Archive of Our Own

Ottawa, a long time ago

Shane learns what it means to be a man from hockey. Before hockey, he’s sexless, a child clinging to his mother in the department store and playing alone at daycare. He wears the clothes his mom buys him and plays catch with Grandpa Hansen when he visits. He picks out the toys on the right side of the aisle at the store where everything is blue and black, ignoring the left side of the aisle where everything is pink and purple and sparkly. All of it is categorized as okay for me and okay for someone else. Shane reaches for a baby doll, and Grandpa puts it back on the shelf and tells him he can’t play with dolls, so Shane picks out a toy fire truck instead, and he must file it away somewhere in his undeveloped brain because he never looks at the baby dolls again.

None of it means anything until he’s wobbling on the ice in a million pounds of padding that he can barely move in. At home, the TV and his grandparents and his mom and dad and the cat next door and the tulips and the Royal Canadian Mounted Police are just things in his world, and if he cuddles with Mommy in her bed when he’s sick or throws the baseball so hard Grandpa has to chase after it, it’s just another day. 

He’s not a person yet, doesn’t know that there are rules his parents aren’t going to give him. He doesn’t even know yet that he’s going to be a failure. He’s four, and some days are good, and others are bad. He doesn’t question it when strangers say he’s going to grow up and charm the girls, but he doesn’t internalize it, either. This is the first sign, he decides much later. When people ask when did you know? and everyone else who is defective like him says I always knew, it was always obvious to me, what do you mean when did I know, there was nothing between not knowing and knowing, I just came into the world and it was what it was and never anything else—Shane will think about the things that didn’t happen. The moments he didn’t think about, the chances that didn’t happen, the questions he didn’t ask.

Grandpa Hansen and Daddy take him to his first hockey practice. He’s good at it. They say he’s a natural, and Shane knows he’s doing it right, whatever it is—until the first time he gets tangled up with another kid who’s a year and thirty pounds more than him, and he goes down on top of Shane and crushes the air out of him. Shane cries, and his coach tells him firmly and without sympathy to get off the ice and collect himself, and his grandfather takes him to the bathroom and tells him it’s time to grow up. The next time Shane cries at a game after a kid purposely pushes him into the boards and rattles him, he tells Shane at the bench not to be a sissy. Shane’s face hurts with the heat of the flush that overwhelms him, and he holds his breath as long as he can to make the tears stop, and on the way home his dad chews Grandpa out while Shane stares at his velcro shoes and ignores the post-game snack his mom packed him.

Toronto, 2010

They’re going to make fun of you for being Japanese, Ojiichan warns him, and Shane really can’t remember when, but it braces him for the rest of his life. They think you’re weak. Don’t ever let them be right.

“This is important,” his mom stresses up in the concourse. Shane’s attention is elsewhere, a rare shortcoming in a lifetime of doing whatever his mom tells him. “There are going to be a lot of kids who don’t see themselves here very often. Kids like you. Wouldn’t you have wanted to see someone like you on the ice, growing up?”

Someone like me. Kids like me. And who would that be, exactly? A player whose teammates mercilessly hazed him every time he moved up to a new team with increasing incisiveness every time, latching onto his race or the strange cadence of his strange answers or his disinterest in sex to test him, see if he’d let them be right about him? A player who can’t sleep most nights, has to do everything just so or the entire world might collapse just because Shane Hollander is two minutes late? A player whose teammates leave room for Jesus, God, the Holy Spirit, and probably every other divine entity when they’re forced to inhabit the same space as him?

His mom means someone with Asian eyes in a sea of double eyelids. Someone like her, a girl who watched hockey games and flipped through magazines and bought posters and never saw a single face like her own.

“I know, Mom,” Shane says, vaguely irritated and mildly tired. Mostly tired. He’s about to make his debut in a sport that only allows the manliest of men, at a level that cements his manhood for the entire world and any other sentient being in the galaxy, and all he can think about is the makeup on his face that makes his stomach turn and the sound of Ilya Rozanov saying pretty. Is that the kind of player people want to see?

