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The rumor begins with an ill-timed coincidence.
Marlow stares back at his captain, who just stepped out of a room that Marlow knows is not his. He glances at the closed door. The numbers say nothing to fill the sudden, awkward silence between the two teammates.
1802. Hollander’s room. Marlow knows this because he’s only two more doors down.
He blinks. The number stays the same. Rozanov swallows, eyes wide.
“Uh—”
“Was helping him.”
They speak at the same time, and Marlow hears his mouth close with an audible click. He keeps looking at his captain with an expression that says everything and somehow not enough.
Rozanov shuffles in place. “Was helping him,” he repeats, “Hollander is…”
He trails off, obviously not expecting anyone to catch him walking out of Shane fucking Hollander’s room at 11 P.M.
“Sick. Yes. Hollander is sick.” Rozanov reiterates, voice found after another minute of the most awkward silence passes. He clears his throat, “I wanted to check on him—cannot have him playing badly for tomorrow.”
Marlow shakes off whatever that was, and feels his eyebrows furrow together.
“Hollander’s sick? Is he okay? He seemed fine earlier.”
“Ah. Not sick like that.” Rozanov responds, still maintaining the odd atmosphere of being caught.
Marlow glances back at the room, where Hollander is likely inside. “Sick like what then?”
The russian moves slightly, putting his body closer to the door. The action deliberately blocks Marlow’s vision of the door. It does not go unnoticed. Rozanov clears his throat for the second time, and now Marlow is actually beginning to worry.
What the hell was going on behind that door?
Suddenly, Rozanov makes possibly the vaguest gesture with his hands and his stomach. His hand flicks and rubs around his navel in a weird motion, and Marlow has half the idea to shake the man and ask who replaced his captain because when has Rozanov done anything—
It clicks.
The reason why Rozanov was acting so fucking weird, why he was only checking on his rival so late at night, why Rozanov didn’t want Marlow to even have a glimpse into what was behind that door.
Holy shit. Canada’s golden boy was pregnant.
Marlow feels his eyes widen and his jaw slightly drop before he wipes his face with a heavy hand. He looks back at the door, then to the floor, then back up to Rozanov’s face. He hadn’t even known Hollander was…well.
The other man shrugs and then nods, like he didn’t just drop what could be the greatest secret of the NHL.
“Wow, man. Just…just wow. What the fuck, dude?” In his shock, Marlow misses Rozanov’s sigh of relief and his following look of slight confusion.
“Has it…how long has he had it for?” He asks, Rozanov shrugs again and doesn’t say anything more. It must still be in the early stages then.
Rozanov’s lack of response doesn’t bother Marlow. If anything, he gets it. This type of thing is always scary to navigate. He, himself, has gotten his fair share of pregnancy scares, but that was only the scare. He couldn’t imagine actually going through it, like what Hollander was doing.
Marlow knows better than to ask if Hollander was keeping it or who the father was. If Ilya Rozanov, of all guys, was looking out for him like this, then it wasn’t hard to see that the Montreal player was keeping it, and it definitely was from a messy affair. Plus, it would just be rude to ask such questions during this time; Hollander needs all the support he could get.
Wow. His respect for his captain grows exponentially. “Shit. Well, it’s a good thing you’re looking out for him.”
He claps Rozanov on the back, doing so with a sincere smile on his face. Rozanov slowly nods, like he wasn’t expecting such a positive reaction. Marlow understands. One of the NHL’s biggest stars is having a kid, and his rival is the one helping him through it? The media would probably crucify the two for that kind of information, and he didn’t even wanna think about what it would do to both of their careers.
But Rozanov has nothing to worry about. If anything, Cliff Marlow will help in any way he can. He tells this to the blonde, who slowly nods again and then hesitantly smiles back. “...Yes. Thank you, Marly. I will go to bed now.”
“Of course, Cap. And you don’t gotta worry about me telling, my lips are closed, man.”
Rozanov presses his lips into what could be a smile but comes off more as a grimace, nods once, and then immediately heads off to the elevator.
===
Games against Montreal are always intense, more so than any other game the Raiders play. Usually, Marlow would be yelling and cheering like the rest of them after Rozanov’s infamous pregame speeches, but as he shuffles his gear into his stall, all that he can focus on is how Hollander would be facing them.
Hollander, whom Marlow knows, is at least three weeks now, as per his grand discovery at the All-Stars game. That same guy was going up against one of the more aggressive teams in the league, where more than half of them hit the 6 '3 and 210lbs mark at least.
He was still reeling from the fact that they’re letting Montreal’s center on the ice. The mere idea of an accident was already horrific, and it was one Marlow definitely didn’t want to have a hand in.
And he knew that his team wouldn’t either.
