Chapter Text
As a journalist, Shane Hollander follows a strict ethical code.
Some say it’s pretentious for a sports journalist to hold himself to such a high standard. Many a co-worker has told him that his moral compass is nothing more than an overinflated sense of self-importance, stinking of desperation to be more than a cog in the machine. No one cares about ethics; the story is led by what the public wants to see, what will get the most clicks, and what will fuel the fire of their carefully constructed narrative. Sports journalism is a circus of corruption, who have the most money and the right image for the spotlight. Shane Hollander does not fit into that world.
It didn’t surprise him; how corrupt the industry is. His first lesson in college was to understand the difference between being a public servant and a servant of the public. Online journalism has skewed how stories are written, and shareholders can be provided with data on what does well, what generates buzz worth turning their attention to. Money is poured into revenue and profit. A duty of a journalist has become murkier; a job once dignified turned into an invasive, exploitative field.
But Shane likes to believe that somewhere, there is good to be found. He thinks that there needs to be more people like him who take their duty seriously, no matter what kind of story they are writing.
That is why he sticks to this code, an inward honour he swears by.
Accuracy, fairness, transparency. Shane Hollander will never be found spinning a lie, will never be swayed by cash sums or sly bargains. If he thinks a team is lacking, he will write his piece with scathing precision. No one is safe from his watchful eye. He almost takes pride in the fact that NHL players will groan when they see his name on the press list, fearing his potential questioning. However, he will never tiptoe into personal territory. That is not his job.
And quite frankly, Shane loves his job.
“You off?”
Shane clicks his computer into standby, making sure every tab is closed. Without looking up, he nods, aligning the mouse with the keyboard. “Yeah.”
“You’re back after, right?”
“Yeah, should be, Renner wants to talk to me.” He pats down his coat, making sure he has his keys and his phone.
“He does?” Hayden has not looked up from his screen, which Shane can never understand. When he is writing an article, he is fully immersed in the task. He will sometimes forget to eat or drink, whereas Hayden is constantly snacking and sipping on three different beverages. “Yeah. I don’t know what it’s about, though.”
“Probably going to give you another story,” his friend mutters, but it’s not said with any malice. Shane hums, half distracted. Where is his pen? “He never gives me a story.”
Shane checks his desk and then his pockets.
“But I much rather it be you than Ben, his stories are trash. He must have connections because I seriously don’t know how he-are you looking for your pen?” Hayden interrupts him before he begins to descend into panic.
“I can’t find it anywhere. Is it on your desk?” Shane stares at the chaotic dump that is Hayden’s desk and fears having to touch it. Thankfully, Hayden always understands and starts shuffling through his endless piles of paper and wrappers. “I don’t think so. I know better than to take any of your pens.”
“Shit.”
“Dude, don’t you have a spare pen? What about the ones on your desk?”
Shane levels him a look that he hopes conveys how unimpressed he is by that suggestion. “Those are like nice inky ones.”
“Yeah, they’re great, I love them.”
“They take longer to dry. When you’re trying to write shorthand and quickly, it just smudges. It’s not practical.”
“Looks like you don’t have a choice, bud.”
“Thanks for your useful input, Hayden,” Shane huffs, leaving the office with one of the fancy pens that he loathes to use in conferences. “You’re welcome!” Hayden shouts after him.
Despite the loss of his favourite pen, Shane is excited for today. It’s the start of a new season, and he can feel it in the city. There is always a buzz to the streets when a game is looming, a hope and unbridled joy that maybe this year is their year. Shane enjoys a city united, despite his coworkers' assumptions. They all think he’s a miserable pessimist, but Shane knows better. He’s realistic, and most importantly, he’s unbiased.
They should all be unbiased, but that is never the case.
He knows Hayden secretly roots for Montreal, and that other colleagues have an unspoken allegiance to their hometowns. It’s why Shane gets so many games to cover, so many stories to write. Shane will not say Montreal have the best chance of winning the Cup just because Ben from work thinks so.
And he knows that people talk. They whisper behind his back, complain when Renner gives me another game, another NHL star to interview. They don’t understand how quiet, awkward Shane Hollander has managed to dazzle the editor to the point of monopolising the opportunities.