“Okay,” she says, backing off but not losing the concerned expression on her face. Sometimes Shane feels like they’re standing on opposite ends of the rink instead of one foot away from each other, close enough that his mom can see the freckles on his face and he can smell her perfume. She knows him, but maybe she doesn’t know him, really. Shane doesn’t know himself either, so what’s the point? “I just…want you to be successful, sweetheart. You’re going to look back at this time and it’ll be the best years of your life. I think you’ll like looking back at it even more if you also…made a difference, you know?”

Does it make him a bad person if he doesn’t want to make a difference? How about if he wants the best years of his life to be better than whatever this is, this constant churning of fear and self-doubt and the disconnect between what people see and who he is when he’s alone?

The best years of his life. Shane wishes he felt that way now. He wants his mom to think he does, and that’s what he always tells her. The truth is that he doesn’t see a flash of how good those years could be until he has Ilya Rozanov’s cock in his mouth for the first time, that night no less, and realizes he didn’t learn a fucking thing about being a man.

Nowhere, never, everywhere, all the time

Shane likes to think of himself as a skin walker.

Well. No. He doesn’t like to, but it’s better than the alternative, which is to be sliced and splayed open like a surgical diorama with pins in all the important parts. This is the part that causes the specimen to respond to anger, fear, hurt, love, with tears. This is the part that sometimes feels a little better after throwing up. This is the part that likes anal sex. This is the part that processes social interactions. See how it’s atrophied and dysfunctional?

He likes thinking about that sometimes, too. About every part of him being located somewhere along his genome, or pieced together like plastic organs in a 7th grade biology model all crammed in but only if assembled in the right sequence. Like the things that are wrong with him are traceable to something concrete that he can blame. The shape of his eyes? From his mom. Athleticism? From his dad. Being maybe gay? Probably a mutation.

But mostly he likes to feel like everything is neatly contained, safe within a convincing skin suit. Most of the time nobody is interested in anything underneath, except sometimes someone will ask the right question or look at him a certain way and Shane gets the feeling that they know. Maybe it’s his eyes, his mom’s eyes, the one part of himself that stares out from the abyssal center. His true form, perilously held together by a hockey-champion ginger ale-fueled exterior, ever closer to bursting free like the awful repulsive alien bugs in Men in Black. Shane should never have let Hayden make him watch that movie on the hotel TV.

Shane can think of himself in all kinds of ways. He’s always coming up with new models. The Mr. Potato Head model, or the parasite-that-turns-host-into-a-zombie model, or the child playing dress up model, or the jigsaw puzzle box with random pieces from eleven different puzzles mixed hopelessly together. It’s better in the abstract. Anything else makes him want to turn inside out.

You know. Skin suit, and all.

Ottawa, in the blink of an eye

No crying. No sissies. No weakness. Shane checks off all the boxes every day with brush your teeth twice a day and say thank you.

He learns to cry without crying, to let sadness and hurt and anger pass through him unseen, but he’s bad at this, of course he’s bad at it. Shane knows right from the start that he’s only playing pretend. He’s surrounded by boys, and then men, and he never learns what all of them seem to have known all their lives. 

They learn in seventh grade biology, right before he drops out to get homeschooled so he can jet around the continent playing hockey on the astronomically low chance that he’ll make it to the MLH, about bodies. Mr. Schumacher makes them say penis and vagina and tells them with a straight face that sexual intercourse is when a man inserts his erect penis into a woman’s vagina. Shane is overwhelmingly relieved that it doesn’t sound sexy. Brenna Cater sits next to him in class and all the boys like her and make suggestive comments about the boobs she’s grown seemingly overnight, and she seems to feel embarrassed about them the way she hunches her shoulders forward. Shane never says anything to the other boys about it. All he can think about is how thankful he is that he didn’t pop a hard-on next to her and thinks thank god, I am a normal and polite person.