Marlow had waited for Rozanov to maybe say something, but the Russian had gone through his usual routine and never said a word about maybe avoiding collisions with his longtime rival. Instead, he was more focused on his phone screen, likely texting the renowned Montreal Jane for good luck. That left the taller man a little shocked, but he supposed announcing to an entire locker room full of riled-up hockey players that they should play it soft for a single player wasn’t very smart for keeping the secret.
So, as the assistant-captain, Marlow shoulders the task.
Casually, he walks over to Carmichael and St. Simon. He spots Connors a couple of stalls over, and he quickly waves him over as well. The first two were typical heavy-hitters on the team, and Connors could skate fast enough to avoid collisions and, specifically, pull players out of them.
Whatever conversation between Carmichael and St. Simon dies out when they catch the look on his face, and Connors is quick to poke at him.
“You good man? Don’t tell me you’re worried about Montreal.”
Marlow scoffs. As if. “No, it’s not that. I need you guys to do something for me. Seriously.” He murmurs, careful of any possible eavesdroppers.
The other three glance at each other, worry taking over their expressions. Marlow sighs; he honestly didn’t want to let the secret spread, but he would rather this than any possible accidents on the ice. And if Rozanov wasn’t going to say anything, then Marlow would have to step up.
“I need you guys to…” He bites on his tongue, trying to find the words to encapsulate the insanity of it all.
“Dude, you good?”
“Yeah, Marly, you can tell us stuff, man. You ain’t gotta worry.”
Marlow blows air out of his mouth, “I need you guys to protect Hollander.”
Connors snorts. Carmichael follows soon after, and Marlow is sure St. Simon would do the same if he weren’t still staring at Marlow’s face.
“I’m serious. Not joking, I need you guys to keep your eyes on 24. He’s got uh…” He lost his words once more.
Connors, after being punched by St. Simon to stop laughing, stared at Marlow in bewilderment. “What the hell could he have that makes you wanna protect the guy? I thought we hated him?”
Carmichael nods his agreement, and Marlow knows that St. Simon is silently asking the same question. He clears his throat, belatedly he now understands why Rozanov had approached this topic like it was a ticking time-bomb. This was ridiculous to say outloud.
Marlow deigns to simply whisper it, cupping his mouth with his hand as he does so. He watches as his three teammates process his exact words.
“...You’re fucking with us.” St. Simon finally says.
Marlow shakes his head. “I’m not. I found out about it sometime ago, so I need you guys to keep it on the low, too—don’t want this thing to get out.”
“Are you fucking serious—Hollander?” Connors scream-whispers, his face slightly paler than before.
Suddenly, Leclaire bangs open the doors and orders them out. Rozanov, of course, shouts a few more encouragements, and it sends the rest of the team into rambunctious cheers. They are the only ones who do not. Instead, Marlow sends a solemn look to the other three, and they all nod back at him, their faces resolute.
The game begins smoothly, with the faceoff going to Boston but not yet breaking through the tight defense Montreal has. Marlow has stuck to his usual position, on the left of his captain, but he keeps his eyes open for 24.
Soon enough, the puck is stolen by the same number and starts racing towards their goalie.
Hollander is flanked closely by Comeau and Pike, but Marlow spots how Kane and Varok are now sprinting on their skates towards the three Metros. Worryingly, he can already see the mass collision that was just waiting to happen. He looks across the ice and locks eyes with Carmichael.
When Kane is just on the edge of checking Hollander into the boards, he never ends up getting to the man as a rush of black slams into Varok. Carmichael’s momentum then pushes into Kane, who was a mere foot away from Hollander. A confused, yet resounding shout echoes as they are sent spinning into a three-person crash, and soon a four-person one as Pike is suddenly pulled in.
The Metro player actually yelps as he’s bowled over, and Comeau is left with Hollander, but he looks back in clear confusion. His helmet moves back and forth between Hollander and Pike, as if questioning whether to continue the play or to just keep watching what is an actual clown car crash on ice.
It didn't matter in the end, as the four-way collision had left a gaping hole in the Raiders’ defense, and Hollander scored the first goal of the game.
But the joy of scoring is overshadowed by the fact that Carmichael had hit his own teammates, and Pike was still stuck in between them. Other players are skidding to a stop, all watching. It doesn’t help that Varkov is red-faced, screaming at Carmichael, while Kane is struggling to get up.
His hand ends up blindly grabbing at a blue jersey, and what Pike thought was his hope of getting out ends up pulling him straight back down to the ice.
Rozanov skates closer, only coming to a stop when near Marlow. The Russian stares forward, completely dumbfounded.
“What the fuck was that?”
Marlow shrugs, but when Rozanov looks away, he sends Carmichael a thumbs-up. The other man grins back, even as both Varkov and Kane are screaming at him. Pike is still left on his ass, dazed.
