hit and he just hadn’t seen it coming. Yuna was harder to convince and David was worried in the days immediately afterwards that he was going to get a call from the Boston PD to come and bail her out of jail.
The equipment manager arrives and quickly gets to work on the buckles and various other fasteners on David’s goalie gear. He looks up at Cliff and Ilya, still standing there, and shrugs. “What can I say? Shane and Yuna talk about the team. A lot. And sometimes I listen.” This is an understatement. Shane and Yuna are in touch constantly, bending around the shapes of their various relationships. Mother and son, manager and client, hockey fan and hockey star. Yuna is obviously not a WAG, but with the expectations on Shane as Captain and his (believed) lack of a partner, Yuna has sometimes filled in that gap when Shane’s had questions or been confused. And as part of that, Yuna knows most of the WAG gossip which she sometimes talks to him about and sometimes talks to Shane about while he’s there. David hadn’t even realized how much of it he had absorbed over the years until tonight when muscle memory took over and the chirps flew seemingly without conscious thought. Ilya reaches a hand out to pull David to standing, having already stripped off his gear and throws an arm around David’s shoulder. “We must go now, press is waiting,” and ushers them both out of the locker room.
Yuna Hollander is waiting in the hallway. She makes her way from the lower bowl and into the corridor with the precision of a general. Most of the arena staff either knows her or knows of her and no one makes an attempt to stop her. When she sees David and Ilya, her eyes soften in a way David is all too familiar with but Ilya has rarely seen. Maybe once, briefly, across the table at their cottage just minutes down the road from Shane’s this past summer. She wraps Ilya in a quick hug, whispering a shaky, “Thank you,” into his ear before stepping back and launching herself at David. He responds with the reflexes Ilya saw earlier tonight in the net and catches Yuna easily as she winds her arms around his neck and smothers his cheeks in kisses. Ilya feels like he should turn away, like he’s witnessing something he’s not meant to see.
”I’m so proud of you baby! You did great!” Yuna drops back down to her feet, holding David’s sweaty face between her hands. She smacks one final kiss on his lips before fully releasing him and backing away, right as LeClaire exits the locker room to usher them to the waiting press.
There are five chairs with microphones waiting, David, Ilya and LeClaire drop into the ones labeled for them. The room is already loud and hectic, reporters shouting and cameras clicking. Yuna posts in the back of the room, standing next to Marcel. She’s dealt with him occasionally over the years - mostly to coordinate PR events with Shane’s brand deal schedules. He gives her a tight nod and returns his attention the iPad he’s holding, his knuckles white as if he squeezes the tablet hard enough it could solve this problem.
The door opens and Shane enters, followed by an assistant coach who drops into the chair labeled “Theriault”. In the back of the room, Yuna’s face tightens in disapproval. The volume in the room explodes again, Marcel finally looking up and realizes that he’s going to have to be the one to control the crowd. He arcs around the edge of the seating, standing off to the side where he can easily see the reporters but he won’t be visible on camera. He picks out familiar faces in the crowd and indicates the order of the first few reporters to ask their questions.
“General question, how did David Hollander, a 50-something government employee for Ottawa, end up on the ice tonight?” Jodoin glares down at the table before answering.
”Boston had to activate the emergency backup goaltender. How that ended up being David Hollander our best guess is a clerical error somewhere.” David leans forward to the microphone in front of him, nervously looking around the room before finding Yuna in the back.
”I…well I was signed up as the EBUG for the ‘88-‘89 season. Of course, that was quite a few years ago,” he pauses as some of the gathered reporters chuckle. “I’m guessing somehow since then they were transferring records and must have missed marking me as inactive,” he shrugs, giving the crowd an almost “Ah well, what can you do?” expression, which makes them chuckle again.
”For Shane, how did it feel to take the ice against your father?”
Shane’s media training doesn’t fail him for a second. “Nervewracking to be honest,” he gives a slight pause before he continues. “Hockey is a brutal sport. It’s physical, it’s fast-paced, and as we all remember from the hit I took late last season, it’s dangerous. The idea of putting my dad through even a fraction of that was terrifying.”
”Follow up for Shane, were the Metros holding back tonight?” Shane nervously glances over at Assistant Coach Jodoin. They both know the truth but they also both know what Theriault expects them to say.
”We always try to give it our all when we play, especially when we play Boston. I can’t speak for the rest of the team, but I do know I was playing scared for a bit of the third period. I know my teammates and I know what they’re capable of, how hard they go and the speed some of them can hit with their shots. Look at the shot Peterson took in the first period. The idea of something like that happening to my dad definitely made me nervous and I probably wasn’t pushing quite like I normally would. I think once I saw that Dad could hold his own I loosened up a little.” Shane smiles over at David who reaches over and claps his shoulder.
”For Boston, tell us how you’re feeling after tonight’s game.”
Ilya sits up and begins to speak before LeClaire can stop him. “Game was great. Was very fun to have Mr. Hollander play for us tonight. He looks very nice in black and yellow, much better than blue and red. And we won, which is always fun.” LeClaire lets out an exasperated sigh while David chuckles. Marcel can see the crowd of reporters ready to keep going and knows they’d keep asking questions all night if he let them. He signals to indicate that the next question will be the last one and picks the reporter.
”For David, any final thoughts about the events of tonight’s game?” David pauses, taking a deep breath. He’s been in the room enough times while Yuna’s been coaching Shane through the right way to answer questions. He’s pulling those memories up and quickly going through them.
”Well, I’ll be honest. I love hockey as much as any Canadian, but I never really had the drive to take it further than playing at McGill. Like Shane said, hockey’s a physical game, and goalie is a physical position. Shane’s mother and I were thrilled when he took to hockey; even more so when we realized he had the skill and the drive to go pro. Playing on the ice with him tonight, at this level of play, will probably go down as one of the highlights of my life, right up there with the day he was born and the day I married his mother. I should probably say something about it being a shame that we were on opposite teams, but to tell you the truth, I think it was more fun this way. How many dads in the league can say that they blocked their son’s very first shots on goal and then went on to block his shot in an actual game? Plus, I know his teammates, some of them very well, almost like they’re also my kids. It was like taking a summer pick up game but jacking the stakes up by a million.”
”Okay, that’s it, no more questions!” Marcel ends the interviews brusquely, ushering the press out of the room. The five men at the head of the room stand, preparing to return to their locker rooms. Ilya catches Shane’s eye over David’s head and bobs it to the side, indicating that he wants to talk.
”Make it quick, Rozanov,” Shane barks, feeling tired, sweaty, and gross. He just wants to shower, ice down, and fall into bed, hopefully with Ilya. They maintain their formal distance, keeping up the appearance of their rivalry when in reality Shane would like to throw himself into Ilya’s arms and rest his head on his shoulder. Ilya leans slightly closer to speak to Shane in hopes of no one overhearing. Shane cuts him off with a quick, “Still coming over later?”
Ilya nods, giving Shane the smile that makes his eyes crinkle in the corners. A smile that Shane has seen more and more over the years and loves almost as much as the man behind the smile. In the span of a blink, Ilya’s smile turns mean, to his on-ice smile when he’s chirping Hayden or Scott Hunter or the smile he gives reporters when he’s about to give them a shit-stirrer answer. Ilya hasn’t even spoken yet, but Shane’s already rolling his eyes, knowing that whatever his boyfriend says next is meant to wind him up; Ilya claiming how much he loves Shane’s ‘angry kitten’ face when he’s agitated. He’s still smirking when he finally says, ”I am sorry to say, I think you are now my third favorite Hollander.”
”You’re such a fucking asshole.”