On his first juniors team, the older boys decide they’ll watch porn in the hotel room one night because one of them has a laptop as thick as a textbook and has a bunch of videos downloaded. It’s probably hazing, because they make everyone get down to their underwear, and everyone who gets hard while the busty blond lady gets fucked on her hands and knees is made to ice down their dick with ice from the bucket someone filled up earlier down the hall. Shane is the only one who doesn’t get hard. He waits for it to happen, but his palms are sweating and his pulse is rabbiting and he wants to put all his clothes on and hide under the covers of the bed. Eventually they give up and let him off easy, concluding that he’s the only thirteen-year-old and he’s so anxious there’s no way he could get hard. All of that is true, especially because he hasn’t yet experienced an erection outside of morning wood, and he doesn’t think about girls because hockey and school takes up more than enough space in his brain.

When he looks back later he’ll wonder why he didn’t look at the man in the video and why the man’s noises didn’t get him hard. How could he not have known? Shane stays up late every night for weeks after that praying to a god he’s never been taught to pray to. God what’s wrong with me? Please make me normal. I’m supposed to want to have sex with girls. I don’t care about sex. All I want is to be in the MLH. Is my penis broken? What if I can never have sex?

He tries hard in those years. It’s easier for him than for most kids, probably, because he’s so often on the road—staying with other families, going to other boys’ houses, sometimes even going to grown men’s houses. Being in triple A has its perks. There’s alcohol and weed before he’s sixteen, and he’s not interested in that either, but one night in a hotel room a particularly flirtatious seventeen year old girl kisses him in the bathroom after a game of spin the bottle. Shane is shaking. He kisses her back as nicely as he can, and she touches his dick and guides his hand to her breast, and he’s not hard. She tries to suck him off and he gets a little hard, but she gets frustrated after a certain amount of time. He feels so sorry when she leaves, even though she says it’s okay, because he disappointed her, but after she leaves he cries and it feels good. And he promises himself he’ll do better the next time, but he doesn’t.

He learns to transport himself when a girl is touching him. He closes his eyes and imagines that she’s not a girl, she’s not anything, and just feels the sensation. It takes him out of his escape when he hears her voice or feels her long hair brush his inner thighs. He can’t do the same when he’s being asked to actually do something, but at least when it’s not just about his pleasure he can identify the objective of the task he’s been given and follow directions. Some girls seem to like that he listens. One girl gets irritated by his lack of authority and his meek questions.

In total, though, he only experiments with three girls, and never once puts his dick in any of them. It never gets that far. That would require him to be hard, and to turn her on, and it always fizzles out before then. Every time, he’s grateful when it’s over.

Las Vegas, 2011

He wants Ilya to care.

He knows it the night he goes up to the rooftop bar and sees Ilya sulking over the balcony like the sore fucking loser he is. Shane shouldn’t have let Scott Hunter buy him shots, but he wanted to be one of the boys. He is one of the boys. He just won Rookie of the Year for his very first MLH season. He should be celebrating with his parents and teammates and probably fucking a hot girl in a hotel room like the fucking man he is.

It’s a horrible feeling, not being happy when he knows he should be. If he’s not happy with this, what will it take? Would he be happy if Ilya was happy for him? Would he be happy if Ilya liked him more than he liked Ilya?

Shane always likes people more than they like him. His dad says people don’t actually know sometimes that he likes them, that it’s even an option to like him back, and his dad means that about friends and girls and teammates alike. He probably doesn’t mean that about Ilya. It’s obvious, after all, that he likes Ilya more than Ilya likes him.

He doesn’t want to cry. His throat hurts worse than any hockey injury ever has. He can’t possibly give more of himself to Ilya than he already has.

All he wants, really, is for Ilya to say congratulations. And for him to mean it.

Ilya is more of a man. Bigger, stronger, meaner. He’s uncut and hairy and dominates not only the ice but everyone in his orbit. Shane hates that he cares. Shane hates that he likes it.

“What do you want, Hollander?” Ilya asks. Shane could say it. Just be happy for me. Just be fucking happy so I can be happy too. If you could just give me the validation I need, I’ll be a man too, and we can quit this.