===
Had Ilya known this was how his future teammates were going to be, he would’ve just stayed in Russia. Okay, that was a lie—he wouldn’t go back there unless absolutely necessary, but still.
He watches as Connors not-so-subtly pushes Shane out of the way of Feller. In doing so, he ends up being the one roughly checked into the boards by the massive man. The responding squawk of pain he hears from his idiotic teammate only further grates on what truly is Ilya’s last nerve. He breathes in again and sees Hollander execute, an admittedly beautiful pass to Comeau, and the blaring horn tells him Montreal scores once more.
They’re currently down 4-1 to Montreal, which should be impossible with Pike’s horrific plays and Shane’s weak backhand. But no, the scoreboard does not change even when Ilya rubs his eyes several times.
The worst thing about this game is the fact that they weren’t losing because Hollander’s team finally learned how to play good hockey—no, Boston was losing because they were playing like shit.
If anything, Montreal should be in its grave with how sloppy they are. And yet any time Hollander has the puck, the team dissolves, and there is no one to defend against the other center. So then another point goes to the Metros.
Moreover, this is the first in a long time that a fight hasn't happened between a Metro and a Raider this late in the game. This is because every fight on the ice tonight has been between his own team, and Ilya may start one, too, if someone doesn’t tell him what the hell is happening.
He wasn’t an idiot. When Marly thinks Ilya can’t see him, he sends some sort of encouragement to players who were deliberately throwing the game. He has also seen Victor pull aside some of his irate teammates, and suddenly they weren’t as angry and instead looked…Ilya doesn’t quite know.
If he had to place it, it would be the look of someone who was about to fight three Russian bears at once and somehow believed that they could make it. And then that same player would start playing like shit.
Still, not a single one of his teammates will say anything to him.
Shane skates to a stop beside him after yet another point is scored against them because the Metro was practically handed the puck by Ilya’s team. His presence is a soft, cooling balm to Ilya’s seemingly never-ending hell.
The furrow of his brows and the slight pout of his lips, which he gets when he is very confused, are almost enough to make Ilya not want to beat the daylights out of Marlow, Connors, and about half of the Raiders. Almost.
“What’s going on with your guys?” Shane asks as a cluster of Ilya’s teammates is made to be separated by refs for what feels like the tenth time tonight.
He responds through gritted teeth, “I do not know.”
Shane hums; the dip between his eyebrows deepens. Ilya wants to kiss it. Before he could voice that thought out, their bubble of peace was broken when Boiziau and Pike suddenly skated up to them. Their faces share a look of extreme smugness.
Boiziau jeers, “Rozanov! Your team take too many hits to the head this time?”
“C’mon, man, they’re trying their best,” Pike says mockingly, egging the other man on.
Suddenly, Ilya really wants to deck someone right now, someone preferably obnoxiously French or the father of a million children.
But Shane is right there. So Ilya will simply skate away. He will be sure to get a reward for his outstanding patience after this.
The game ends soon after, 6-2 to Montreal. The last goal, consisting of the most atrocious defending the audience has ever been made witness to, with every defenseman for Boston acting like Hollander was an atomic bomb, and to take the puck away would light this entire stadium up.
Pike is soon speeding towards Shane, excited about the win despite it not being well-fought. He prepares to barrel himself into the captain, but is quickly sent off-course by hitting a wall of black and gold.
Boston’s St. Simon stares back at him, a reproachful look in his eyes—as if he couldn’t believe Pike would try and celebrate with his teammate.
“The hell? What’s your problem?” He shouts after shaking off the dizziness. St. Simon continues his glaring
“Yeah, like you don’t know the secret. Seriously, with all the kids you got, Pike, you’d think to be more careful with Hollander.”
Pike stares in confusion; the other player’s words were the only reason he hadn’t swung yet. “The fuck are you talking about?”
“Aren’t you two best friends?”
He nods, but he still doesn’t understand. St. Simon looks at him, then back at Hollander, who seems to be busy speaking with fucking Rozanov of all people. After another careful look, the defender leans in closer and murmurs something Pike must’ve misheard.
He scoffs. “Yeah, right. Seriously, what…”
St. Simon looks at him, really looks. Not a trace of a joke on his face. And okay, the insane theory could maybe—maybe explain why Boston was folded like laundry tonight, but Shane wouldn't.
He couldn’t.
Right?
Then, a memory hits him. The aquarium!
“Geez Hayd, you wanna get me pregnant?”
…Oh god. Hayden had originally taken that as a joke, but now he really didn’t know what to think. Maybe Shane was trying to subtly tell him then? Shit, he had completely brushed the guy off, too.
His emotions must show on his face because St. Simon starts to nod grimly, patting Hayden on his shoulder before taking his leave to join his team in getting reamed out.
There’s a shout of something in French, then “You okay? Boston player bothering you?”
