Chapter Text
The day had started out perfectly.
She had just moved into a new place—a newly built building tucked into a quiet side street, with a tiny bakery supply store on the ground floor and only two apartments floors stacked above it. The neighborhood was calm, private, and tucked far enough away from the main roads that traffic noise never quite reached it. It felt safe. Hidden. Almost too good.
If she hadn’t done extensive research beforehand, she might have thought the building was perfect for murder.
A supply store downstairs — a convenient place to pick up tools and equipment without raising suspicion. Multiple residential units — but only hers currently rented out. The rest sat empty, their windows dark, like blank, watchful eyes. Remote location. Minimal foot traffic. The kind of place crime documentaries loved.
Normally, she would’ve been wary. Suspicious. Careful.
But she’d been desperate.
The real estate agent who found the place had been trustworthy, reliable, and patient with her long list of demands. And she had been in a tight spot, running out of time and options. So when she saw the listing — cheap, quiet, secluded — she had signed the lease almost immediately.
Maybe too quickly.
It had been two months since she moved in, and so far, everything had been… good. Surprisingly so.
Her landlord, whom she had only ever communicated with online, was bland in the most comforting way. Direct. Efficient. Dry. Their conversations were short and strictly professional. No nosy questions. No unnecessary small talk. The only personal detail she knew was that they occasionally used the top floor.
She didn’t care.
As long as they stayed out of her way, she was content.
The grocery store was only five minutes from her apartment, a small, cramped place with flickering fluorescent lights and narrow aisles. Normally, she didn’t mind it.
Today, the lighting hurt.
The overhead bulbs buzzed faintly, casting a harsh, sterile glow that made everything look too sharp, too vivid. Her eyes burned. When she glanced down, she could clearly see the blue-green veins branching beneath her skin, stark against the pallor of her arms.
She frowned.
Last time she’d come for milk, the lights hadn’t been this bright.
Hopefully, the owner would switch them back.
The dairy aisle, at least, was still dimmer — shadowed by an aging fixture that flickered instead of glaring. It was there she lingered, standing frozen in front of the egg display, debating something that didn’t really matter.
Grade A or Grade B?
She squinted at the cartons, trying to remember if there was an actual difference.
Was it size? Shell thickness? Nutritional value?
Honestly, she had no idea.
She lifted one carton, then set it back down, then picked up the other, stuck in a pointless loop.
And that was when she saw him.
He stood at the end of the aisle, half-hidden behind a shelf as if he thought it could conceal his broad frame. One foot angled toward her. His head tilted just enough to peer around the corner.
Watching.
Her breath hitched.
Her heartbeat spiked so violently she could feel it in her throat. The hand holding the egg carton began to tremble, fingers tightening until the cardboard creaked.
No.
Slowly, carefully, she set it back into place, terrified she might drop it.
Her lungs felt too tight, too shallow.
She closed her eyes.
What did her therapist say?
Breathe in.
One… two… three… four…
Hold.
One… two… three… four… five… six… seven…
Out.
One… two… three… four… five… six… seven… eight…
Her pulse still raced, but the roaring in her ears dulled slightly.
Okay.
She could do this.
She picked up her basket, forcing her steps to remain steady as she walked toward the register. Every nerve screamed at her to run, but she resisted, refusing to draw attention. Thankfully, there was no line.
She paid quickly, fingers clumsy as she fumbled with her wallet.
Once outside, she pulled out her phone, searching frantically for nearby crowded places.
A café.
A mall.
Anything.
There was a Tim Hortons thirty minutes away.
Thirty minutes.
Her chest tightened. The thought alone made her eyes sting.
She couldn’t walk that far.
Not like this.
Not while every step felt like walking through deep water, her body heavy and slow, her thoughts spiraling.
She swallowed hard, blinking back tears.
No. Not here. Not now.
She didn’t look behind her. She didn’t need to. The awareness of his presence clung to her skin, prickling along her spine.
She couldn’t lead him home.
That much, she knew.
Her steps quickened.
She would head toward the café, then cut down a side street and grab a cab back.
That was the plan.
At least, it was — until she walked straight into a wall of muscle.
The impact knocked the air from her lungs, and she stumbled backward, arms flailing.
