Chapter Text
It was a Thursday when the call came.
A typical day for Shane.
Boring even.
Shane had been lying on his couch, working on an assignment for one of his classes, the same thing he did every day, when his phone rang.
Shane glanced at the screen and didn't recognize the number.
Sighing, he took off his glasses, rubbed his eyes a little and picked up the phone. "Hello?"
"Hi there, I'm calling from the Ottawa Centaurs staffing department, is this Shane Hollander?"
Shane froze, jaw slipping open in shock. Why they fuck was the Ottawa Centaurs staffing department calling him?
"Um, yes. That's me."
"Unfortunately an illness has taken out several members of our team and we're in need of some emergency call ups for tonight's game against the Brooklyn Scouts. Are you available to play?"
Shane must have fallen asleep. He was definitely passed out and dreaming.
Either that or he has somehow drugged himself and was hallucinating.
"What?"
There was a small laugh through the phone line. "We're down two forwards, a defenceman and a goalie. Are you available to fill in one of the forward positions?"
"Yes," Shane said, finally able to get his brain to process some of this conversation. "Yes, of course."
"Fantastic," the man on the phone said. "I will be reaching out to you via email with arrival procedures as I believe this is your first time being called up."
It was.
Shane Hollander hadn't played hockey in over two years.
He only vaguely remembered the rest of the brief conversation, the staffer confirming Shane's contact information and promising to promptly send over the information he'd need for tonight's game.
Shane hung up and stared at the wall, mind whirling.
He had forgotten. He had forgotten that he was contracted to the Ottawa Centaurs as an emergency call up.
Well. Maybe forgotten wasn't the right word. Logically he knew he was on the roster. His brain would never truly forget the only real, tangible connection he had left to a career he could no longer have. But… He had never expected it to actually happen.
His hand fell to his knee, his fingers running over the vertical scar, just raised enough that he could feel it through his thin sweats. The scar that was a constant reminder of the knee surgery that changed his life.
Of the assault that had taken hockey away from him.
It was five years ago now. Five years worth of time that ebbed and flowed in very strange ways that Shane couldn't keep up with.
Shane had been leaving the Metros home stadium midway through pre-season training. He had been texting his mom that he had survived the middle round of cuts and that, from what the coaches were saying, it looked like he'd actually make the team this year.
He had heard someone call his name.
Then there was blinding pain and Shane was on the ground.
He didn't remember anything else until almost a week later. He didn't remember the ambulance ride. He didn't remember the surgery to reconstruct his knee. He didn't remember talking to the police about his attack. He didn't remember the pain or the fear or the loneliness he must have felt lying in a hospital room alone.
His memories only started back again from when he was lying in his old bedroom at his parents house.
Sometimes when he had nightmares about the incident he could swear he could remember hearing Hayden screaming his name.
Another rookie who had been cut from the Metro's organization during that round of cuts had decided that Shane was personally responsible for it and had taken a baseball bat to Shane's knee.
Hayden had found him and had called the paramedics.
The guy who did it was arrested and charged. He actually served some jail time because Shane's lawyers had come with with an insanely huge number for the monetary value of his ruined hockey career. He had been forced to pay Shane and astronomical amount of money too. Shane as still living on the restitutions five years later.
He would rather be playing hockey.
He had done all the things right after his surgery. He had followed his physiotherapists advice. Done all the exercises and stretching and resting. The resting had been so hard when all he'd wanted to do was get back in the ice.
The resting was when his mind spiraled and he found himself looking up athletes who had also had knee surgeries and staring at the walls as he tried figure out what kind of hockey career he could still have.
He had been cleared by the Metros staff to begin rehabbing within their minor league system six months after the incident.
He'd made it to the Metros minor league team, the last stop before the majors, before it became very apparent that the replacement parts the surgeons had put in Shane's knee were not as good as a normal knee.
He had been warned of this, the doctors had told him that such a physically demanding sport like hockey would be very difficult to go back to with the amount of damage his knee had sustained and the amount of work that it had needed.
Shane didn't really believe them. He was certain that he would just work hard and he'd be back in the ice in no time.
He didn't understand, and would need the help of regular therapy sessions to understand, that this injury wasn't something he could train his way out of. His knee was structurally compromised and there was nothing medication could do about it. There was no amount of physiotherapy or yoga or stretching that could replace the shattered bone. The metal alloy and plastics discs that now made up his knee just couldn't move the same way. Couldn't endure the same way.
The Metros cut him from the team first round the following training camp. He didn't meet the teams conditioning standards.
They didn't bother to send him down to a lower level for more rehabbing this time; they terminated his contract completely.
Shane had drifted for a year. He'd started anti-depressants. His parents found him a therapist.
He still trained. He still worked out. He still skated.
The next year Shane begged his mom to reach out some teams, any teams, just to see if any of them would give him a chance.
The Ottawa Centaurs had taken a chance on him. They were an awful team so there weren't any real expectations of him in terms of performance, and with his injury Shane's salary wasn't an issue. He would have done it for free.
He still didn't make it past the minor league team. His knee was fine for daily life. His knee was fine for regular workouts and mild skating. But that was probably the worst part. He felt fine most of the time, the vertical scar up the middle of his knee was the only reminder that he'd ever been injured.
But his knee was not fine for taking hits, giving hits or skating up and down a rink for hours several nights a week.
Ottawa had been much nicer about it that the Metros had. They were rooting for the hometown kid who was supposed to have a legendary hockey career. They signed him to their emergency call you roster with an indefinite contract, giving him as much time as needed for his knee to rest and recover. It certainly wasn't common, but Shane's circumstances weren't exactly common either.