That’s not what he says. He makes a fucking fool of himself. He gets teary and upset, and by the time Ilya pushes him against the wall and kisses him, he’s embarrassed and miserable and terrified. And he’s hard. Because apparently that’s the only time he can get hard—when a bigger, better man is leading him around like a little bitch on a leash.

Shane does what he does best. He goes back into his shell and leaves. This summer, he thinks, I’m going to forget about you.

At home in Montreal, 2011-2012

He’s weirdly un-hung up about the sex. He knows he should be. There are brief flashes of clarity, usually when his dick is softening and the cum is drying on his stomach, where he talks to himself like he’s gone mad. What are you doing? You know it’s weird, right? Are we really going to keep doing this?

He goes online, searches for things that say what he wants it to say. Posts from men who are apparently happily in heterosexual relationships who had some ill-conceived fling in college with a teammate, or who occasionally enjoy a gay porn clip but don’t feel the need to have sex with other men in real life, or who had a weird obsession with a male friend that eventually ended up being nothing. Sex isn’t feelings. Shane isn’t sure whether having sex with men or being in love with men is more gay. He can see how Freud got so hopelessly entangled in all these complexes and theories. Here’s one: Shane has always had a hard time hanging with the guys, and has never really felt like one of them, probably because he’s Asian and the only Asian men on TV are either Jackie Chan or some weedy nerd on a sitcom, and guess which one white boys think is the representative Asian male form? So all of this, this fixation on Ilya, his relative lack of inhibition in trading blowjobs, must be an extension of that desperation to have another real man recognize his manhood back. Who else is more of a man than Ilya Rozanov, who fucks tons of women and smokes cigarettes and drinks vodka and is the only person who can match Shane on the ice? Rivalry is manly. Shane gets to be manly by extension. When they’re together, they look like two men. The only gay men Shane has been aware of have been decidedly…not like him.

Of course, Shane isn’t the kind to think that they’re not real men. But that’s not his business anyway. He really doesn’t spend much time thinking about gay men. He spends time thinking about Ilya Rozanov’s hulking frame and huge cock. Which is less gay? Or more gay?

When it comes to anal, Shane wouldn’t say he’s complex free about it. It’s fucking anal. He researches obsessively the way he does before experimenting with anything new. Different websites assure him that straight men can enjoy anal. Shane isn’t sure that applies to him when he’s preparing for anal with another guy, but it doesn’t mean he’s gay. It just means he’s going to have an experience and the person delivering that experience will happen to be a man. The dildo he orders is deliberately abstract. The head is shaped sort of like a real dick head, but he chose one that’s sort of dark blue, and has a suction base, and doesn’t at all look like a real dick. When he was looking online, which was mortifying enough even in the privacy of his own home, he settled on this one because it had no veins and no fake balls and no coronal ridge. Just a thing, made of plastic, impersonal and disembodied, that will be inside of him at some point. Nobody will even know. God, he hopes nobody will know.

It’s hard to get out of his head when it actually comes down to putting it in for the first time. It feels unsexy, but when has anything ever felt sexy to him? He’s pretty sure that whatever is wrong with him, it’s not about being gay. It’s about being a perverted sex freak and also a prude at the same time. It’s clearly possible because he’s doing it.

There’s something masculine about being willing to try a new thing. It was nothing, he’ll tell a group of guys someday, shrugging nonchalantly. Of course I didn’t question my masculinity. I’m evolved. I allow myself sexual pleasure without insecurity. Also, it makes me better than you. Yes, yes. It is masculine to force his body to do something it wasn’t meant to, just like he forces his body to run an extra five minutes or skate faster or take that one-in-a-million shot. He’s used to making his body do the impossible. Did he ever think he’d put something in his asshole? No. But he’s not afraid. It would be lame to be afraid.

He might be ashamed about liking it. More than that, he’s ashamed that he wants to like it. It’s not mind-blowing. He figures it takes practice like everything else. He’s never worried about where his prostate is before. He figured that was a problem for his urologist someday. They didn’t talk about prostate stimulation in 7th grade biology when Brenna Cater was shifting uncomfortably next to him, as determined to avoid his eyes as he was hers. They didn’t talk about it being involved in sexual stimulation. Nobody has ever thought to tell Shane how to anally pleasure himself.