“…JJ, I gotta tell you something.”
===
“Hey man, heard about you. Congrats, seriously. It’s impressive that you’re still a beast on the ice.”
Shane stares in confusion. Los Angeles’ captain doesn’t notice and claps him on the back. It’s noticeably more gentle than when he had done the same to his team after their loss against Montreal.
He leaves before Shane can ask him what he means by that. Maybe the other man was talking about a possible injury? But he has none, not even a minor bruise.
Actually, he doesn’t think he’s taken any hits at all in the previous games he’s played.
But Shane’s thoughts are discarded when Hayden wraps an arm around him, guiding him to the tunnel where the rest of the team is heading towards the lockers.
It’s probably nothing, so Shane shrugs it off.
Inside the locker room, his team is predictably loud and high-spirited after their win.
“Hollzy! You were a damn magician on ice today!”
Whoops of agreement ring out. Shane smiles, a private and small one—grateful for the people in the room. “Thanks, guys, it was a team effort, really.”
Wilson dramatically rolls his eyes, “Don’t even play the humble card right now, man. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you play as smoothly as you did today.”
He begins to feel the start of a blush, but his team was right. Again, rather weird, but it must’ve been an off-day for them.
Boston must’ve also had an off-day.
And Brooklyn as well.
Huh.
“Hollander, you’re going out with us tonight! Third win in a row deserves a drink—" a sharp elbow quickly cuts off Drapeau. JJ quickly glares at the goaltender before facing Shane, plastering a smile on his face.
“Ah, Capitaine, do not worry. We won’t force you to go—clubs are not your style, yes?”
It was a well-known fact that Montreal’s star centre never liked celebration outings, but that has never stopped any of his teammates from forcing him to do so anyway. In fact, JJ was usually the first to pull Shane into a bar or party.
“Oh, I don’t mind. Drapeau’s right, I should go out this time—3 wins in a row, right?” He awkwardly laughs at the end, an attempt to brighten the mood back up. The team always loved it when he finally agreed to spend the night out.
Behind Shane, Hayden frantically shakes his head while mouthing the word no.
JJ, unsure of what to say next, flicks his eyes back and forth between the two. Drapeau avoids any eye contact with Shane, looking strangely guilty. The rest of the team now seems quiet, hesitant.
“Well, yeah. But you know, you’re not exactly one for partying.” Comeau finally says after the weird bout of silence. “We don’t wanna pressure you or anything—right guys?”
Rapid shouts of agreement fill the room, but a small pit forms in Shane’s stomach. Did they not want him to come?
Hayden catches the look on his friend’s face, and his head-shaking becomes furious. ABORT, ABORT, ABORT!
A hand lands on Shane’s shoulder; it's Gagnon’s. “Not that we ain’t want you with us, man, we just think you might wanna rest tonight. You played pretty hard those last games.”
JJ quickly nods, “Yes! That!”
He ends up letting it go.
Still, Shane can’t shake the feeling that he was missing something. He thinks to say something, probably to Hayden, but then he checks his phone and finds multiple text notifications from Ilya.
One of them is a picture, followed by a combination of emojis Shane won’t admit he blushes at.
Hm. Maybe he did need the night to rest after all.
===
Hayden handed him a bottle of gummies.
“Try these. Jackie likes them, and don’t worry, they don’t break any of your weird-ass food rules.”
Shane looks at the bottle, the label taken clean off. Hayden’s kids probably peeled it.
He takes the bottle and hesitantly tries one after Hayden insistently nods at him. “It’s got folic acid—really good for you.”
He didn’t usually like gummies, but they were pleasantly fruity and not too sweet. He hums, somewhat surprised.
“You like them? Jackie accidentally bought a bunch; I’ll deliver you some when we’re back home. Keep that one for the road.”
It was a bit weird, but Hayden had always tried to look out for him, so Shane just accepted it.
Shane opts not to mention that anytime he gets a new bottle, there is never a label. It would be rude, Hayden was already giving him the gummies for free, afterall.
—
Since Shane got on the bus, his headache hasn’t lessened. If anything, all the bumps in the road make it worse, and a new wave of nausea hits him every time there’s a turn. It didn’t help either that he had to be up at 7 A.M, which was actually his usual wake time, but he had stayed up last night talking to Ilya. The Russian had proved to be much more interesting than sleeping at a healthy time.
“You okay, Hollzy?” Someone asks, and it is the last thing Shane hears before he has to slam into the bathroom lest he throws up on his team. His throat burned as he emptied his rolling stomach into the bus toilet.
A hand rubs his back in comfort, and once he’s finished regurgitating what was left of last night’s dinner, he turns to find several heads peaking through the door; his teammates all have faces of sympathy.
Which okay. He appreciates the fact that his team cares for him, but the last time Roy threw up, Couillard had laughed and told the other defenseman to be quieter because he was trying to watch Harry Potter.