A hand shot out, gripping her forearm, steadying her before she could fall.
She looked up.
Oh.
Oh no.
He was beautiful.
Not just handsome — beautiful in a way that made her chest ache. Soft looking black hairs framed his forehead, his eyes wide and expressive, lashes thick enough to cast shadows against his cheeks. His lips parted slightly, breath catching as if he were just as startled as she was.
He looked like something gentle.
Like a stray black cat that wandered into your life and never quite left.
Her heart did something traitorous.
Before she could gather herself, a voice rang out behind her.
“Sorry — my wife is a clutz.”
Her blood went cold.
She felt the presence of him too close behind her, felt the reach of his disgustingly sweaty hands, and something inside her snapped.
She bolted, darting behind the stranger, fingers clutching into the fabric of his jacket.
“Fuck you!” she screamed. “You fucking stalker! I don’t fucking know you!”
The man in front of her stiffened — then shifted, subtly but firmly, placing himself between them, shielding her. He straightened, shoulders squaring, broad frame blocking her view entirely.
Somehow, impossibly, he seemed to grow larger.
“Fuck off.”
Two words.
Flat. Cold.
The stalker muttered something under his breath before retreating, disappearing into the crowd.
Her protector didn’t move until the man was completely gone.
Only then did he turn.
“Are you okay?”
His voice was gentle.
She nodded, though her hands still shook. “Yeah. I—yeah. Just… startled.” A weak laugh escaped her. “Sorry you had to deal with that.”
“It’s fine.” He hesitated. “Do you have somewhere safe to go?”
“I have an apartment. Not far.”
“Do you want me to walk you?”
She blinked.
He immediately panicked.
“Oh—god—I didn’t mean it like that. I just—here.” He fumbled for his wallet, thrusting out his ID. “You can take a photo. Send it to someone. I’m not— I swear— I uh —- you can google me—”
His ears turned bright red.
She laughed.
“Relax,” she said softly. “You can walk me home.”
His shoulders sagged in visible relief.
“I’m Lily-Jane,” as soon as she introduced herself, there was something in his eyes that seemed panicked and then maybe it was fondness and maybe humor?
“I’m Shane Hollander” He gestured forward, encouraging her to walk.
Their conversation flowed easily as they began the walk back toward her apartment, the tension gradually loosening with every step.
“So… you really don’t know me?” he asked again, glancing sideways at her.
She snorted. “Should I?”
“I’m Shane Hollander.”
She slowed just a little, brows knitting together as she searched her memory. “Nope. Doesn’t ring a bell. But I’m definitely Googling you as soon as we part ways.”
A soft, nervous laugh slipped out of him. “Yeah, um—promise not to dig too deep?”
That only made her grin.
“Oh, now I absolutely have to.”
They set off together, the five-minute walk stretching pleasantly as she immediately launched into interrogation mode.
“Okay, mysterious famous man. Twenty questions.”
He made a helpless noise. “Oh no.”
“Are you a model?”
“Sometimes.”
Her eyes widened. “Oh?”
“But not my main thing.”
“Actor?”
“No.”
“Singer?”
He shook his head, curls bouncing. “God, no.”
“Writer?”
“No.”
“YouTuber?”
“No.”
“Influencer?”
He grimaced. “I hope I am?”
She laughed. “That sounds deeply uncertain.”
He shrugged, smiling sheepishly. “That’s accurate.”
“Okay, last guess — athlete?”
“Yes.”
She practically cheered. “Finally! I was getting worried you were just mysteriously unemployed and weirdly famous.”
He laughed, a full sound this time, shoulders relaxing.
“Okay, okay. What sport?”
“Soccer?”
“No.”
“Basketball?”
“Nope.”
“Tennis?”
“No.”
“Volleyball?”
“No.”
“Baseball?”
“Still no.”
She groaned dramatically. “You are impossible.”
He just smiled, lips pressed together in a way that suggested he was enjoying this far too much.
They were still bickering when her building came into view — the narrow structure tucked neatly between two larger storefronts, its windows dark and quiet.
She stopped near the entrance and gestured upward. “Well, this is me.”
He blinked. “You live here?”