Hayden is one of the only people at work who talks to him, which Shane found baffling at first. Hayden Pike is severely different from Shane Hollander. Hayden Pike has a wife and kids, a big house on the edge of the city with a picket fence and a kitchen island. There are crayon portraits on his fridge and stains on his rugs. When he comes to work, there are often stickers of cartoon cats hidden on his clothes that Shane has to point out to him. Shane Hollander has a two-bedroom apartment with a double bed dented on the left side. He lives in routine and silence. On paper, they should not get along.
But they do. Hayden compliments Shane’s articles rather than tearing them apart like Ben or Andrew. But it’s fine, because Shane got today’s match.
He arrives twenty minutes early, like he always does. He signs in, puts on his press badge, and is led to the conference room for pre-match questioning. Shane likes to get his specific spot, right at the front near the edge, so he is not in the direct line of fire but can still get a nice, clear view of the players. Notebook at the ready, incorrect pen waiting.
“Shane Hollander!”
Shane smiles good-naturedly at Drew Mullin, a twenty-year veteran of Fox News. Drew is one of the good ones, someone Shane deeply admires. He will always have time for him, even if he’smeant to be a competitor.
“One day, I will be here before you,” Drew says, shrugging out of his coat and dropping into the chair beside Shane. He crosses one leg over the other.
Without looking up, Shane replies, “I’ve been here for twelve minutes. You’re going have to try a bit harder than that.”
“I’m not surprised. New season, but always the same Hollander.”
Finally glancing up from his notepad, he smiles. “Someone needs to set the standard for all these new trainees.”
“Too right. None of them understands the importance of being punctual. You’re the last of a dying dynasty of journalists, Shane.”
“No pressure.”
“Pressure builds character. So. New season. What are the great Shane Hollander’s thoughts? Optimistic?
Shane considers this. “Cautiously analytical.”
“That’s what you said last year. Come on, give me something more.”
“What, so you can poach it for your writing?” Shane means it well-intentioned, and he’s lucky Drew always gets that.
“Touche. Are you buying what the teams are selling this year? Every coach I’ve talked to thinks this is their year.”
“Don’t they always? I don’t think any of them would turn to you and admit they’re aiming for mediocracy.”
“What about Montreal? Everyone’s hyping the speed, especially the new rookie they signed up.”
“Speed’s meaningless without discipline,” Shane replies.
Drew smiles at that. “Boston is saying the same thing.”
“Boston always does. They say a whole lot at the start of a new season.”
There’s a pause as a couple of cameras are set up across the room, and a few more familiar faces are strolling in. The room is filling up now.
“You still enjoying it?” Drew asks, quieter now.
“Yeah,” he says. “I love it. Nothing I'd rather be doing.”
“Good. You ever considered coming over to a bigger outlet? Like Fox? ESPN?”
Shane practises a little scribble with the bad pen, frowning at how wet it is. “Uh, no, to be honest. I feel like my voice won’t be heard in there. I think I need to be a bigger name first. Like you.”
“Am I your inspiration?”
“You wish.”
“Well,” Drew says, sitting forward. “Here we go again. Bet you’re relaxed?”
“Why?” Shane glances over his questions one more time.
“You always get a question in Boston.”
Before Shane can respond, the door opens, and Ilya Rozanov walks into the room. He can feel every journalist sit on the edge of their seats, pen at the ready, phones hitting the record button. Rozanov, as usual, is not fully dressed, still in his compression shirt. His hair is messy, and his gaze is stern. He sits at the table and, without any fanfare, gestures with his hand for the questions to begin.
“Ilya, how does it feel to be back for the season opener after last year's defeat?”
“Any nerves coming into tonight?”
“What’s the locker room energy like right now?”
They fire all at once, and Ilya points into the crowd. Shane has come to learn that Rozanov doesn’t tend to pick any particular journalist. While some teams aim for outlets that will favour them more, and some go for the standard run of the mill to avoid complications, Rozanov just points at whoever and answers.
“You’ve got a new line combination this year, and fans are worried the chemistry won’t be there. How has the dynamic fared so far?”
Ilya takes a moment to think; he always does. “Lineup is good. You can never know until you’re on ice, but the chemistry will come.”
“What if it doesn’t? Doesn’t that concern you?”
“No.”
