Chapter Text
April 2017 – Montreal
“Fuck.” Shane groaned as he peeled his eyes open. His vision was blurred, and his ears were ringing. He felt like he’d been body-checked headfirst into the ice. “Fuck.” His last memory was of Cliff Marlow ramming into him shoulder-first.
He had been body-checked headfirst into the ice. David Hollander nudged his wife, who was feverishly typing emails. “He’s up, honey.”
Yuna slammed her MacBook shut and rushed to her son’s bedside. “Shane. It’s Mom and Dad. We were so worried for you, sweetie, but you’re going to be okay.”
Shane grounded himself by counting ceiling tiles–there were forty-five in his private suite. He inhaled the sickly, antiseptic smell of the hospital room before murmuring, “I’m gonna be able to skate again…right?”
His parents’ silence was heavy.
Their reluctance to speak could only mean one thing. Something was terribly wrong. Fuck. He wiggled his toes experimentally and saw them move underneath the hospital sheets. Well, that’s a good sign. He felt pretty banged up, but nothing obvious stood out to him.
Did they find something bad? Am I going to die? Tears began to prickle behind Shane’s eyelids.
“Yes, of course, Shane,” David said hurriedly, before Shane’s panic began to spiral out of control. “You’re going to be able to skate again–soon.”
“Then why do you guys look like that?” he spat with as much frustration as he could muster. Shane loved his parents; they were ridiculously supportive and cared for him deeply, but they weren’t infallible. When bad things happened, they had a habit of shielding him from the truth. Shane hated that, even as an adult, they handled him with kid gloves. But he wasn’t fragile, he didn’t need protection, and he could certainly handle harsh realities without a mental breakdown. “Mom? Dad?”
A sigh from his father, “Short answer: you have a mild concussion and a broken collarbone.”
“Figured as much.” Finally assured that his injuries were season-ending rather than career-ending, relief flooded Shane’s body. “That’s hockey for you. Everyone gets their bell rung...eventually.”
His parents exchanged a quick look. Shane couldn’t discern its meaning through the TV static in his head. He furrowed his eyebrows, quietly urging them to spit out the issue going unsaid.
Yuna spoke up, carefully choosing her words. “Here’s the long answer. It was a really nasty hit. You lost consciousness on the ice. The Bell Centre medics rushed you to the ED. The medical team here did a full workup, including an abdominal ultrasound, to make sure there was no internal bleeding while they were stabilizing you. There was none. You’re completely healthy. But...” she trailed off, hesitating, “they found something else during the scan.”
“Okay?” Shane found this awkward, touch-and-go conversation exhausting. If his parents didn’t tell him what the hell was going on, he was going to scream.
“You’re pregnant.”
Shane’s ears burned. Pregnant. The word lanced through his chest like a high velocity projectile. He averted his gaze towards the starched white hospital sheets to avoid his mother’s concerned stare. “Oh.”
“Did you know?”
Shane scoffed, his tone suddenly defensive, “I wouldn’t be playing a contact sport if I knew that I was pregnant.”
“So…you have a...boyfriend?” said David quietly, like he was trying to approach a skittish horse.
This was not how he imagined coming out to his parents. He decided to avoid his father’s question. “I’m sorry you guys had to find out this way. I should have told you sooner that I’m, uh,” Shane exhaled a shaky breath, “gay."
David held one of Shane’s hands tightly, while Yuna stroked his hair–still stiff with the sweat of last night’s game. He didn’t feel liberated coming out to his parents in these conditions. Shane felt like he was headed for the executioner’s block.
“Shane. We couldn’t care less that you’re gay. We love you no matter what. You’re a twenty-six-year-old professional athlete,” she shrugged, “of course you’re having sex. I just thought...”
A lump formed in Shane’s throat. This might be the worst day of his life.
“You just thought it would be the other way around. That I would be getting some girl pregnant,” he deadpanned.
“No! Shane, honey, I didn’t mean it like that! I just...” she trailed off again, then groaned because she couldn’t think of a more delicate phrase. “I just thought you, of all people, would be more careful. You know. Using protection. Condoms. Birth control.”