“Yeah. Why?” She squinted at the building, suddenly suspicious. “Is there some tragic history I don’t know about? Serial killer? Cult headquarters? Haunted basement? Oh my god, I knew this place was too good to be true.”
“Oh—no, no, nothing like that,” he said quickly. “It’s just that—”
He was cut off by a small, energetic voice.
“Oh! Mr. Hollander!”
They both turned.
A tiny Japanese grandmother stood in the doorway of the bakery supply shop, flour dusting her apron, worry etched into her soft face.
“Did Jack forget to pay rent again?” she asked anxiously, a thick accent wrapping around each word. “I keep reminding him, but he always says tomorrow, tomorrow.”
Shane immediately waved his hands. “No, no, no, obāsan. I’m not here to collect rent. I told you — I don’t mind if you’re a little late.”
Lily slowly turned her head toward him.
Her eyes widened.
He froze.
Silence stretched between them.
“…”
“YOU’RE MY LANDLORD?”
His ears went scarlet.
“Um,” he said weakly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Surprised?”
She stared at him.
God.
He really was awkward.
_________________________________________________________________________
That had been three months ago.
Somehow, in that short span of time, her life had rearranged itself around one very awkward, very famous landlord.
She kept in contact with him, at first out of simple politeness — rent confirmations, maintenance updates, the occasional awkward text exchange. But somewhere along the way, she found out that Shane Hollander wasn’t just kind of famous.
He was screaming-fans, sold-out arenas, jerseys-with-his-name-on-them famous.
A hockey superstar.
The revelation hit her like a truck.
Which, unfortunately for her free time, led directly to a hyperfixation on hockey.
It started innocently enough — a quick search. A highlight reel. One interview. A single game playing in the background while she worked.
Then suddenly she knew player stats.
Team rivalries.
Historic grudges.
Playoff heartbreaks.
And, inevitably, she developed a small crush on a few players.
What?
Some of them were objectively attractive as hell. Especially when they got rough and feral on the ice — bloodied lips, wild eyes, adrenaline pumping. And then there were the goalies, all padded up and intense and strangely precious, like oversized, hyper-focused crabs guarding their territory.
It was a problem.
Now, hockey games played almost constantly in the background whenever she crocheted orders. The familiar sounds of skates carving ice and the dull crack of pucks against boards became comforting noise, something steady and familiar that kept her grounded.
Somewhere along the way, she and Shane became… friends.
Real ones.
The kind where conversations drifted from rent logistics into late-night texts about bad movies, weird food with weird textures, and his deeply unhinged obsession with perfectly aligned bookshelves.
She even went to a few of his home games.
Without telling him.
Man, were the tickets hard to get.
She had spent an entire evening refreshing resale pages, negotiating with strangers, and very nearly selling a kidney on the black market just to secure decent seats. When she finally made it into the arena, surrounded by screaming fans and blaring music, the energy hit her all at once — loud, electric, intoxicating.
And when he skated onto the ice?
Yeah.
She got it.
She took photos during warmups and face-offs, slipping into her old habits. Years of freelance photography had trained her eye, and she managed to capture a perfect shot of him mid-faceoff — jaw clenched, focus razor-sharp, hairs damp with sweat, freckles popping out.
She sent it to him afterward, along with a dramatic recounting of her ticket-buying trauma.
His response came almost immediately.
You went to my game? Without telling me?
Followed shortly by:
You could have told me.
I would have given you a ticket.
Better seats. Closer to the glass.
She had laughed so hard she nearly dropped her phone.
One of her favorite discoveries, though, was the way Shane texted.
Like a seventy-year-old professor.
Perfect grammar. Full sentences. Zero abbreviations.
He typed out for your information instead of fyi.
Do not worry about it instead of dw.
It was unbearably cute.
She repaid his old-man texting with a bombardment of memes and emojis.
She decided, somewhere between his third painfully formal apology and his overly polite thank-you texts, that she had officially adopted him.
Her boba-eyed, awkward, hockey-superstar friend.
Which, unfortunately, led her to realize something else.
Shane was in love.
With his rival.
And deeply, profoundly, catastrophically in denial about it.