A bit of laughter, and then he moves on.
“How are you feeling physically? Last season was very demanding.”
“Are you saying I’m old like Scott Hunter?” More laughter. “I am healthy.”
“Ilya,” a journalist near the aisle says. Shane doesn’t recognise his voice. “You spent most of the off-season overseas. Was that hockey-related or personal?”
Shane hates these kinds of questions, but the others eat it up. They love to try and push, to look for weaknesses and chip away at it. Ilya Rozanov tends to have the same questions forced on him, either to do with his homeland Russian, or his infamous string of women photographed leaving his residence. He’s a known party boy within the NHL; this is not revolutionary or interesting to Shane. It has nothing to do with his hockey.
Despite this, Ilya doesn’t give anything away, ever. “Training.”
“Solo, or with family?” another voice adds quickly. Shane wonders what kind of article they think this will produce. Boston’s Rozanov spent the summer training with family. Riveting.
“That’s not relevant to the season, is it? Or am I understanding wrong?” Rozanov smiles, but it’s shark-like.
“There were reports you changed agents this summer.” Shane exchanges a glance with Drew, who has the same annoyance written on his face. They must be new, because changing agents is hardly exciting. “Did that have anything to do with wanting more control over your career or your life outside the rink?”
Ilya leans forward, forearms on the table. “I changed because it was time.”
“Time for what?” the reporter pushes.
“To change agents,” Ilya says flatly.
Drew stands up. “Come on then, Rozanov, what’s your goal prediction for this season?”
Rozanov lightens up. “Ah, finally good question. What do you think?”
“Last season you said forty.”
“I did. I got forty, no?”
“Barely.”
“This sounds like a challenge. Fifty.”
“Give me something exciting,” Drew smiles.
Ilya pretends to think about it, leaning back in his chair. “If you insist. Sixty.”
The room bursts into explosions, every journalist standing from their seat, needing a direct quote.
“Only one more question.”
Like the rug is pulled out from beneath them, they all fall into their seats, groaning. Distantly, Shane can hear the new journalist whisper something along the lines of why are we sitting down again and Shane smiles. Because Drew Mullin was incredibly correct in that Shane Hollander is guaranteed a question when he’s interviewing Boston.
Or more specifically, Ilya Rozanov.
Shane doesn’t know why this phenomenon exists. There are no ties between them for Rozanov to do this. It’s happened since the start of his career. Ilya has this weird tradition of always giving Shane a question. No matter how chaotic or how little time they have, he will always make sure Shane can say something. Maybe it’s become a part of his pre-game superstitions, or a fun game he likes to play to mess with other journalists.
Drew laughs under his breath and falls back into his seat, staring at him expectantly.
“Hollander, hit me.” Rozanov looks right at him.
“In close games last season, the team relied on individual rushes late in the game. What’s changing this year to keep possession as a group?”
Ilya answers without hesitation. He can hear every journalist waiting with bated breath, desperate to write and rush out of the room to get their piece at first. “We trust each other more. Simpler plays. Short support.”
A few nods around the room. Shane frowns, eyebrow raised. “Trust is abstract. On the ice, what does that look like?”
Ilya’s mouth curves. “Closer gaps. Defence holds the line longer. Forwards come back lower. Less panic.”
“So fewer stretch passes?” Shane asks.
“Yes.”
“And more controlled entries?” Shane continues.
“Of course. You done grilling me, Hollander?” Ilya is already standing up, and Shane nods. “Sure.”
Ilya leaves as quickly as he entered. He can hear them all race to their computers, and Shane would usually be hot on their heels. But today he can’t, because his right hand is covered in black ink and his notes are smudged.
“See you at the next game, Shane,” Drew says as he leaves. Shane is left alone in the room with a few staff members who are packing away. He falters. He hates the idea of this mess staying on his skin throughout the entire game, but the public bathrooms here are swarming with fans and lots of men who forgo washing their hands. He shivers at the thought of having to go into one when he’s not mentally prepared for at least twenty minutes.
“Hollander, what are you still doing here?”
Shane looks up in surprise to see Ilya again, who has walked back into the room. Rozanov has always been a big character in hockey, and sometimes Shane is intimidated by his confidence and ability to turn anything around. Shane doesn’t get the chance to talk to him much outside of questions and anything press-related.