Shane Hollander imagined asking the team doctor to write him a prescription for birth control, then barked out a laugh. He would much rather peel off his toenails one by one than ask the guy who illicitly reported every flu-like symptom and wrist sprain to the coaching team, for fucking birth control. It would be like taping a sign that said ‘faggot’ to his back. Shane knew guys who had been placed on waivers for far less than being gay, and although he was Montreal’s star center and had a bulletproof contract, that wouldn’t protect him from becoming persona non grata with Coach Theriault. Theriault was old-school; if he found out that Shane was gay, he wouldn’t give a damn about how many points he’d contributed to the playoff scramble or this season’s plus-minus–he would immediately change his line and reduce his minutes. His career would quietly be ruined. Shane continued to laugh. He didn’t know what was so funny. Maybe it was the concussion. Maybe he had finally lost it. Yuna and David stared at him with twin expressions–blank faces and scared eyes.
Once he collected himself, Shane ran a shaky hand through his hair. “It’s okay,” he confessed calmly, as if his tone could change his manic reaction or soothe the worry written plainly on his parents’ faces. “I’ve had a pregnancy scare before.”
The Hollander’s schooled expressions morphed into one of shock. They spoke simultaneously.
“What do you mean—”
“—and you didn’t tell us?”
Shane shrugged, then winced when his left shoulder refused to cooperate. “ ‘s not much to tell. I found out I was pregnant. I got an abortion.”
September 2014
The symptoms started non-specific: morning sickness, headaches, fatigue, and mild abdominal tenderness. Shane thought he was developing a stomach ulcer, but shelved the idea once he realized there was no way his strict macrobiotic diet could cause one. Then came pre-season weight gain. He usually tried to keep his bulk up during the summers, but this wasn’t muscle mass–it was dreaded midsection chub. So, Shane informed his personal trainer, who upped his reps of alternating crunches and medicine ball throws for a month. At home, Shane anxiously counted calories and avoided processed sugars. He measured his smoothie ingredients down to the milligram. The number on the scale didn’t budge; in fact, it increased.
He decided to consult Dr. Google.
WebMD Search Results for “nausea, fatigue, weight gain”
Article: Bipolar Disorder and Weight Gain...
Article: Antidepressants and Weight Gain...
Article: Hyperthyroidism...
Article: Pregnancy Weight Gain...
Article: 10 Signs You May Have a Brain Tumor...
He frowned and refined his query.
WebMD Search Results for “nausea, fatigue, weight gain in men, not taking any medications”
Article: Hyperthyroidism...
Article: Unexplained Weight Gain in Men...
Article: Pregnancy Weight Gain...
Article: 10 Signs You May Have a Brain Tumor...
Shane clicked the article that he assumed would provide the most broad array of information.
Unexplained Weight Gain in Men
By: Nathan Chen, MD, FAAFP
Last updated on 04/24/2013
He mumbled the opening sentences of the article under his breath. “This common symptom has many possible causes. Seek a healthcare provider–ugh, this is so stupid–they can help determine if you have an underlying health issue…”
Shane quickly shot a text to the Voyageur’s team doctor. Regardless of his mystery disease, he should probably get his blood work updated. He scrolled past the meaty prose of the article to reach the list of differentials:
- Aging
- Lifestyle Changes
- Pregnancy
- Endocrine disorders
- Medications
- Depression and Anxiety
Although Shane was wearing his reading glasses, the ones with his most recent prescription and the fancy blue-light protection and anti-reflective coating, he squinted at the text. There were only two differentials that applied to him. An alarm bell went off in his mind. It was quiet, but it was ringing.
Shane wasn’t dumb; he’d attended the mandatory sex education lectures in junior high. The gym teacher would wheel out the tube TV and make them watch VHS tapes on the horrors of teenage pregnancy and STDs–the ones meant to scare them out of having sex. The videos worked well enough on Shane, so he held tightly onto his virginity until the night of Grade 13 prom.
He recalled one statistic in particular: males contribute to seven percent of all live births in Ontario province. All males had the ability to get pregnant, but the only ones at risk for pregnancy were the ones who…took it up the ass, Shane thought bitterly. But he wasn’t gay—he only hooked up with Ilya Rozanov a few times over the course of each hockey season. It was convenient. It was discreet. Plus, they used protection the last time they fucked. Right? Right.