It took time — lingering glances caught when a Boston game was playing, the tension in his voice whenever that team, or Ilya Rozanov, was mentioned, the way his mood shifted after certain games. His eyes would track the man without blinking as he chewed on the nearest available item — often time it was his hoodie string. Then came the careful, gentle questions.
Has he ever thought about dating?
Would he want to be introduced to someone?
His answers were vague. Dodging. Deflecting. Carefully neutral.
Especially when she asked him if he wanted to be introduced to a girl? Or guy?
His panicked wide boba eyes are telling when she suggests a guy, when he had easily deflected the girl one quickly.
Oh
Ohhhh
He hadn’t even come out to himself yet.
Oh, her precious, closeted, emotionally constipated gay baby.
From her deep dive into hockey culture, she already knew the environment wasn’t exactly welcoming to anything outside rigid masculinity. The pressure, the expectations, the locker-room silence — it all formed a heavy, invisible cage.
So she made a decision.
She would protect his secret with her life.
If Boston played Montreal, she’d suddenly develop urgent errands.
If they had back-to-back games, she’d conveniently be unavailable. So her now best friend can fuck his “enemy” as loud as he want without worrying if his downstair best friend would hear him.
If he needed space, she’d give it.
No questions. No pressure.
No big deal.
Even if her now-closeted-gay best friend didn’t tell her about his very obvious, very intense, very secret relationship with his extremely hot Russian rival.
It was another Montreal versus Toronto home game, and Lily had — once again — miraculously managed to score a ticket.
Without telling Shane.
Again.
She arrived early, lugging her heavy camera bag over one shoulder, two massive lenses clanking softly inside. One of them was so absurdly large it practically swallowed half her face when mounted. She was bundled in warm layers, scarf pulled up to her chin, gloves shoved into her pockets, noise cancelling headphone hanging on her neck.
The moment she stepped into the arena, she felt it.
Eyes.
Whispers.
Then —
“Lily!”
She turned.
A group of girls waved from a few rows down, some already holding their phones out, grinning like they’d just spotted a celebrity.
Right.
That.
Somehow, without meaning to, she had become mildly famous in the Shane Hollander fandom.
Not to brag — but after she’d started posting her photographs on her account and started posting her shots of Shane, things kind of… exploded. Her photos were crisp, dynamic, alive — better than half the media shots taken right up against the glass. Even Yuna Hollander herself had started using Lily’s pictures for Shane’s official social media posts.
Which was surreal, frankly.
A couple of girls hurried up the steps to greet her, excitement buzzing in their voices.
“Are you getting warmup shots today?”
“Please tell me you’ll get Shane stretching.”
“Oh my god, the hip stretches.”
She groaned. “You people are feral.”
They laughed.
More fans trickled over — not just Shane fans, but supporters of other players too. Requests came rapid-fire.
“Can you get Pike today?”
“JJ too, please!”
“Barrett, if you can!”
She agreed automatically, snapping quick test shots as she went, though the growing crowd tightened her chest. Social interaction always did this — the noise, the attention, the constant engagement making her nerves hum uncomfortably beneath her skin.
After enough small talk and excited squealing, she retreated to her seat farther back, breathing a quiet sigh of relief as she began assembling her gear, putting her headphones on.
Camera.
Lens.
Settings.
Focus.
Once everything was ready, she hesitated.
Should she tell him?
The last few times she’d shown up unannounced, Shane had nagged her relentlessly afterward — long messages full of disbelief,dramatic accusations of not using her best friend's benefits, and wasting money on a ticket so far away from the action.
Her ears still rang with echoes of You could have gotten a better seat and Why didn’t you tell me?
She rolled her eyes affectionately and lifted her phone.
She snapped a quick photo of the ice and sent it.
BOBA EYE LANDLORD🥹🧋🥹🏒
Guess where I am.
Three dots appeared almost instantly.
You’re here?
Why didn’t you tell me
What seat are you in?
What seat are you in?You could have told me you were coming.
She grinned and typed back.
I did.
This is me telling you. 😝🤫
The dots blinked on.
Then off.
Then on again.
Before he could finish forming a response, the arena lights dimmed slightly — warmups were starting.
One by one, players skated onto the ice.
When Shane stepped out, his gaze immediately began scanning the stands, searching.
The second he spotted her, his entire face lit up.