“Why are you back?”
“Dropped my locker key, which is-,” he bends down under the table he was just sat at and picks up a tiny silver key. “-here. Fell out of my pocket. But I asked you first.”
“Oh, uh, I have pen on my hand.”
Ilya exhales a laugh. “You heard of water and soap, yes?”
“Yeah.”
“Then what is the problem?”
“I don’t want to use the public toilets; they’ll be so busy. And I really need to get to the press box.”
“Can you not just leave it for the game? Is only pen.” Ilya is lingering, but Shane knows he must be desperate to leave.
“I... I could leave it.”
Ilya must sense something in him. He sighs, looking around the room as he seemingly debates something in his head. “Come use the staff toilets.”
“Really?”
“Yes, we cannot have you distracted, can we? How will you see my hat-trick?” Ilya smirks, and Shane laughs in response. He hopes no one sees him; they might accuse Rozanov of some sort of favouritism, and Shane doesn’t want that on his shoulders. It wouldn't be a hard assumption to make.
“Confident then?”
“This is not on the record.”
“I know.”
“Why do you use such wet pen if you hate it?”
“I don’t usually use this pen. I have, like, a very specific pen I use. You know those BIC ones? They have a good grip and don’t smudge. I couldn’t find it, so I had to use this one.”
“This may be the most boring conversation I’ve ever had, Hollander. I did not know you are so boring.”
“Now I wish this was on the record.”
“Why, so you can write article about how I insulted you and your pen?”
“Yes.”
Ilya shrugs. “You don’t write stuff like that. Here we are. I trust you to do no snooping. You seem like a rule follower.”
He does use the staff bathroom, he does not snoop, and he does witness Rozanov’s hat-trick.
--------------
Shane arrives back at the office when it’s very late, and most of the desks are alit by the moon only. Hayden is still plugging away on a late shift, giving him a little wave when he enters. Shane has finished all he needs to today, his live article dusted, and his notes no longer printed on his skin. He makes his way to Renner’s office, bag and coat still on.
“Come in,” Renner says after he knocks. “Ah, Shane. Please, sit down.”
Anthony Renner is everything Shane expects of an editor for a sports outlet. An old, wrinkled white man who has no experience in actual journalism but rather has the connections to get him undeserved salaries and credit. Renner has never been cruel to Shane like he is to some other reporters, but he never seems too fond of him either. He likes Shane’s professionalism and his ability to form a foundation with the players. Their company is still new compared to many of their competitors, and Shane feels like he’s done a lot of work to gain them credibility with certain teams.
Renner likes that.
But Shane doesn’t think that it runs deep enough to gain loyalty.
“How was the game today?” Renner asks diplomatically, sitting behind his desk.
Shane shrugs. “Boston won, but Montreal put on a better game than I thought they were going to.”
“Not a Montreal fan, Shane?”
“Not an anyone fan, Sir. My allegiance is to the art of this sport, not to a single team.”
“See, this is why I like you, Shane. You have perspective, and you’re pragmatic.”
“Thank you.”
“I’ve been thinking. There is an article I want to give you. Quite a big one too, if we can get hold of it first.” Renner clears his throat, and Shane feels excitement start to bubble.
Maybe, just maybe, he will be on the road for the first time. Not just covering Montreal home games but travelling all over to expand their scope. He can write about the cities and their fans, about how different teams react to different away games; the possibilities are endless. He can break into a new world for this company, a real trailblazer. His fingers tingle, and he sits on them to try to stop the shaking. “Sounds great. What is it?”
“It will be something different. But I think you’re the best man for it. Remind me, what is your professional relationship like with the Boston Raiders?”
Shane blinks. “Boston? It’s fine. I can usually get pretty good quotes from Rozanov.”
Renner is pleased by this answer, taking a sip of the whisky in front of him. Shane eyes it.
“Yes, their captain. I’ve heard he respects you.”
“Oh, he does? That’s nice.”
“Do you think if you approached him for questions, he would answer?”
Shane deflates a bit. “Like a human-interest story? Do you want me to do an exclusive interview with him?” It’s not the worst idea, but Shane is disappointed nonetheless.
Renner smiles. “Not quite.”
“I’m not sure I’m following.”