That had been two years ago.
They had never called him one.
Until today.
His phone pinged with an email and Shane picked it up, reading the instructions the team had sent over.
He glanced at the clock. He'd have to leave soon if he was going to make it to the arena in time to do all the paperwork and pre-game warm ups and meetings.
He put his phone down and closed his eyes, taking a few deep breaths to try and calm his racing heart.
A nap used to be a part of his pre-game routine, but he knew he'd never be able to fall asleep with the amount of adrenaline running through his system at the moment.
Instead he called his mom.
She immediately went into planning mode, telling Shane a list of all the things he would need to bring. A reminder of knee friendly warm ups that he would need to do before the game, and some cool down ones for after the game. She enlisted his dad to go and get tickets for the game— Ottawa's continued lack of success meant that there would likely still be a variety of seats available for the game, even though puck drop was in a few hours— and then almost immediately took David's phone and did it herself because she didn't trust him to get the rights seats.
Shane smiled. Listening to his mom making plans and lists was familiar and helped soothe his nerves.
They hung up after Yuna wished him luck and gabe him orders to call her if he needed anything.
He told his parents that he loved them and then went to his home gym and did some yoga and stretching to keep his mind settled and his body loose before he had to pack his bag.
Most of his gear would be provided by the team when he got there, but he double checked that he still had everything he was responsible for: shin guards, jock, elbow pads, shoulder pads, mouthguard. His skates. Breathable and quick drying athletic wear for under his gear. Clean comfortable clothes for after the game. His preferred protein bars. A few rolls of his favourite stick tape. Extra pairs of laces. Kinesiology tape and a variety of knee braces.
He double and triple checked that he had everything, and when the insane thought popped into his head that maybe he should call his mom just to hear her lists again, he told himself that he was fine and ready and went to sit on his porch to wait for his Uber.
He kept busy on his phone during the drive to the arena to prevent his mind from wandering. He searched the Centaurs minor league team and found out they were in Dallas, which almost certainly played an important role in why Shane had gotten called up. All their usual call ups were at least four hours away and if the players were dropping from illness there definitely wouldn't be enough time to get them to the arena.
His mom started texting him and he smiled as he humoured her, assuring her that he was doing just fine that that he'd be careful and listen to his body.
It was a lie. Shane would happily have to reconstruct his entire knee all over again to just have one opportunity to go all out in a major league game.
His driver announced their arrival and then Shane was showing his ID to the security guard at the staff entry to the area and he was being waved inside and met by a harassed looking staffer wearing a Centaurs hoodie.
"Shane Hollander, right?"
Shane nodded, shaking his hand. "Happy to be here."
"Are we ever happy to have you. Things have been nuts today."
Shane didn't doubt it.
"I'm going to have you drop off your stuff in the dressing room and then you can meet with the office staff to go over the paperwork and with the equipment pick out your gear for tonight."
Shane nodded his understanding and followed the staffer through the back hallways and into the Centaurs dressing room.
He looked around, hoping he wasn't showing too much emotion in his face. Fuck this was amazing. He'd been in the Metros dressing room for two weeks of pre-season hockey, but hadn't been back in a major league dressing room since.
Team history and memorabilia hung around the space and the player cubbies lined along the walls were already filled with the gear for tonight's game, with a few notable holes where the replacements would be for the night.
The room was currently empty, but he could see a few open bags scattered around and could hear voices coming from another room that he assumed was either the player lounge or the weight room.
"We're putting you over there in Stazack's space. It's the empty locker between Hall and Rozanov."
Shane kept his eyes firmly on his temporary locker and didn't let his face react at all to the name even though Shane felt it like a kick to the chest.
Ilya Rozanov.
The one part of this whole thing that he was very determinedly trying to ignore.
Shane hadn't seen the man in five years. Five years and about four months.
The last time they'd met had been in a Toronto hotel room where Ilya had given him the best orgasm of his life.
"Shane?"
Shane started, realizing his eyes had drifted with his thoughts and he was now just staring at Rozanov's name.
Fuck.
"Sorry," he said, walking towards his assigned station. "Just taking it all in."
"No worries man."
Shane dropped his bag on the floor, gently kicking it under the seat where it wouldn't be in anyone's way.
In Ilya's way, his brain whispered unhelpfully.
He took a moment to marvel at how fate had taken away what was once set up as the most legendary hockey rivalry in the MLH— Shane in Montreal and Rozanov in Boston. They were supposed to spend their entire careers facing off against each other as division rivals, trading cups and accolades between them.
And yet somehow fate had screwed them both over in ways that resulted in them both playing on the same bottom of the league Ottawa team five years later.
Shane shook off the thoughts and followed the staffer to one of the offices, where a team member met him with a pile of paperwork and a pen before excusing herself to go and assist another temporary call up.
He wasn't sure how long he'd spent in there, meticulously filling out all the forms, but when he exited the office he could hear music being played from the dressing room, so he assumed more players had started to show up.
He didn't go back though, following instructions to head to the equipment room instead where he asked an equipment manager for a 'Hollander 24' jersey and went through the tables covered in Ottawa coloured and branded equipment to pick out his gear for the night as he waited for it to be made up.
Half an hour later he was heading back to the dressing room with socks, pants, a helmet, gloves, a league approved stick and a still-warm jersey with his name heat-pressed onto it.
The room was a lot fuller now than it had been when he'd left and Shane slipped in the door unnoticed by many.
By many, but not by all.
Shane looked up and met the eyes of someone he had once thought he'd never see again.
Ilya Rozanov was watching him.