He skated toward her section and waved like an overexcited kid spotting their parents at a school recital.
She waved back, laughing.
God, he was ridiculous.
Throughout warmups, she caught incredible shots — Shane in motion, sweat-damp hairs sticking to his forehead, muscles flexing as he pushed off the ice. She got the shot: him on all fours, deep in a hip stretch that looked undeniably like he was humping the rink.
She snorted.
Perfect.
A wonderful meeting gift for his secret not-boyfriend whom he absolutely had not introduced to her yet.
Every few minutes, Shane glanced up at her or skated to her section, smiling, saluting, waving, once even bumping on the glass in her direction like an idiot.
She stood and twirled her finger in the air, silently requesting a spin.
He blinked.
She exaggerated the motion.
He laughed — then spun, smooth and effortless, gliding across the ice in a perfect circle.
Click.
Click.
Click.
Beautiful.
She captured shots of other players too — Hayden Pike, JJ, Toronto’s devastatingly hot left wing Troy Barrett (her gaydar screamed closeted, honestly), and her absolute favorite: Montreal’s goalie, Drapeau, zoning out completely while making tiny, absent head movements like there was absolutely nothing happening behind his eyes.
Goalies were weird.
And weirdly precious too.
The game itself was incredible.
Fast.
Brutal.
Electric.
She caught one of her best shots yet — Shane’s face smushed hilariously against the glass after being checked, cheeks flattened, eyes wide, mouth slightly opened.
She almost dropped her camera laughing.
That photo was absolutely becoming a meme in their chat.
Montreal won, of course.
4–1.
Hat trick from her best friend.
She regretted not bringing a hat to toss onto the ice — next time.
As she packed up, a soft throat-clearing sound behind her made her turn.
She froze.
Oh.
Oh no.
Yuna Hollander stood there, elegant and composed, eyes warm and assessing.
God, she was gorgeous.
Truly, devastatingly attractive.
So this was where Shane got it.
“Mommy—”
The word escaped her mouth before her brain could intervene.
Instant regret.
“Sorry?” Yuna blinked, surprised — and amused.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” Lily panicked, words tumbling out in a frantic mess. “I didn’t mean to say that out loud, my brain just— I mean— you’re very beautiful and— I’m going to stop talking now—”
Yuna laughed gently, saving her.
“Hello. I’m Yuna Hollander — Shane’s manager and mother.”
“Oh! I know, ma’am. Lily-Jane. It’s lovely to meet you.” Her spine snapped straight.
“Hello, Lily-Jane—”
“Lily,” she blurted, then winced. “Sorry.”
Yuna smiled. “Lily. I wanted to speak to you about your photos. I hear you sell some of them to other teams’ management. But I’ve never received an invoice.”
“Oh! Don’t worry about it, ma’am.”
“Yuna.”
“Yuna,” she corrected quickly. “I just… like taking pictures of your son— god, that came out wrong.”
Yuna’s smile only softened.
“Lily,” she said gently but firmly, “I would like to pay you for your work. Next time you send me Shane’s photos, please attach an invoice. All right, honey?”
There was no room for argument.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Good. See you around, Lily.”
“Bye!” Lily chirped.
Yuna walked away three steps, stopped, and rushed back. “Oh! And if you’re coming to the next game, email me — I’ll get you better seats. I’d love to see what you can capture from prime viewing.”
“Yes, ma’am!”
The second Yuna disappeared, Lily whipped out her phone.
BOBA EYE LANDLORD🥹🧋🥹🏒
ur mother is terrifyingly beautiful.
I think she evaluated my soul in .3 seconds.
I think I passed.
Want to be my step son?
You met my mother?!!
_________________________________________________________________________
Shane hadn’t meant to rent out the second-floor unit of his condo.
The idea had struck him in a moment of questionable clarity — or maybe recklessness — somewhere between exhaustion and emotional avoidance. He’d texted his real estate agent, told them to post an ad, and then immediately regretted it the next morning.
Too late.
Someone had already signed the contract.
It took him two months to finally work up the nerve to confront his tenant. To maybe ask her — gently, politely — if she would consider moving out.
Of course, he would give her time.
Of course, he would return her full deposit.
And more.
