Chapter Text
He had almost made it to morning skate on time.
Then something ran out in front of his car.
“Oh fuck!”
Shane slammed on his brakes, knuckles white where he gripped the wheel, the seatbelt digging into his chest. Horns blared behind him but they were only secondary to the pounding in his ears. Holy shit. Holy shit.
“Holy shit,” he said, willing his fingers to release just enough as the cacophony of horns died down to just a single impatient one. “Yeah, yeah, I hear you,” he muttered, giving his rear view mirror a glare before he pulled his car over, ignoring the dirty looks the drivers gave as they passed.
He rested his head against the steering wheel, counting as he took four deep breaths. His heart kicked too fast, out of rhythm. He had never been in an accident before, didn’t even speed for fuck’s sake, couldn’t believe that he’d almost lost his record because of—
His spine snapped straight and he looked to the side. There, in the bushes that lined the sidewalk, were two shining eyes, staring at him.
“Shit.”
He could have just kept going. He could go to skate, gear up and run drills and go over strategy again for their game against Toronto tonight. He was captain, it was his duty and responsibility to be there even if it was optional—especially when it was optional.
Shane watched as the eyes watched back. Whatever it was didn’t move.
Fuck.
He was going to be late.
The eyes belonged to something small, black, and fluffy. Shane got out of the car and immediately crouched down, elbows resting on his knees and his sunglasses pushed on top of his head, but even from five feet away, he couldn’t tell exactly what he was looking at.
“Hey, little guy,” he said, holding out a hand in its direction. “Or girl. You okay?”
Still crouched, Shane awkwardly shuffled closer until the… thing sniffed his fingers. The animal didn’t move beyond that, and for the first time since it happened, the thought solidified into something real, one that he couldn’t ignore: he might have hit it.
His stomach dropped.
He was going to be so late.
Shane fired off a text to Theriault and Hayden letting them know he wouldn’t be there, sending them before he could think better of it, and took another deep breath.
“Don’t bite me,” he told it, reaching and scooping the ball of fluff off the ground. It was practically weightless and even smaller than he had originally thought. Shane cradled it to his chest while it squirmed, and then, it looked up at him and made the tiniest, angriest little meow that he had ever heard.
A kitten.
It was so warm and soft, its heart beating rapidly against his palm, and Shane was struck with just how fragile of a creature it was—until it dug its sharp claws into his hand.
“Fucking ow,” he said, trying to simultaneously get the kitten to let go of his hand and keep his own grip firm. “I’m just trying to help you.”
By the time he got back into his car, little pinpricks of blood dotted his skin, but at least the kitten stopped wriggling. Instead, Shane felt tremors move through its little body as he slowly set it down on his lap. “Now what?” he asked it.
The kitten meowed.
Shane pulled out his phone. There were multiple texts from Hayden, starting with are you okay to just a string of question marks. I’m fine, he sent back and snapped a picture. It ran out in front of my car, figuring out what to do now.
He opened Maps and searched for the nearest vet. Happy Tails Animal Clinic was less than a mile away. They would know what to do next, right?
The moment he put his car in drive, however, the kitten started screaming again—loud, high-pitched meows that didn’t stop until Shane finally parked in front of the small gray building decorated with colorful paw prints. “At least we know your lungs work,” he muttered, plucking the kitten’s claws from his track pants before gathering it once more to his chest. Its trembling was worse than before.
A bell jingled overhead when Shane pulled open the second door at the entrance, and a blonde woman’s head popped up from behind the reception desk. “Can I help you?”
“I found this kitten,” Shane said. “I might have hit it with my car. I don’t think I did but it’s pretty small.”
Her eyes went to the kitten, long enough that the corners of his lips turned down in confusion. The seconds ticked by, but the receptionist’s face remained blank.
“Do you have an appointment?” she finally asked.
Shane shook his head. “No. Should I have called first?”
“Have you ever been here before?”
“No. It just happened. You were the closest vet and I thought… I don’t really know what I’m supposed to do, but this seemed like the best option?”
“It is,” she said, setting down a clipboard and pen on the counter in front of him. “You will just need to fill this out and we’ll squeeze you in, okay?”