Shane expects to feel like a girl when it’s finally seated at the base. He holds it there with trembling hands and finds he doesn’t feel like a girl at all. He feels vulnerable and humiliated and stupid, but he can also feel the phantom grip of Ilya’s hands on his hips. What he wants is for Ilya to be there and tell him to take it. What he wants is for Ilya to make him take it, because if he submits to Ilya, who can blame him? He wants to feel powerless so he doesn’t have to say he wants it.

But no, he doesn’t feel like a girl at all.

The places Shane learned to feel ashamed, 2000

Shane gets into his first fight at a game when he’s nine.

It’s confusing, all around. It hurts more than he expected. His nose bled but it’s not broken, his tooth cut his lower lip open. He feels the sting every time he moves, so he just doesn’t talk on the way home. Grandpa and Dad have the same argument they’ve been having for years. Grandpa is proud of him, and he likes that. Dad is angry at Grandpa for being proud of Shane, but he says he’s not disappointed in Shane, which messes with Shane’s head. Grandpa says it’s good for him to get a little backbone. He’s always been too gentle. That’s why other boys are mean sometimes. If he starts fighting, they’ll stop. Shane takes it to mean that it’s his own fault they’re mean to him. If he was more manly, they’d leave him alone.

Dad says Shane doesn’t need to fight anyone at this age. Mom asks dryly what age Shane will need to fight at, and Dad doesn’t have a good answer. They go back and forth. We knew when we put him in hockey that it could get rough. Yes, but he’s not a professional hockey player, he’s nine. He wants to play at higher levels. There’s going to be fighting and he should be prepared. There has to be another way.

There isn’t another way. Not really. Shane is the preferred target for many boys on the ice. He gets away with being faster and harder to corner, and he avoids starting things or reacting to sloppy insults, but he knows what it looks like if someone throws a punch and he doesn’t punch back. He doesn’t like it; it hurts. He knows he’s expected to pretend like it doesn’t, but who wants to fight? Who wants to be in pain? But they all have to play along and pretend they like doing it. The first one to chicken out and admit it is the first one who gets labeled gay. Shane doesn’t really think of being gay as a thing people are. He just thinks of it the way it’s used in the locker room to establish a hierarchy. It means not being a man. It means sitting alone on the bus and rooming with the coach. Shane does what he has to. He fights, he plays along, he saves his tears for bathroom stalls and his pillow in the dark.

Shane can do anything. Shane takes the hazing and doesn't quit. He doesn’t cry in front of them or get upset at pranks. He learns how to laugh and smile and throw it back. Just like he learns how to replicate every other human expression and adapt jokes he hears to give off the impression that he’s just like everyone else, he learns from other, tougher boys how to get to the top of the pyramid.

He never participates in the cruelty; he can't bring himself to go that far, even for appearance's sake. But often he’s apathetic to it. He has to be, or he would unravel. Most of the time he does nothing. He turns away from the suffering of other boys and takes pride in not caring, in not coming to their rescue or standing up for them. He lets it happen. That’s what it takes to be a man. That's what everyone else does.

Everywhere Shane goes, 2014

They fuck. They go to the Olympics. They stop talking.

Shane spends six months trying to relive the euphoria of being fucked by a man who no longer acknowledges his existence. He felt like a man with Ilya’s cock inside him. He felt sexy and in his body for the first time in his whole life. He saw his own cock bobbing between two sets of hard abs and muscular arms on either side of his head and Ilya smelled like cigarettes and cologne and said his name in his deep, accented voice. Shane kept up with him, took him with strength and flexibility and satisfaction, and felt somehow that he’d become a man in the process. Surely he could take it better than the beautiful, willowy women Ilya is always photographed with; surely he was stronger and could endure more. Shane had never been fully engaged during a sexual encounter before. He didn’t have to close his eyes and abstract himself. He wanted to see and remember every frame of it, and a good thing too, because that’s all he has left now.

