Chapter Text
JUNE 22, 2016
Day Group- Journal
I don’t think I can play hockey anymore.
What if I can’t play hockey anymore?
Who am I as a person if I don’t have hockey?
What do I fill my day with if I can’t play hockey?
Is there a world where I can play hockey and not have an eating disorder?
Can I have an eating disorder again and not die of cardiac arrest?
How fast will Ilya stop being interested in me when I quit hockey?
Who Is The Villain? Everyone else has a villain who ‘did this’ to them. I don’t have any of that. No one did anything to me. If this is just a performance diet gone too far, I should be able to just Be Better with no problem.
Is it going to come back if I can’t find the villain?
Is it really going to be this hard every single day for the rest of my fucking life? I don’t think I can do that.
Shane was surprised when he accepted a call after Day Group and Brandon Wiebe was on the line. He’d been avoiding anything to do with hockey for the last 10 days. He was trying to focus on going home. What he was going to do next was a giant question mark, and he didn’t want to talk to anyone in the NHL besides Ilya.
“Hey, Shane. I was hoping to have a conversation with you.”
“Oh, I don’t really want to talk hockey.” Not that he would ever admit this to a coach, but he started crying whenever he let himself think of hockey for too long. Part of therapy was letting himself sit with feelings and not do dramatic things about them, and this question was something it took him 2 months of staying here to admit to himself. He did not know how to admit this to a coach.
“That’s okay. What if we just talk?”
So he said yes. And he started crying when he saw Wiebe signing himself in, reminded himself that emotions aren’t a bad thing and that it was okay to be nervous, then rallied himself.
“Thanks for seeing me today, Shane,” said Wiebe. “I understand Ilya’s been pretty worried about you.”
Shane wondered what Wiebe knew and how much trouble he was in.
“Yeah. Sorry about all the time he’s been away.”
“No,” said Wiebe, putting his hand on the conference room table in between them. “You don’t apologize for that. You almost lost your life, Shane. What you’re doing here is always going to be more important than your career.”
“If I still have one,” he said, drawing shapes on the table with his finger.
“What makes you say you don’t have one?”
“I mean I’m a terrible captain. I’ve been out for like six months. I can’t get myself to talk to any of them. I just…quit the team and I don’t know if I can go back to the sport. I don’t know if I can do it without having an eating disorder.”
“What if you were on a team with guardrails in place?”
“What guardrails?” He asked, wiping off his eyes.
“This is all hypothetical, but if you were on my team, I’d like to have you sign a contract that you’ll stay in therapy, and work with a dietitian that works in eating disorders.”
“We were doing that before, and it didn’t work.”
“Was it just therapy, though, or a treatment program that can be built around your life on the team?”
Shane knew he was likely to fall back into his eating disorder the moment he left the cushioned environment here. He doubted he could just not have an eating disorder someday, even though it supposedly happened.
“That’s possible?”
“We can make it possible.”
“Why are you willing to do so much for me?” He asked.
“You’re one of the best hockey players in the world, Shane, if not the best. I’m sorry your coach didn’t know how to treat you, but I view safeguarding your mental health as a necessary expense to make you a healthy player. Do you want to give up hockey, Shane?”
He shook his head.
“Then…maybe just think about it. And you should take your time here. It’s not wasted time.”
“Feels wasted.”
“I don’t see it that way. You shouldn’t either. I see this time as an investment in you.”
“I think I’m running out of time,” he admitted.
“You’re not. Take your time, Shane. When you’re ready, give me a call, and we’ll talk. But you’e not washed, and you’re not done.”
Shane was diagnosed as autistic at an appointment his parents went to. Over the course of two hours, he learned that the deep feeling of fucked-upness that he could not get rid of even after winning two Stanley Cups had a name, as did his trouble bonding with teammates. All of it felt fake on some level, because he was a Captain. He was a successful hockey player with tons of endorsement deals. Rolex gave him obscene amounts of money every year just to appear in ads and wear a watch. How could he be autistic?
Knowing it felt lighter, though, as did his dad rubbing his shoulder, letting him know this information was safe. He was diagnosed on the same day he had to leave the treatment center for a cardiologist appointment and come back, thankful that after group, he knew Ilya was going to be there for evening visitor time.
Shane could go outside now, in the smallish courtyard they had, so he did, claiming the outdoor lounge area and falling into Ilya’s arms. “I’m scared to come home,” he admitted. Ilya was carding through his hair. “Scared to open my phone and see what people are saying about me. Scared to do any of it.”
“Do you still feel guilty?” Ilya asked him, massaging his scalp a bit.
“Yeah. I could just hide out here forever.”
“I don’t think they’d let you, but yes, you could just hide. I think you want your life back, though. I think you’re fighting really hard for that.”
Shane sat up. “Don’t feel like I deserve it. I feel like I let everyone down.”
“You didn’t let anyone down.”
“You’re saying that because you’re my boyfriend, though.” He stood. “Going to do evening snack.”
He had successfully negotiated away from vanilla ensure to Ensure Clear, and lately he’d been adding cheese and crackers. He drank the required Ensure and took the cheese and crackers back to Ilya.
“I drank that vanilla Ensure thing,” said Ilya. “On a road trip. Last week.”
“Yeah? What are your thoughts?”
“Oh that has to be an organized torture thing, right? It was unfinishable.”
“Yeah.”
“I know you’re scared,” said Ilya, “and I know you think you’ve let people down, but you’ve worked so hard. I can’t wait to reward you for it.”
“Reward me, huh? You mean I get to progress beyond just jerking off into your boxer shorts?”
“Yeah. Wanting to fuck you isn’t the point, but it’s going to be a perk of coming home, huh? Are you going to stay at my place?”
“I think so. My discharge meeting is tomorrow. Everything but he thought of you fucking me is kind of freaking me out. It’s all just…so much, you know?”
“Would it help to think about me fucking you?”
“What, you mean like where you’ll do it? Your bed, obviously.”
“What position I’ll do it in?”
“Doggie, obviously.”
“Oh, it’s obvious? Why is it obvious?”
“Cause I like bending over for you.” He smirked at the way Ilya had to adjust himself in his pants.
“Maybe you should plan the sex.”
“What, at the discharge meeting?”
“Maybe not verbally, and maybe not at the meeting. Why don’t you plan it tonight, hm? Tell me what we’re going to do on your first, second, then third orgasm. We’ll have time. I’m devoting an entire night to you.”
Shane blushed. “I can do that.”