Shane glanced around the empty lobby, but decided against pointing that out. He simply nodded and lifted the pen, filling out the top of the paperwork with his information, quick and efficient until—
Pet’s Name
“Uh,” he said, clearing his throat. “What if it doesn’t have a name?”
The receptionist smiled at him, the type of smile that Shane was never sure if it was real or fake. “Then you give it one.”
He nodded again but his hand didn’t move. How was he supposed to give a name when he didn’t know anything about it? What if he gave it a boy’s name and it was a girl?
“It doesn’t have to be its forever name,” the receptionist’s voice broke through his thoughts. “Just something for medical records. It can be anything.”
Shane looked up at her, then to the kitten, then to the page. His phone buzzed in his pocket again, probably Theriault this time, reminding him that leadership is an active noun.
Puck, he wrote.
The rest of the page was easier, even if Shane didn’t have a clue how old this kitten was, its sex, or if it had any previous medical treatment or owner or what exactly a microchip had to do with anything. They’d fill in any necessary information as they got it, anyway. They were the animal experts, after all.
“You can have a seat, someone will come get you soon.”
Shane sat on one end of the long wooden bench that lined the side of the lobby beneath a row of windows, the kitten still clutched firmly in his arm. There was a rack of pamphlets to one side, a small messy stack of magazines on an end table next to the bench, and rudimentary artwork of cats and dogs hung in the spaces between the large windows.
He had never been inside a veterinarian clinic before—had never even owned a pet before since between the practices, camps, and road trips there had never been time for a dog when he was a kid, and even less now that he was in his tenth year with the Voyageurs—but it seemed waiting areas were universally kind of tacky and bare.
Shane reached over and straightened the magazines without thinking, aligning the edges as best he could with one hand.
The kitten still trembled, its eyes wide, but it hadn’t so much as made a peep since they’d arrived and Shane began to worry. “Hey,” he said softly, stroking a finger over the fluffy fur of its forehead. “Gonna make sure you’re safe and taken care of, okay? And then—”
Then what? Then Shane would go home, get a small yoga session in to work out any tightness that crept into his back and shoulders, and just go about his day until it was time to go to the rink? That is what he should do, he knew. That was the plan and the plan was important to stick to.
“Puck?”
Lifting his head, Shane saw the same receptionist standing in a doorway to the right of the desk. Someone. “You can come in here,” she said, gesturing into the room.
She closed the door behind him. This room felt like a miniature copy of the lobby, the same pamphlets in a smaller rack, the same sort of brightly colored artwork on the walls. “So you found a kitten?”
“Yeah, it ran across the road in front of my car,” he repeated and felt a little like he’d somehow walked into the Twilight Zone. “I don’t know if it’s hurt or not. I don’t really know anything about it.”
“I’ll get a temp and weight first and then Dr. Rozanov will be in to check them out,” she explained. “You can set them down on the table.”
Shane did as asked and the kitten just sort of… melted into a shaking puffy clump of fur. “Is that normal?”
The woman ran her hand over the kitten’s back. “Sometimes,” she said. Shane waited for her to elaborate but instead she opened a drawer from under the table. “You gonna be good?”
“Uh, yes?” His brain filed through as many scenarios as it could as to why the question was even asked when the woman held up a thermometer and looked at him blankly.
“Not you.”
“Oh.”
Shane didn’t even have a moment to consider how she was going to manage to get a kitten to cooperate with a thermometer in its mouth before she popped the tip of it up its butt.
“Temp is slightly elevated,” she said, not even bothering to look up at him before she picked the kitten up and placed it on what Shane assumed was a scale. The kitten looked comically small in comparison. “And just over two pounds.”
“Is that good?”
She moved the kitten off the scale and it returned to what Shane could only think of as a puddle. “Dr. Rozanov will be right in.”
“That—” The woman left through a second door on the other side of the room, not even stopping or looking over her shoulder while his word hung in the air. “—isn’t what I asked.”
This was officially the weirdest place Shane had ever been to, even more so than the dentist he had seen once as a kid and begged never to go back to. At least that office only had scary clown figurines lining shelves next to dentures and a hygienist who laughed like a hyena.
The kitten puddle barely made a peep, the ends of its fur sticking out and vibrating with each wave of tremors. “Don’t be scared,” Shane said. “I’m sure the vet will be nicer.”