If he had the appetite, he’d try to go back to normal. Maybe now that he knows what sex can be like, he can develop an interest in having sex with women, even if he has to find a fucking dominatrix or something. There are women out there who like to do the fucking. Google says so. It seems impossible to find them without using some sketchy app for perverts, but he has money. Too much money, probably. People will do a lot for money, including keep secrets.

But he doesn’t want anyone else. He watches Ilya win the cup and feels his eyes glass over with tears, and they’re not about the cup at all.

It could have gone to either one of us.

Shane still remembers the way Ilya couldn’t help but look away from him.

It went to you.

So this is how it feels. His first big loss to Ilya. Draft day, World Prospects, none of it came close. He wonders if Ilya felt like this that night on the roof. If Ilya was proud of him at all underneath the anger and disappointment. If it hurt like this. If it mattered.

But it’s only fair.

This time it went to you.

Las Vegas, 2014

They have to present an award just a couple of months later. Shane doesn’t agree or disagree to do it; his agent tells him what the organizers want, and he simply does as he’s told. Better not to have an opinion. Having an opinion would mean he cared.

He cares so little that he cries in the bathroom. Old trick, checks under every stall to make sure he’s alone. Ilya isn’t like him. He doesn’t care. He won’t be following Shane to check on him. This is how men are, anyway. Cry alone, leave each other to cry alone. Comforting a crying teammate is as bad as crying to begin with.

Ilya comes in. Shane is pathetic. And enraptured, so easily won over. He hates himself for it later. Ilya gives him nothing, and Shane feels like he’s giving Ilya so much, and when he leaves Ilya’s hotel room late that night he’s empty and Ilya has everything.

Ottawa, 2002

At Shane’s sixth grade parent-teacher conference, his parents get to see all his work and hear about how he excels at P.E., and also about his distinct lack of social facility.

“Shane doesn’t like group work very much,” Mrs. Lin says. “In our class we have partners based on seating for pair work, and we rotate the seating chart every few months. Now, Shane is a very bright kid and has no trouble doing his own work. That’s why I try to partner him with students who are struggling. But he’s resistant to working with his partner and sometimes leaves them behind, or I notice he’ll finish first and then give his answers to his partner. Actually, that’s a recurring problem. Kids know he has the answer and he just tells them or lets them copy his work. We don’t encourage that.”

“Well, I think we know Shane isn’t enthused about…well, he’s always been independent,” Dad says awkwardly. “He’s used to being faster than his peers. In school and on the ice, if you catch my drift.”

“I don’t see why he has to slow down to accommodate worse students,” Mom says bluntly. “It’s not his job to compensate for their issues. He said he had to do their work because his group mates weren’t contributing to the assignment and he didn’t want to get held in at recess.”

“That does seem a little unfair,” Dad points out, face strained with the effort of being diplomatic between the teacher and his outspoken wife. “I’m not sure I would put it quite like that, but Shane just likes doing things his own way. Maybe we can work on it, but if you tell him he’s going to be held in at recess if they don’t finish, well, you’re incentivizing him to do it by any means necessary.”

“Yes, that is one of the trade-offs here,” Mrs. Lin says, smile fading. “Look, I’m not unsympathetic here. My kids were a lot like Shane in school. It’s hard when your child is gifted and wants to learn at a different pace, but I want to emphasize that part of what we learn through school is to cooperate with others and help our peers when they have a hard time with something we’re good at. Shane benefits from other kids helping him sometimes. I saw Deanna show him how to draw something the other day when we were doing an art project. The point is that he could grow a little in that area.”

“I don’t think it’s fair that Shane has to work extra hard to teach other students when he’s here to learn and do his own work. You’re asking more of him than of other students just because he’s smart. He didn’t choose to be smart, he just is. School is hard enough for him. You’ve sat him next to a boy who writes on his schoolwork for fun and kicks him under the desk. I wouldn’t work with him either.”