Better to just pee on a stick and rule it out, though.
Shane navigated to the Pharmaprix website and ordered a pregnancy test, along with some random skincare and other bathroom essentials. The additional items would help throw off the scent if an obsessed fan happened to pack his order. The last thing he needed was some rando Habs maniac to spread rumors that Shane Hollander was a Sex Obsessed Freak buying pregnancy tests and Plan Bs for puck bunnies.
He hesitated as his cursor hovered over the ‘purchase now’ icon.
“What the hell,” he muttered, clicking the button. The order would be shipped to his door tomorrow, and then he could rule out this insane possibility.
The following night, Shane Hollander stared at the positive pregnancy test for ten minutes. When he snapped out of his daze, he immediately went online and bought five more, too panicked to care about what the clerk packing his order would think.
“Fuck.” Shane stared down at the piece of plastic that would determine his future. Two small pink lines stared back up at him. “Fuck.”
When he considered it, a pregnancy test was kind of like a Magic 8 Ball; there were only three answers—yes, no, maybe—and if you didn’t like the small black letters that stared up at you from the inky abyss, you could shake it and try again for a more favorable outcome. Shane stood over the four other pregnancy tests on his bathroom counter. He placed the fifth test beside them. Usually, he found comfort in order, but this did nothing to ease the bile creeping up his throat. The clack the plastic made when it touched the marble made him flinch. It felt like the final nail in the coffin.
He picked up his phone, next to the neat row of pregnancy tests, and navigated to a contact he hadn’t messaged back since June.
17 February 2014
Shane: are you ok?
3 June 2014
Lily: Penthouse 1
Shane’s thumb lingered over the call button, and against his better judgment, he tapped dial. The phone rang, and rang, and ra—
“Hello?”
“Ilya.”
“—You have reached the voicemail of Ilya Rozanov. No, I will not listen to it.”
The beep felt like a punch to the stomach, and the automated voicemail options fell on deaf ears. Shane ended the call, phone hanging limply between his fingers. Why would Rozanov pick up the phone? They’d never called each other before. Besides, he was probably out clubbing or fucking some model or whatever the fuck cool athletes like Ilya Rozanov did at 1 AM on a Friday.
A part of Shane was relieved that Rozanov didn’t answer the call. He didn’t even know what he was going to say. His brain supplied Ilya’s bitter remarks in Sochi at the beginning of the year, “We are nothing, Hollander.” He thought about the last time they’d fucked—Vegas, after the NHL Awards—and how, after Rozanov kicked him out of his penthouse suite, he’d lamented over not getting to kiss him the rest of the summer.
“You’re an idiot,” Shane grimaced at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. He almost didn’t recognize the face staring back at him. Gone was his youthful glow and meticulously combed hair. In its place were dark under-eye circles–almost purple–chapped lips, and oily roots. He hated how he looked when his anxiety spiraled beyond his control.
Time and time again, Rozanov had drawn a clear boundary. They weren’t boyfriends. They weren’t friends. They weren’t even exclusive. Their arrangement was simple: whenever they were in the same city, they got together and fucked.
Shane looked down at the row of pregnancy tests again, praying the answer would change. Maybe the new protein powder he bought had been contaminated with lead, and this was just a really intense hallucination. He closed his eyes in an effort to block the barrage of thoughts rattling around and, finally, reached a logical conclusion.
Why am I panicking about a baby I don’t want?
So, he canceled his appointment with the team doctor and found the appropriate subreddit.
r/abortion – 1hr ago
u/hockeydude24: Pregnant in Canada, 24M
Hello, I just found out that I’m pregnant. I have a high-profile career, and I’m afraid of being recognized at local reproductive clinics. Does anyone have advice on how to get a discreet abortion in QC or another province? Thank you for your help.
u/rosieposieRN: are you sure that you’re pregnant? have you seen a doctor yet?
u/hockeydude24: I have six positive pregnancy tests on my bathroom counter.
u/mrs_leesha_nukes: jfc???