The vet, as it turned out, was unfairly tall and broad with strong jaw and stronger looking arms, his sleeves rolled to the elbow like he was about to fix an engine instead of a kitten.
Shane blinked and swallowed hard.
Then the man opened his mouth.
“So, Mr. Hollander,” Dr. Rozanov said, his Russian accent thick as he stepped into the room. His gaze flicked over Shane once before settling like he’d already decided something. “You almost killed kitten.”
Shane sputtered. Scratch that about being nicer.
“No!” he said automatically. “It ran out in front of my car.”
Dr. Rozanov stopped and stood across the table from him, stroking a finger over its head.
“So you are saying it is kitten’s fault.”
“No—”
“Kitten is suicidal, that is your answer?”
“No! It was an accident. I mean, I don’t know if I actually hit it.”
The vet finally looked up at him. Their eyes locked and Shane’s stomach did a weird flip. He felt pinned in place even as his hands curled into fists at his sides, ready to throw down gloves he wasn’t wearing, on ice he wasn’t on.
He had stupidly nice eyes.
The kitten meowed, tiny and indignant between them.
“You are very defensive for innocent man,” the vet finally said, watching him, fucking assessing him, before turning his attention back to the kitten.
“And you’re kind of an asshole,” Shane said, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Mm,” Dr. Rozanov said. “Yes.” He ran his hands over its back, its black fur disappearing beneath large palms before he took its tiny face and inspected its eyes and mouth.
“The, uh, nurse said it was just over two pounds?”
“Vet tech,” Dr. Rozanov corrected.
“What?”
“Svetlana is vet tech, not nurse. Is different.”
“Okay,” Shane said, drawing out the syllables slightly. “Is two pounds good? She didn’t say.”
His fingers tapped over the kitten’s body. “Yes, is good weight for age,” he said, lifting up the kitten’s tail and peeking at its back end. “Congratulations, it’s a boy.”
“You can tell that with just a quick look?”
“I know testicles when I see them.”
Shane choked on air.
Dr. Rozanov lips quirked to one side. “Even tiny ones,” he added, “though not my usual expertise.” Dr. Rozanov met his gaze and held it too long.
Shane shifted on his feet. “What is your usual—”
“Dogs,” he said with a shrug, returning to inspect the kitten’s ears.
“Jesus Christ,” Shane muttered.
That stupid smirk on Dr, Rozanov’s face grew wider. “No, just dogs. Most of my clients are dogs, Mr. Hollander.”
Shane clenched his jaw, refusing to give any hint that he found any of this as amusing as Dr. Rozanov seemed to. “Should I take him somewhere else?”
“What?” Dr. Rozanov looked genuinely offended. “Of course not, you nearly kill kitten, you think I will let you finish the job?”
“I didn’t!”
“Look,” Dr. Rozanov said, more serious now, as he lifted the kitten onto its legs where it promptly melted back into a blob. “Cannot stand. Something is wrong with its right hind leg.”
“I didn’t—it ran just fine—oh god, is it broken? Is that why it was yelling at me in the car? But I’ve been holding it!”
“Him.”
“What?”
“Holding him. Honestly Mr. Hollander,” Dr. Rozanov said, a hint of something like amusement pulling at his mouth, “what sort of cat dad are you if you keep calling him ‘it’?”
“I’m not!” The words came out too quickly and left his mouth gaping for too long until he remembered to close it. “I just found it—him. Someone else owns him.”
“Mm, no. This is likely stray. No owner except you.”
“I’m not the owner!” Shane ran a hand through his hair, glancing down at the kitten, its ears slightly flattened.
Dr. Rozanov placed his palms on the table and straightened his spine. He was too tall. “You filled out paperwork, that is your name, yes? Shane Hollander?”
Shane dragged a hand over his face. “Yes, but—”
“That makes you owner.”
“That’s not—wait, you’re fucking with me again, aren’t you?”
Dr. Rozanov shrugged, pulling the stethoscope free from around his neck and putting it in his ears. “No. Kitten needs x-rays and owner permission to do so.”
“Is he okay?”
“Don’t know,” he said, holding the chestpiece to the kitten’s ribs, “that is why we need x-rays.”
