Chapter Text
A few weeks after his dinner with Rose, Shane meets his girlfriend.
They’re in Eva’s penthouse, high enough above the city that the windows feel unreal, like screens instead of glass. The city glitters below them and Shane still smells like ice and sweat and the antiseptic tang of the locker room. He’d just gotten done with a brutal game against the Admirals. He skipped the pretense of going out with the guys. He’d just showered and headed for his girlfriend’s.
Eva has already changed. She’s barefoot now, hair loose, one of Shane’s hoodies slung over her shoulders like it belongs to her. She’s poured them both drinks without asking as he settles in.
“You were amazing tonight,” she says, pressing the glass into his hand. Her smile is bright, too bright. “I mean, obviously.”
“Thanks,” Shane says. Eva’s not one for sports, really but she tries. That’s nice of her. Not a lot of people would try. He sinks onto the edge of the couch, bones aching in that familiar way that comes after a hard game. He takes a sip. The drink is stronger than he expects.
Eva perches beside him, legs tucked under herself. “I could tell you were distracted, though.”
Shane frowns. “What?”
“You missed that open shot in the second period,” she says lightly. “You never miss those.”
He exhales. “I got checked into the boards right before that.”
She hums, unconvinced. “Still.”
And there it is. That faint shift in the air, the way her tone sharpens just a fraction. Shane straightens without meaning to.
“It was a long game,” he says carefully. “We still won.”
Eva rolls her eyes. “You always get so defensive.”
“I’m not-,”
“You are,” she cuts in. She takes her glass back, downs the rest of it, and sets it on the table harder than necessary. “God, Shane, I flew all the way out here for you. I skipped a dinner with producers for you.”
Right. Because even though this was her penthouse, she’d had a meeting in Boston the same day as the game. She had insisted, even though Shane thought it was silly.
“I didn’t ask you to do that,” he says, immediately regretting it.
Eva turns slowly to look at him. It reminds him of a tiger in a nature documentary. “Excuse me?”
“I just mean- ” He scrubs a hand over his face. “I appreciate it. Really. I’m just tired.”
“So I’m not allowed to have expectations?” she asks. Her voice is calm now, which somehow makes it worse. “I’m not allowed to want my boyfriend to actually be present with me?”
“I am present,” Shane says. “I just played 2 and half hours of hockey.”
“And I’ve been on set for fourteen hours a day all week,” she snaps. “But I’m still here, aren’t I?”
He doesn’t answer fast enough, and that’s enough to have her fuming.
Eva stands abruptly, picking up the glass. She pours herself another drink and downs it quickly before setting it down on the counter. “Unbelievable.”
She starts pacing. Shane watches her, heart starting to thud a little faster. Arguments with her never seem to have a clear beginning or end, just a slow spiral.
“Why do you always do this?” she demands. “Why do you make me feel like I’m asking for too much?”
“I’m not trying to,” Shane says. “Eva, can we just- cool down for a second?”
She laughs, sharp and humorless. “Don’t tell me to calm down.”
“I didn’t say-”
“You always say it,” she interrupts. “You always make it seem like I’m crazy for wanting things.”
“That’s not fair,” he says, heat creeping into his voice now. “I support you. I show up. I-,”
“You show up when it’s convenient,” Eva says. “You disappear when I actually need you.”
“That’s not true!”
She stops pacing and turns on him fully. Her eyes are bright, her cheeks flushed. “You didn’t answer my calls yesterday.”
“I was on a flight,” Shane says. “I told you that.”
“You could’ve texted.”
“I did text.”
“Hours later.”
Something in her snaps.
“God,” Eva says, grabbing the glass from the counter. “You are impossible.”
“Eva,” Shane warns, standing now. “Hey. Don’t- ”
She throws it.
It happens fast- too fast for him to react. The glass hits him in his face in a sharp, sickening impact that makes stars burst behind his eyes. He stumbles back with a startled shout, hand flying to his face. The glass thumps onto the carpeted floor, somehow having not broken.
There’s blood. He can feel it immediately, warm and wet, sliding down his eye. His nose is stinging. His face is stinging. Eva freezes.
“Oh my god,” she breathes. The anger drains from her face, replaced by horror. “Shane-I-I didn’t mean to- ”
He presses his palm harder against his face, heart pounding. “What the hell, Eva?”
“I didn’t mean to hit you,” she says quickly, rushing toward him. “I swear. I just- I wasn’t aiming at you.”
“You threw a glass,” he says, stunned.
Tears spring to her eyes. “I’m so sorry. Oh my god, I’m so sorry.”
She reaches for him, hands shaking. Shane steps back instinctively, then feels bad about it immediately.
“It’s fine,” he says automatically, even as blood seeps between his fingers. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”
Eva grabs a towel, presses it to his face. “I can’t believe I did that. I just get so overwhelmed sometimes. You know that. You know I don’t mean it.”
He nods, because that’s easier than arguing. Because his head hurts and his chest feels tight and he just wants the night to stop.
“I should go.” he says dully.
“No, Shane. Please don’t-,” she begs, but Shane is already slipping his shoes on. Eva places a hand on his shoulder but he pulls away, yanking open the door with a blood-covered hand.
He flees out into the hall with a bloody kitchen towel still pressed to his face.