Whatever fees she’d paid, whatever inconvenience he caused — he’d cover it. Without hesitation.
It wasn’t that she was a bad tenant.
Quite the opposite, actually.
It was just that he preferred the building to be empty.
For… reasons.
The less people around, the easier it was. The quieter. The safer. The fewer chances for complications. Especially since there is a match against Boston next week…
From their limited text exchanges, she seemed kind. Polite. Dryly funny. Not demanding. Not invasive. The type of tenant most landlords prayed for. And according to Yamada obāsan from the bakery supply store downstairs, she was quiet, respectful, and tidy.
He’d heard enough horror stories — trashed apartments, smoke damage, unpaid rent, neighbors calling in noise complaints at three in the morning.
Ms. Lily-Jane Smith did none of that.
Which somehow made this harder.
He stood outside her door, fist raised, then hesitated.
He was empty-handed.
That felt rude.
Ruder still, considering he was about to ask her to uproot herself.
With a soft sigh, he lowered his arm and turned back down the stairs, heading toward the small gift shop next to the grocery mart five minutes away. A basket. Chocolates. Fruit.
He had just reached the entrance when someone barreled straight into him.
A woman with straight black hair, bundled in thick winter clothes, collided with his chest and staggered backward.
Instinct kicked in.
His hand shot out, gripping her forearm to steady her before she could fall.
She looked up.
For a split second, she reminded him of his cousin Emiko — the same wide eyes, the same startled stillness. He hadn’t seen her in years, not since those distant New Year gatherings when he was still young enough to hide behind his mother’s legs.
Before he could apologize, a voice rang out behind them.
“Sorry — my wife is a clutz.”
The woman froze.
Not stilled.
Frozen.
Her entire body locked as if something inside her had short-circuited. Her pupils trembled. Her breathing stuttered. It was like watching fear ripple outward from her chest, vibrating through her limbs.
Then, in a flash of motion, she darted behind him.
Her fingers clutched desperately at the fabric of his jacket. He could feel her trembling.
“Fuck you!” she screamed, voice cracking. “You fucking stalker! I don’t fucking know you!”
Shane moved without thinking.
He stepped forward, shielding her with his body, shoulders squaring as he planted himself firmly between them.
The man standing there was… grotesque.
Sweat soaked through his stained clothes. Wispy strands of greasy hair clung to his scalp, revealing multiple bald spots beneath his thinning hair. His fingers were grimy, nails dark with something Shane didn’t want to identify. The smell hit him a second later — stale, sour, unwashed.
Disgust crawled up his spine.
“Fuck off.”
His voice came out flat. Cold. Final. He gave the beast his face off glare as he stared him down.
The man muttered something under his breath before slinking away.
Only when the street swallowed him completely did Shane relax.
That was how he met Lily-Jane Smith.
His tenant.
His accidental friend.
His unexpected safe place.
It was deeply embarrassing when she hadn’t recognized his name.
He still cringed a little thinking about it.
But slowly, steadily, she carved out a space in his life.
Lily-Jane — he found quiet amusement in that name. What were the odds? — became someone he texted when his head felt too loud. Someone who filled silence without demanding anything. Someone whose presence didn’t exhaust him.
She somehow became his best friend.
Maybe even more than Hayden — though he would never, ever admit that out loud to him.
With her, he didn’t have to perform.
Didn’t have to be anything.
It felt like she saw parts of him he barely recognized himself.
And she accepted them without question.
Yeah.
Somehow, in the chaos of his life, he’d gained something impossibly precious.
The best friend he never knew he needed.
_________________________________________________________________________
Today was just another typical day in the life of an NHL player.
Another game.
Another win to chase.
Shane sat in his cubby, elbows on his knees, eyes unfocused as he mentally ran through faceoff patterns and defensive rotations. Visualization. Breathing. Control.
His phone vibrated.
He didn’t need to look to know who it was.
Lils 💙
A photo popped up.
The fucking arena.
Guess where I am.
A slow, helpless smile spread across his face before he could stop it.
He typed back immediately.
You’re here?
Why didn’t you tell me
What seat are you in?You could have told me you were coming.
Three dots.
I did.
This is me telling you. 😝🤫
He almost laughed.