“But I can’t have a kitten.”
After repositioning the chestpiece a few times, Dr. Rozanov removed the stethoscope altogether and looked back at Shane. “I will explain. You are current owner. You give permission, I do my job, then you find new owner for kitten. Is simple.”
“Can’t you just take him?”
“Did the sign change and no one told me? It still says ‘Animal Clinic,’ yes? Not shelter?”
“Then I’ll take him to a shelter.”
“You cannot.”
“Why not?”
“Panleuk outbreak.”
Shane’s head spun. “Pan-what?”
“Panleukopenia. Is very bad virus, deadly to many kittens. If you take him there, he may die.”
“What—”
“I don’t know what is so hard to understand, do you give permission?”
Shane exhaled, shoulders sinking. “Yeah. Yes. Okay. Whatever he needs.”
“Good. We will be back.”
Dr. Rozanov picked up the kitten and left through the same door the woman—Svetlana—did. Alone, Shane braced his palms on the table and hung his head. What the fuck was he doing? He was just trying to do the right thing, how was it that he ended up in Montreal’s weirdest vet clinic with a fucking—asshole—of a man telling him that he now owned a kitten.
There was still six hours before he absolutely needed to be at the rink. Shane ran through the checklist in his head—if he was home within the hour he would be able to slide back into his game day routine like nothing ever happened. No kitten, no Russian vets, just back to the same rituals for every home game. It would be fine. Everything would be fine.
Shane slid his phone out of his pocket. 5 texts, 2 missed calls, each one checking in and asking too many questions. Fuck. Was it so unusual that Shane missed morning skate?
Yes. Yes it was.
He ignored the notifications and pulled up Google instead. What do kittens need. Food, litter and box, scratching post, toys.
Food was an easy one, or so he thought. He’d get the highest quality food and be done with it. When he searched what brand that was, he was presented with a nearly endless list of options, different flavors and proteins, some wet and others dry, ranging from recognizable things like chicken and tuna, to things like rabbit and …papaya? What the fuck.
He opened a new tab for the next thing on the list, best litter for kittens. At least this was a little more straightforward. A shallow box, nonclumping litter. Shane wasn’t exactly sure what the difference was between clumping and nonclumping, but Google was the expert now.
This was ridiculous. He couldn’t have a kitten. It didn’t fit anywhere—into his schedule, his apartment, his life. They were going on a road trip in three days and Shane didn’t know much, but he was pretty sure that kittens couldn’t be left alone for a week.
But what else was he supposed to do? The pan-whatever it was didn’t sound like a viable option, and the thought of leaving the kitten to the odds of survival was shittier than trying to figure out what brand of food to get.
Maybe he could get his parents to watch it, just for the road trip, until he figured something better out.
“No more merry wandering in the night now,” Dr. Rozanov announced as the door swung open, Shane’s head snapping up as the man rubbed his stubble against the kitten’s forehead. “Indoors only.”
Shane’s brows knit together. “What?”
“Puck,” Dr. Rozanov said, as if it meant something obvious to Shane. “Like Shakespeare? Is clever name.”
Right. The kitten. “No, it’s uh. Like hockey.”
He blinked at Shane. “I take it back, is boring name.”
“It’s not boring, I’m a hockey player.”
“Yes, I know who you are,” he said, placing Puck back down on the table. It wasn’t unusual for Shane to be recognized, especially in Montreal, but something in the way Dr. Rozanov said it made his chest tighten. “That is why it is boring name. And bad news, his leg is broken.”
Shane frowned at the kitten. “Does he need a cast or something?”
“No, kittens like him won’t heal properly in a cast, he is too small and will grow rapidly. The break is complicated, he will need amputation.”
Shane blinked. The word didn’t sit right, stuck somewhere behind his ribs and wrong in a way he couldn’t argue why. “What? That sounds extreme, it’s just a broken leg.”
“Are you vet now?”
“No, I just—”
“Good. Then I will continue being vet.” When Shane didn’t answer, he continued, “The good news is that he is big enough now. I will take his leg and, since he will be under anesthesia, his balls today.”
“So soon?”
Dr. Rozanov raised a brow. “You want him to stay in pain?”