That same Couillard is the one who rubs his back and hands him a wipe for his face without a single complaint.
…Perhaps there was deep favoritism in his team. He should look into it as the captain.
—
At practice, Shane is stopped by his coach, Theriault.
“Listen, kid. I know I ain’t exactly with the times,” the older man starts with, and Shane is already itching to join his team on the ice to escape this conversation. “I’m old-school, and different generations think different things,”
He nods stiffly despite not understanding. Did Theriault somehow find out about him and Rozanov? Oh god, was he about to get kicked—
“But if you ever need something, you can ask me.”
Shane doesn’t say anything, his brain attempting to figure out where exactly this talk was going. Theriault takes his silence as skepticism as he goes on to hammer his point home.
“I’m serious, Hollander. I might not ever get you, or why you're still out here, but I’m here as support. Not as an enemy.”
“Okay,” Shane pauses because he really is lost for words. He wonders why Theriault felt the need to pull him aside to say this to him specifically. “Thank you.”
The coach gruffly nods, and he takes that as permission to leave.
—
“Looks like we got some…special fans for Montreal tonight!” The announcer said, his own voice puzzled as the jumboscreen pans over to show Ottawa’s Boodram and Dystrka. The captain is even wearing a hat with the number 24 on it while giving two thumbs up.
“Is that—why is he wearing my number? ” Shane asks as he looks up at the screen mid-stretch.
“They wanna support you, I guess.”
“But why?”
Hayden shrugs, “You’re a popular player, dude.”
—
Shane watches with wide eyes as his teammates swarm Tampa’s left wing. His shoulder only slightly buzzes from the shove from the other player, and yet half of his team on the ice are on the guy.
JJ screams French expletives while clutching the collar of the Tampa player, with three other Metros surrounding the pair. The game is paused due to the current altercation, which leaves Shane even more confused because the hit barely even hurts.
The even weirder thing is the fact that the other Tampa players don’t rush to defend their teammate; instead, they stand around, and one even skates up to Shane to ask if he’s okay.
“Yes, I’m fine. Why is everyone stopping?”
A look of sympathy passes over the Tampa defender, “You don’t gotta act tough, man. It’s already insane that you’re,” he vaguely gestures around the rink, “doing this.”
“What—”
“Hollander! Coach is pulling you out!”
Shane is so confused that he simply goes to the bench without question.
Later that day, after the game had ended, Ilya had sent him something—a screenshot of a tweet from one of New Jersey’s players, posted an hour ago.
Some players will fr do anything. Some things are more important than winning a game that isn’t even for the playoffs. 👎
>>> what is jones talking about?
>>> and what does new jersey know about winning haha 😂
Shut up. <<<
Probably just a fight off ice. <<<
===
It all comes to a head when Shane attends one of the MLH’s charity galas, where they announce things that could’ve really just been a long email. In his opinion, the event is more of a way to bring together players from multiple teams and to mingle with sponsors, executives, and brands.
However, in Drapeau’s words, it’s also the event where the “good booze is.” So a fair number of players from around the league are in attendance. Including Boston, specifically, Ilya.
So Shane deals with the crowds and the annoying conversations that he is sure his mom would love to be a part of.
Two hours pass, and Shane has yet to spot the other captain, so he opts to stay with Hayden, who was already leading them to a group of other players sitting at a table near the bar. There, Hunter, Vaughn, and two players from Toronto sit. An odd mix, considering Toronto wasn’t exactly the nicest team, but Shane supposed things were different on and off the ice.
Before they notice their arrival, Shane catches the end of the conversation.
“It has been some time…”
“All bodies are different—”
“But he’s barely even showing!”
Hayden loudly clears his throat. Vaughn jolts before spinning around, a wide smile on his face. Hunter takes a deliberate sip of his drink at that moment, and the Toronto players whom Shane now recognizes as Troy Barrett and Wyatt Hayes look away.
“Hey guys, what’s going on?” Hayden says, voice strangely tight.
There is no real answer from the group, but Hunter does pull out a seat for Shane. A ginger ale is then quickly handed to him. Distantly, he wonders if they were expecting him to come over as he mutters a quick thank you. Hayden is left to grab his own seat, which he minutely pouts about.
The atmosphere picks back up again when Vaughn begins to animatedly talk about the game the Admirals played against Detroit.
Hunter adds his own tellings and corrects a couple of details, which Vaughn makes evident that he does not appreciate. The two are so ridiculous in the moment that Shane softly laughs and forgets about the earlier conversation.
“Dude, you can not be serious right now—”
“I am serious. That shot was sloppy.”
“You wanna talk sloppy? Let’s see that first goal of yours. Oh, wait. There was no goal because you missed it.”