“There have been rumours. About Rozanov.”
Shane taps his foot against the carpet, suddenly wishing there was light, more places to escape, less talking. “There are always rumours about him. He likes to wind up the media, it’s not new.”
“These are different rumours. And I think with the trust he has in you, perhaps you’re the best person to investigate the truth.”
“Investigate? Sir, I’m not that kind of journalist.”
“Shane. There are rumours that Ilya Rozanov is gay.”
Silence.
Shane can feel his entire being crack open, straight down the middle. He feels like he’s been put under a microscope and is being studied. There is so much Shane wants to say, and yet not a single word can escape him. The room is a trap, all of a sudden. Shane hopes he has kept his face neutral.
All he can muster is a pathetic, “Oh.”
“A credible source has told us so.”
“But...Ilya Rozanov is known for having fun. He sleeps with plenty of women.”
“Compensating, I imagine. Some gay men get married and have kids.”
“Who is saying this? Who has spoken to you?”
“Ah, I cannot disclose that. Protection of anonymous sources, remember?” Renner taps his nose, and Shane curses inwardly.
Dots start to connect in his head, and he stares at Renner in horror.
"You want me to try and expose him? By betraying his trust?” He feels sick to his stomach. All the shadows on Renner’s face suddenly look villainous.
“We’re journalists, Shane. We provide the public with the truth.”
Shane wants to scream. He wants to scream that he is a journalist, that he is the one who has spent years in press boxes, he is the one writing articles near midnight, he is the one who has built relationships with players. It will be him who loses it all because no one will trust him again, no one will respect him. Men like Renner will, but men like Renner are not the kind of people Shane wants respect from.
“They don’t need this truth.”
“A gay NHL player? I think everyone deserves to know.”
“This isn’t right, Sir.”
Finally, Renner is picking up on Shane’s disgust. No longer does he look excited at this prospect, but his face morphs into muted disappointment, leaning away from his desk. “You don’t want to do it?”
“Of course I don’t.”
“Shane. I will give you tonight to think it over.”
“I don’t need-”
“I will give you the night. You may think differently tomorrow. It would be a shame to give all your upcoming games to someone like Ben, wouldn’t it?”
Fucking hell. “Are you threatening to take away my work if I don’t do this?”
“No. I’m just thinking of giving other people opportunities that I’ve been wasting with you. To someone who wants to step up for this publication. Think about it, Hollander. See you tomorrow.”
Shane leaves the office in a blur of hot rage and tears and cries in his car the entire ride home.
--------------
That night, he doesn’t sleep.
He tosses and turns, flickering between bouts of sheer panic and low pits of despair. Eventually, he gives up trying, camping out in his living room. First, he thinks about calling his mom. Of all the people in his life who understand his internal ethics when it comes to his job, she gets it the most. She has always praised his outlook, always bragging about him to anyone who will listen. She would understand him.
But he didn’t want her to worry about him.
He then thinks about Hayden. He thinks about his only friend at work. Hayden has kids and a wife. The man shouldn't have to feel like he needs to take a principled stand.
Shane cries again and decides to delve into social media. Social media is a necessary evil for him; he only has it to keep up to date for his job, but his algorithm is rigidly professional and ice hockey-related. And he knows that what he’s about to do will ruin it, but he needs to know.
Shane starts typing, Rozanov and gay into Twitter.
As predicted, nothing comes up. Anything that Twitter can associate with his key words are all to do with the player, nothing to do with his sexuality. Some of it is hate, some of it is admiration, a lot of it is lust. But not a single comment about his secret sexuality, not one person ranting to an empty room. Then he resorts to the internet, searching for any Reddit thread, any old story, anything that can point him in the direction of Renner’s rumour. Nothing.
It’s almost anti-climactic, and Shane gets angry. Renner could be bluffing. There may not be a source; it might be a dead-end story that goes nowhere.
But then a much scarier prospect enters his head. The source could be real, smart, and determined. Renner will keep poking the bear, will keep trying to find this story. It will be the biggest article of the year if they can uncover the first gay ice hockey player. His publication will skyrocket, and their views will triple. It’s like striking gold, and Renner is hungry for it. If Shane did his investigation and said he found nothing, Renner will just force him to look again until that nothing can be forced to look like something.