“No, of course not,” Shane said immediately. And then, in a voice so small he hardly recognized it as his own: “He’s in pain?”
“Of course he’s in pain, he has broken leg. You think broken leg is nothing?”
Shane’s fingers dug into the edge of the table. He thought of the car, of the brakes, of the blur. He should have seen it sooner, should have driven slower.
Should have done better.
His eyes darted between Dr. Rozanov and the kitten, who stared up at him with wide eyes, too small and too still. “I only meant—he doesn’t look it?”
“Cats hide pain,” Dr. Rozanov said, scratching under the kitten’s chin, averting his attention. It looked like he enjoyed it, leaning into the vet’s fingers. “Like humans, only better.”
This time, when Shane swallowed around the lump in his throat, it hurt.
There must have been something too obvious in his expression, because Dr. Rozanov paused and waited until Shane met his eyes before he said, “You did not do this.”
Shane’s brows knit together. “What?”
“The leg,” Dr. Rozanov said, the irritating needling turning into something softer. “It was broken before today, the injury is not new.”
It wasn’t the comfort it should have been. “How can you know that?”
“Is my job to know.” Dr. Rozanov shrugged with the sort of nonchalance that Shane could never. “So I will do surgery today, take pain away with the leg and the balls. Do not worry, he will adapt quickly.”
The kitten blinked at him, slow and sleepy, and Shane nodded. “How long will it take?”
“Surgery is quick. All goes well, he will be ready to go home this evening.”
“But I have a game tonight, I can’t—”
Dr. Rozanov waved a hand. “We can keep him overnight, but is not cheap.” He paused and looked at Shane for a second longer than necessary. “You can afford it though.”
The tiny black kitten on the table closed his eyes.
“Whatever he needs,” he said, softer this time.
They won the game 2-1, but any thought of celebration Shane felt dissipated when he replayed in his head how he’d missed an easy goal in the first period. He’d been on a breakaway, Toronto’s goalie had fallen for his feint, but the puck hit the post. The ringing echo sounded—briefly, stupidly—like a meow.
He should have been able to shut it out.
It was stupid. Everyone took bad shots, he had just consoled their rookie about the exact same thing weeks ago when they played Vancouver, but Shane couldn’t shake the feeling that it was his own fault.
He’d been distracted, half his attention still back in that clinic. His mind replayed the kitten’s tremor, the word amputation looping in the background while his body moved on instinct, worried about an animal he didn’t really know—
And thinking about hazel eyes he definitely didn’t want to. That part was worse.
One bad shot was just one bad shot. There would be more, he told himself as he toweled off his hair. And his team needed him to focus on the future, to be ready for the upcoming weeks on the road.
“You coming tonight? Drapeau’s hosting, his wife’s making a roast.” Hayden sat tying his shoes with a hopeful look on his face, his tone light and unassuming. “I can only stay for a short while—Jackie has a hair appointment in the morning so I got to be on my A-game. We can carpool.”
Shane gave him a tight smile even though it should have been the easy out—or in, he supposed. “I think I’ll pass,” he said, buttoning up his shirt and reaching for his phone on his stall’s shelf.
One missed call and three texts from an unknown number. He brows knit together, the corner of his lips turning down.
Hayden must have seen the look on his face. “What’s going on?”
Unknown: Surgery was a success
Unknown: At least one of us had good puck handling tonight
Unknown: Rozanov: 1 Hollander: 0
Shane stared at the screen.
The fucking nerve of this guy—
He grumbled under his breath. “Fucking asshole.”
“You okay?”
“It’s nothing,” Shane said, pocketing his phone and turning to Hayden. “The surgery went well, I guess.”
“Your kitten?”
“It’s—he’s not my kitten,” Shane muttered as Hayden stood and slipped on his coat.
Grabbing his bag from the bench, Hayden raised a brow. “Isn’t that good news then?”
“Yeah,” he said, a small smile playing across his face, “of course it is.”
“Then who’s an asshole?”
Shane’s cheeks flushed—with anger, he figured. “Oh. Just the vet. Some Russian prick.” Some Russian prick who apparently watched the game, but Shane wasn’t about to tell Hayden that. “Tell the guys I’ll catch them next time?”