This was progress. The last few times she’d come, she hadn’t said anything at all—just sent him an entire album of high-resolution photos after the game. Professional-level shots. Crisp, dramatic lighting. Sweat flying mid-skate.
He’d told her to email the best ones to his mom.
His favorite ones?
The Rozanov shots.
Especially the ones where Rozanov had him pinned against the boards.
The ones where Rozanov grinned at him — feral, blood-hot, competitive— mid face off.
The ones where he roared after scoring, stick raised, veins standing out in his neck.
He found them hot.
He found him hot.
He had nearly set one as his wallpaper before realizing that he could not do it or else he might need to give explanations he was not prepared to give.
He was so lost in thought he didn’t notice JJ leaning over his shoulder.
A heavy hand clapped him.
“CAPITAINE GOT A GIRL COMING TO THE SHOW, BOYS!”
The locker room went dead silent.
Then—
Chaos. Cheers and roars fills the room.
“No way.”
“About time!”
“Introduce us!”
“Is she cute?”
“Is she single— wait— not single— you know what I mean!”
“Saint Hollander’s girl is here?!”
Shane nearly dropped his phone.
“No. No. It’s not like that. She’s just a friend.”
Grins.
Smirks.
Absolutely zero belief.
“Sure,” someone said. “Just a friend.”
He opened his mouth to deny it again—
“Warm-up,” Coach barked from the doorway.
Saved.
Again.
The moment he stepped onto the ice, he scanned the stands.
First row — his parents. His mom was waving enthusiastically.
But Lily—
There.
High up.
Back of the arena.
He only found her because she looked like a heavily bundled dumpling. Layers upon layers of winter clothing. Her head looked disproportionately small compared to her body.
And the massive noise-canceling headphones.
And the camera.
He waved.
She waved back — nearly tipping over her camera set ups.
“Someone you know, capitaine?” JJ skated by, accent thick, eyebrow raised.
“Yeah. A friend.”
“A friend,” JJ repeated skeptically.
Shane just shook his head and skated to center ice.
During warm-up, he kept glancing up. Half her face was hidden behind that ridiculous lens.
She’d once told him she used to do fandom photography of K-pop idols—one of her many gigs. She’d retired from it after too many gigs.
Apparently hockey had dragged her back in.
He skated by her section and checked the glass with his shoulder.
She made exaggerated gestures.
Spin.
He spun.
Pose.
He rolled his eyes and flexed anyway.
He could feel his team staring. Eyes burning the back of his head.
Hayden especially.
To balance suspicion, Shane started doing it for other sections too. Snowing the glass for kids. Tossing pucks. Trading pucks for snacks.
He’d never done this much “fan service” in his life.
Warm-up ended. Back to the locker room.
Teasing resumed.
“It’s not like that,” he insisted. “Just interacting with fans.”
“Fans,” Hayden echoed slowly.
The coach entered.
Saved. For the second time.
The game?
Fantastic.
Hat trick.
One assist to Hayden.
He was flying.
Back in the locker room, as he pulled off his shoulder pads, Hayden clapped him.
“So,” Hayden drawled, “Mr. Hollander, any particular reason you’re on fire tonight? Something to do with a certain someone in a certain section high up on the east side?” He used his stick as a mic as he shoved it in front of him.
“What? No. I just— conditioning was good. The team played well. Passes connected better—”
“Save that for the press, Shane,” Hayden cut in. “Also give me her number so Jackie can add her to the WAG chat.”
Shane stared at him like he’d suggested arson.
“She’s not— there is no—”
Coach: “HOLLANDER! Press. Now.”
Saved. For the third time.
Press went as usual.
Questions about the game.
His hat trick.
His game play.
He answered smoothly. Professionally.
Inside, he was still thinking about a dumpling-shaped photographer in row Z.
When he returned to the locker room, most of the guys were in the showers.
He peeled off his compression shirt.
His phone buzzed again.
Lils 💙
ur mother is terrifyingly beautiful.
He blinked.
Then another message.
I think she evaluated my soul in .3 seconds.
Another.
I think I passed.
Want to be my step son?
Shane dragged a hand down his face.
Oh.
She had met his mother.
He typed:
You met my mother?!!