Shane throws his phone down and collapses into his couch. There is only one decision he can make.
“Morning, bud! Woah, you look like shit, is everything okay?” Hayden says to him the next day, munching on a croissant.
Shane knows there are bags under his eyes, that he must look ghostly. Without a word, he fishes through his desk, shoving as much in his bag as possible. “Seriously, Shane, what’s wrong?”
“Hayd, take this.” He gives Hayden a chunky folder with all his shorthand notes. Hayden has been studying shorthand for a while, so he can take the exam and be qualified. Shane was meant to be helping him, but he fears those moments may come few and far between now. He stares at his desk, not a single trace of his existence left.
“Why? Shane, what’s going on?”
Instead of responding, he marches right up to Renner’s office and knocks on the door. A few people are beginning to gauge that something is happening, the usual clicks of the keyboards slowing down. Shane would usually be shrivelling up under the attention, but today he has no energy left to fight it.
Renner looks up when he enters, looking smug. Bristling, Shane stands right before his desk, determined not to sit, not to hesitate.
“Shane. Have you given my offer more thought?” His words are like ice.
He has.
“Yeah. I quit.”
Renner blinks. The smugness falters, and Shane is glad for it. He’s glad that Renner is the one caught off guard. Shane has taken the power into his hands. His heart is beating manically. “You-what?”
“I quit,” Shane repeats. “Effective immediately.”
Renner leans back in his chair, rubbing at his temples. He clearly did not think Shane Hollander of all people, reliable, never takes a sick day, never late, Shane Hollander would quit. “You’reemotional. Sit down.”
“I’m fine,” Shane says. He doesn’t sit. He won’t sit.
“Some stories are emotive Shane. Not all journalism is about game matches and goals,” Renner continues. “This is the job.”
“This is not the job,” Shane says. “This is exploitation. I was hired to write sports articles, not clickbait for the masses.”
Renner exhales sharply through his nose. “You’re being dramatic.”
Shane shakes his head. “You asked me to cross a line. Morally, sir, I cannot do that. And I won’t be held captive for not taking this on either. That’s not right.”
There’s a beat of silence. Renner taps his pen against the desk. “You’re walking away from a career,” he says. “From access. From credibility.”
“Do you think this will give you credibility?” he says. “No one will respect this publication for the right reasons. No team will ever trust you.”
Renner’s jaw tightens. “They will. They will want to know this, too.”
Exasperated, he can’t help but ask, “Why?”
“People deserve to know who they are sharing their space with, don’t you think? Locker rooms. Showers.”
“Fuck me.” Is all he can say. Maybe this is Renner’s moral stand, believing he needs to uncover this truth for the sake of all those hockey players. It’s absurd, and the final nail in the coffin.
Renner scoffs. “This industry will eat you alive. I overestimated you. You’re too soft.”
“Maybe,” Shane says. “But it won’t be on my conscience.”
He turns before Renner can respond.
The walk back through the newsroom feels unreal. He knows everyone heard it, the walls aren’t soundproof. Ben and Andrew are watching hungrily from their desks, like sharks who have smelt blood in the water. They stare at him, trying to work out how soon they can scavenge for his games, all his work.
His work.
All gone.
Jesus Christ.
Hayden is standing by Shane’s desk when he gets there.
“Did you just quit? What is happening right now?”
“I’m sorry,” Shane says. It’s the only apology he allows himself. “It’s been kind of an impulsive decision.”
Hayden looks down at the folder in his hands. “You’re serious. What happened in there? What made you quit?”
“I don’t want to go into details right now, Hayd.”
“For what it’s worth,” Hayden says quietly, “this place doesn’t deserve you. You’re made for bigger things, Shane Hollander.”
Shane swallows. “Teach yourself shorthand properly,” he says. “You’re almost there.”
Hayden huffs a laugh that sounds too close to breaking. “Stay in touch, please?”
“Yeah, I will.” He doesn’t know if he can keep his word, but he will try.
Shane shoulders his bag and walks out. His entire career packed into one place, everything he’s ever worked for gone overnight. Shane is never one to act on impulse, and this may be the first impulsive thing he’s done his entire life. He stands on the sidewalk, no job to his name.
“Fuck.”