“Barrett!” A familiar yet dreaded voice interrupts the conversation. Shane looks to see Dallas Kent, Toronto’s centre, approaching their group. Hayden starts to clench his jaw, and the two Admirals' earlier amusement fades.
“...Hey, Kent.”
The only one remotely okay with Kent’s arrival was Barrett himself, but even Shane could see the slight hesitation on his face. Hayes, on the other hand, rolled his eyes and dropped his smile. The group’s irritation goes unnoticed by Kent, who decidedly stands next to Barrett’s seat—where Shane sits on the right.
The man’s eyes darted around the table, a mean gleam to them. They land on Shane. “Hollander! Didn’t exactly expect you to come to this.” Kent says, with an odd lilt to his words as if there was a hidden joke.
Shane smiles politely and shrugs, unsure of a man like Kent. “I don’t actually mind these kinds of events, once in a while is—”
Kent laughs sharply, effectively cutting off Shane. “Oh, I wasn’t talking about that.”
Shane frowns. Was he missing something? Kent evidently sees his confusion and then spots the drink the Metro was holding. His smile grows.
“That all you drinking?” Shane feels his eyebrows pinch together at that; he nods.
“No beer? Shots? Hey, maybe you’d like some wine. It’s real good here.”
“That’s enough, Kent.” Scott snaps.
He dismisses the older player. “Relax, Hunter. No need to get your panties in a twist. Hollander, here just needs to lighten up, right?” The blonde then leans closer to Shane, clapping an arm around his shoulders so hard that it jostles Shane enough to spill a bit of his ginger ale.
At that, Hayden shoots up from his seat, Hunter and Vaughn following. “What the hell do you want, Kent?”
The other man scoffs, “Geez, didn’t know you were all girls at this table.” Again, his voice has that same weird lilt. By this point, Shane knows he’s definitely missing something as a disgruntled look crosses over all their faces, save for himself and Kent.
“Dude, lay off it,” Barrett says, placing a hand on Kent’s shoulder—it’s quickly brushed off.
He laughs again, “Or what? It’s not like it’s a damn secret anymore.”
Shane blinks. So there was something! “What secret?”
Immediately, the atmosphere takes another 180. Hayden stares at him with a look Shane thought was reserved only for when his kids were hurt. Shane turns to the others at the table and sees similar expressions.
The only one who speaks is Kent. “That you’re a damn—”
“Hollander is what.” A new voice from behind Shane cuts cleanly through the tension. Shane spins around to see the face he’s been trying to find the entire night. Ilya catches his gaze, and there’s a small quirk of his lips before it leaves when he goes back to looming over Kent.
Standing closely behind him, Shane sees Marlow and Carmichael. The latter waves at him, which he waves back, albeit a little confused.
Kent, who slightly wilts at the sight of the three, ultimately doesn’t back down. His arm is still on Shane’s shoulders, his hold bordering on squeezing. Then, a weird exchange of looks happens between everyone, Shane not included.
He huffs; he was a bit tired of being left out of every conversation and being told extremely vague things.
“What’s the secret?” He tries again after nobody answers, and all heads turn to him. They speak at the same time.
“Don’t listen to him, Shane,” Hayden says comfortingly. It would help if Shane actually knew why he was trying to comfort him, but he appreciates it nonetheless.
“It’s nothing, man,” Hayes responds, while side-eyeing Kent as if it were something.
“He’s just saying shit,” Marlow says with a tone similar to Hayden’s. Didn’t this guy hate him?
Similar responses from the rest of those present are echoed. Only Ilya doesn’t say anything, too busy glaring at Kent.
But then Kent opens his mouth. “Tell me something, Shane—if that’s even your real name. Are you just acting dumb, or does having a baby actually make you this stupid?”
The entire table goes silent. In the moments it takes Shane to even begin deciphering what Kent said, Marlow pushes Kent off of him, and everyone but Shane is now standing. There’s shouting, more pushing. More and more people are starting to look their way; a couple of Montreal players and several members of other teams are now approaching their table.
The only person who had yet to move was Ilya.
A baby, Kent said.
…
Wait what?
Shane pushes his chair back as he gets to his feet. Ilya stares at him, his face pale. You’re pregnant?!
Shane glares back. Of course not!
Ilya’s eyebrows raise. Then why did Kent say you were?!
To that, Shane truly has no answer. Ilya then steps closer, just enough where his next words would only be heard between the two of them, and where it didn’t look suspicious. “It is mine, right?”
Shane was going to kill him.
Ignoring his idiot of a boyfriend, Shane turns back around to see Hayden on the brink of throttling Kent a few feet away.
“Oh, please. The whole damn league knows at this point!”