Hayden clapped a hand on Shane’s shoulder. “Sure.” He turned to walk out of the locker room, catching Shane’s eye before reaching the door. “Remember it’s not about the goals you miss—”
“It’s about the shots you take,” Shane finished for him, picking up his bag to follow Hayden out. “Yeah, I know. Thanks.”
They parted ways at the exit, Shane offering a wave and a smile before heading to his car. This was the easy part now, his post-game routine well-honed to the point where there was barely any thought involved. His food was already prepped and waiting and he had already queued up the playlist for his restorative yoga routine before the game. Then he’d watch a couple episodes of The Office to wind down, and sleep. He could turn off his mind for the next two hours and let his body take control.
Except.
Shane looked down at his phone. Dr. Rozanov’s texts were still waiting.
Add New Contact
Asshole, he typed, a smug smile on his face. Then deleted it.
Veterinarian
Shane deleted that, too.
It hit him then that he didn’t even get the man’s first name. He could just look it up, fill out the contact info properly, have it sit neatly amongst the alphabetized names, filed away into its proper spot like everything else.
Shane typed Rozanov and hit done before he could think better of it.
Shane: I had an assist in the third period
He set his phone face down in the center console. He was not going to let this consume him, some cocky veterinarian who didn’t even know him, probably didn’t even know hockey or how playing on a team meant that victories were shared and assists were just as important—if not more so!—than actual goals. Just because he could perform surgery didn’t make him better than him, Shane was the best player in the league despite maybe one off day because of a stupid—
His phone buzzed.
Rozanov: I know. I still win
Shane threw it into the passenger seat and drove home.
His apartment was exactly as he’d left it that morning—clean, quiet, everything in its place. He dropped his bag by the door, toed off his shoes, and went through the motions: wash hands, change, and plate the food he’d prepped the night before. The chicken, rice, and vegetables were all measured, portioned, and precise.
At the island, fork in hand, he took a bite.
Chewed. Swallowed. Took another.
It tasted the same as it always did. It should have been fine, should have been good, even. It was exactly what his body needed after a game, perfectly balanced by his nutritionist.
Shane stared down at the plate.
Something was off.
He took another bite anyway, forcing himself to keep pace, to finish what he started because that’s what he always did, no deviations, no excuses—
The fork paused halfway to his mouth.
“Shit.” The word slipped out, quiet in the empty apartment.
He set the fork down slowly, a familiar tightness creeping into his chest, different from the adrenaline of a game, sharper, harder to pin down.
He didn’t ask. He’d left the rink without even asking.
Shane pushed his plate away, appetite gone in an instant as he reached for his phone. The messages were still open.
Rozanov: I know. I still win
His thumb hovered over the screen.
This was unnecessary. The surgery had gone fine, the kitten was fine, he didn’t need to fuss or worry about an animal he wasn’t going to keep anyway. This was all temporary and if Dr. Rozanov had anything he needed to know, he’d tell him.
Shane set the phone down on the counter. He could leave it.
He didn’t leave it.
Shane: He’s really okay?
The reply came faster than it should have.
Rozanov: You are very needy for man who does not own kitten
Shane inhaled sharply through his nose.
Shane: I’m not keeping him, but I’m not heartless either
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Rozanov: He is awake
Rozanov: Very loud
Rozanov: So yes, he is fine
Shane’s shoulders loosened before he could stop it. He stared at the screen, waiting for more, but nothing came.
Shane: So what happens next?
Rozanov: You pick him up in the morning
Shane: I’ll have to go to the store first
Dragging a hand over his face, Shane reached for his notebook—the one he kept for game prep, schedules, anything that needed to be organized and contained. He flipped to a clean page, pen already moving.
Tomorrow – Pet Store
Food – high quality
Litter (non-clumping)
Box (shallow)
Carrier
Toys
Scratching post
His mind swirled with logistics, his eyes scanning over his apartment like it would give him the answers to questions he didn’t even know how to ask. Shane pressed the tip of the pen to the paper.
Pick up Puck
The ink bled slightly where he held it too long.
His jaw tightened. This didn’t fit. None of it did. Not with the road trip in three days, not with practice, not with—
Shane underlined the list.
Rozanov: We will be waiting
Rozanov: Try not to hit anything else on the way here
Fuck.