“You still don't have any right to say shit you mother—”
“Okay, wait! What the fuck did you mean by that, Kent?” Shane snaps after rushing over and weaving himself between his best friend and Toronto’s centre. As much as he didn’t like Kent, there were definitely some cameras around, and Hayden could get an assault charge if he fought out in public like this.
“Everybody fucking knows already, Hollander. The sky’s blue, you’re a damn girl underneath the padding, and you’re knocked up.”
Shane is left lost for words. He’s been accused of being a cheater, of doping, but he doesn’t think he ever accused of being a different gender. And also apparently being pregnant.
“...What—“
“Hollander’s not a fucking chick!” Comeau interrupts, and Shane feels a semblance of relief. At least someone is sensible amongst them. “He’s intersex!”
“What,” Shane says again, this time mostly to himself.
“Right! Where the hell did you get the idea that Hollander was trans—not that there’s anything wrong with that, of course.” Someone else pipes in. Turning his head, he sees that it was Eric Bennett.
Shane makes a face. Did everybody know about this?
Kent squints. “The fuck is intersex? Hollander’s fucking pregnant, so she’s got a goddamn—”
“Intersex means having both, you dumbass. Also, Hollander’s a man—trans or not, dipshit.”
“Wait, what? I also thought Hollander was trans.” The few murmurs of agreement that follow that comment send Shane down another spiral.
“Does intersex even work like that?”
“Didn’t he get surgery? Because in the locker rooms I swear I’ve seen his—”
“No, no no. Guys, I searched up on this. It’s called a T for T relationship.” Gagnon starts.
“Man, what the fuck are you on?” Drapeau shouts out.
“No, seriously! Think about it, the only woman he ever talks to?”
“...Holy shit. Lily!” Wilson gasps.
“Wait, who’s Lily?” A player from Chicago asks.
All of a sudden, the Montreal players start loudly discussing Shane’s infamous Lily. How Shane only keeps in contact with specifically one girl, how he blushes and giggles while texting her, and so many other things that Shane is too embarrassed to listen to.
Unbeknownst to Shane’s team, the same person they’re talking about stands right beside him. He looks up to see Ilya looking more smug than usual, which is a feat considering who Ilya was.
But more importantly, “Okay, stop!”
A multitude of heads turn to him. Just how many people knew about this?
“Why the fuck do you all think I’m pregnant?” Shane finally asks in a voice on the edge of cracking. He was just going to ignore the previous discussion because he refused to reopen it.
“I mean… when two people love each other very much—” Connors starts.
Marlow smacks him on the back of his head, “Shut up, you idiot. We all know the dad…or partner isn’t in the picture.”
Comeau makes an offended noise, “How dare you talk on our Lily like that!” Several shouts from the Metros ring out, all defending Lily. In the corner of Shane’s eye, he sees Ilya dazedly mouth the words “our Lily” repeatedly.
He didn’t think his team liked Lily so much.
“Capitaine was texting Lily during our last game, thank you very much!” JJ says, “He was in love as always! Red-face and all!”
“Oh my god.” Shane wheezes out, hiding his face in his hands.
“Just means Hollander has yet to move on! Everyone knows the father is out of the picture and deadbeat.” Varkov growls out.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Deadbeat? I thought they really died!”
Hayes nods to Barrett’s words, “Yeah. Don’t really care about who the father is, but I swear somebody told me Hollander was a widow.”
“You’re all idiots. It’s so obvious that it’s Rose Landry.”
“Yes! Yes, thank you! She clearly knocked Hollander up, and that’s why they had to break up out of nowhere, man!”
“Wait a minute. So Rose Landry is trans?”
“I am still right for the T for T thing!”
“No, didn’t we say this earlier? Intersex people exist, dude.”
“I’m going to be completely honest, I thought the father was Pike this entire time,” Dykstra says while staring at said man. Hayden blushes immediately, and suddenly, Ilya doesn’t find this whole ordeal funny anymore.
“What! I got a wife, man! And also my own kids!”
“Aha! So you are a deadbeat! And cheater, Pike, you are horrible man.”
Hayden splutters, “I don’t—I never even—I love Jackie!”
Varkov rolls his eyes, “Yeah, okay, sure. That is why you bed Hollander.”
“Seriously—”
“You know, I actually heard some rumors about some players being the father, but I never found out who.” Boodram blurts out.
“Who else did you hear about?” A voice that sounds suspiciously like a blonde Russian shouts out.
Bood shrugs, not checking who asked the question, instead looking at the assortment of players around. “Uh, I think, Pike obviously—”
The strangled whimper from Hayden is ignored.
“Hunter was mentioned—”
“Wait, seriously?” Hunter’s face had a slight pink flush to it as he snapped to attention at his name.
“Yeah, man. You two have always been friendly, aside from like that one fight. Plus, that last game you played against Montreal?” He whistles lowly, and several heads start to nod.
Hunter winces, “I was just trying to be helpful!”
“Oh, so helpful now means trying to pick Hollander up?”
“I gave him a hand when he tripped—and I only did it once! Where did you get the picking up part from?”
Carmichael scoffed, “Hollander is too good for both of them. You shout out names like Pike and Hunter, but you have to think about Hollander at least having standards.”
He continues, ignoring the glares from both men mentioned, “But it does not matter who is the deadbeat father. Instead, we should focus on who stepped up!” He points at a single man throughout the crowd.
Everyone follows the direction of Carmichael’s finger, where Ilya Rozanov stands dumbfounded. Shane grows an even deeper shade of red.
“Me?” Ilya looks around incredulously.
Carmichael nods resolutely, an odd sparkle to his eyes. “I know the type of image you’re trying to put out to the fans—to everyone! But seriously, man, I am proud to have you as my captain and close friend.” Several of Ilya’s teammates nod at that; the same weird gleam has multiplied.
Ilya opens his mouth, closes it, then opens it again. He’s never been at a loss for words more than this very moment. That’s a lie; he’s had Shane Hollander, flushed and freckled, underneath him before. But Ilya’s point still stands.
Shit. Now he was thinking about Shane underneath him.
Seeing Ilya not saying anything useful on the matter, Shane manages to find his voice again. “I didn’t mean who you all think… impregnated me,” he takes a deep breath, “I meant, where did you guys even get this idea?!”
A clamor of different answers rushes through.
“Oh, easy. Heard it from Evans from Chicago.”
“I mean, the entire team group chat was talking about it, man.”
“Chetsky was the one who told me!”
“I heard from the Admirals!”
“Okay, well, I heard it from Bennett, who was told by Detroit.”
“I was sent a DM by Silva!”
“Dude, Silva isn’t even on social media?”
“Not for you, he isn’t.”
“Do not worry about my social media. I hear from Kowalski in groupchat.”
Similar answers follow, enough for Shane to seriously worry about the topics brought up in other team group chats. Don’t half of the guys in the room have an actual family to worry about? Why were they all so worried about Shane?
Eventually, it leads back down to Shane’s own teammates, who promptly all point fingers down a line that ends at Hayden. His best friend, at the very least, looks apologetic. Shane still viciously glares at him.
“I mean, it just made sense! Why you didn’t wanna get set up, what you told me at the aquarium—”
“That was a joke!”
“—then with what Simon told me, it just came…you know, together!”
Ilya blinks, then turns his head to look where his teammates stand. “Simon? As in Victor St. Simon?”
St. Simon, quick to avoid his captain’s potential ire, points at Connors, who jabs his elbow into Carmichael, who promptly hides behind Marlow.
The assistant captain stands tall, although Ilya can see the sweat already forming along his hairline. “I know you wanted to keep it on the down-low, brother, but if the league didn’t know, then how were we supposed to keep Hollander safe? The kid safe?”
Shane splutters for what feels like the 10th time this night. “Okay, let’s get this straight—there is no kid. I was born a biological male. I am not pregnant, nor can I ever be!”
Marlow’s brows furrow. “Then why did Roz say you were?”
Shane’s head whips around so fast there is an audible crack. Ilya feels his stomach drop out of his ass. If the wife was not happy, then the life would not be as well, or whatever the Americans like to say. The life especially would not be happy if Ilya’s “wife” was actually going to murder him in a dark alleyway tonight.
“I have never said such stupid things, Marly.” Ilya turns to Shane, resisting the urge to appease his boyfriend with fluttering kisses. “Hollander, I do not know where they are getting this stupid idea.”
Marlow shakes his head, apparently oblivious to Shane’s growing wrath and Ilya’s impending death. “I remember it clearly, it was at the last All-Stars game! I saw you outside of his room!”
Shane’s face visibly whitens at that, and Ilya is suddenly remembering everything that happened that night. The exchange of teasing texts, a whisper of a room number, a single knock on Shane’s door. All of which were started by Shane and not Ilya specifically.
The same thought must appear in his beloved’s mind, because Shane’s initial anger fades into a desperate look.
Shane widens his eyes a fraction. You need to say something!
You were the reason why I was even in your room that night!
Shane doesn’t telepathically say anything back, but his blush does deepen. Although he glances away, Ilya can spot the smidge of fear Shane is trying not to outwardly project. Ilya needs to say something, but he can’t without incriminating both of them immediately. He wasn’t ready, and he knew Shane wasn’t ready. He also knew the world definitely wasn’t ready for them either.
So.
“...Is true. I am father who steps.” Ilya finally says, voice stiff.
The room then explodes into a commotion louder than any game. Beside him, Shane buries his head into his hands once more. Ilya decides this is the moment to slip out and guides Shane to leave with him.
He is now a father afterall, this is only the least he can do for Shane.