“I can imagine,” Mrs. Lin says tightly. “Mrs. Hollander, again, these are just general comments on things I’d like Shane to think about. Nobody is saying he should be punished or treated badly. You understand that classroom management is an imperfect science—Brian’s behavior is an issue, and we’re working on it, but Shane has to work on getting along with other students. That’s a normal part of school.”

Brian is a bag of dicks. Shane doesn’t say that part.

“And another thing I’d like to circle back to—Shane seems to be a bit susceptible to peer pressure. When other kids ask for his answers, he gives them. I’m a little worried that the boys he’s hanging out with are pressuring him for homework answers. They all magically seem to be doing perfectly now. I’ve asked Shane, but he hasn’t admitted it. Normally this is an honor code violation, but I’ve been wanting to talk about it first before I report—”

“Report?” Dad jumps in, hand suddenly on Shane’s back. “Hang on. Are you even sure Shane is doing anything?”

“Well, that’s why we’re talking about it. I want to stress that it’s really important to figure this out early. Later on in school, he could be penalized for cheating. The school policy makes it a violation to copy or to let other students copy from your own work. I’m not interested in punishing Shane if possible, but it would be extremely helpful if we could have an honest conversation about it and tap into what’s happening. Otherwise, and I can’t emphasize this enough, it can be a lot worse later.”

“You’re accusing him of cheating?” Mom blurts out, eyes hurt as if Mrs. Lin is accusing her personally of murder. “That’s really serious.”

“Yuna, just—just pause,” Dad interjects, rubbing his forehead anxiously. “Let me handle this, hon. Shane, buddy? Your mom and I won’t be mad if you’re letting kids copy your work, but Mrs. Lin is right that we have to talk about it. I know you know what’s right and wrong. What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” Shane insists automatically, feeling cornered. All three adults are looking at him expectantly. He likes Mrs. Lin, actually, but she doesn’t let him do what he wants in the way other teachers sometimes do. He also dreads the seating arrangement and having to see Brian every day. She won’t move his seat, and it makes every day of school miserable for him until the next seating chart is implemented, and that’s a month away. His mother raises a stern eyebrow at him, almost willing him to deny the accusation and be her perfect son. He doesn’t like disappointing her, but more than that he feels like he’s definitely in trouble.

“You know, Shane,” Mrs. Lin says kindly, “sometimes it’s really hard to say no to people, especially when they’re our friends. We want to make our friends and our families happy, and sometimes they don’t listen to the first ‘no.’ Does that feel like something you can relate to?”

Shane hesitates, licking his lip guiltily. He’s never been accused of cheating before. It doesn’t feel great to let other kids use his answers, but it usually comes with a reward—approval, compliments, gratitude. Acceptance. Especially from the boys he sits with at lunch. If he shares his answers, they don’t treat him like a weirdo or call him a nerd, because they’re benefitting from him being a weirdo and a nerd.

“I don’t know,” Shane hedges, resolve cracking under the pressure. He’s not good at lying, especially to his parents, but he also doesn’t want to lie to Mrs. Lin. “Maybe. Maybe.”

“Shane,” his mom says with an accusatory tone. “Other kids need to do their own work. They shouldn’t get credit for your work.”

“Honey, I don’t think that’s the point,” Dad groans. “Shane, why are you letting them copy?”

“Well—it’s not a big deal,” Shane says nervously, trying to read the room. “I mean, I wasn’t sure at first, but Dylan said it wasn’t a big deal, and I thought about it and figured I was wrong. And…and they like it. They like me.”

“Oh, Shane.” Dad says with a sigh, face scrunching up in exasperation or something, Shane doesn’t know, he doesn’t understand. “No, buddy. That’s not okay. Have you tried telling them no? Or do you feel like you can’t?”

“I don’t know,” Shane replies, voice getting louder as his embarrassment doubles. “I just—nobody else wants to be my friend. Because I’m retarded, I guess.”

“You’re what?” Mom’s face is so red it’s nearly the same color as her red purse. “What did you just say?”

“I’m retarded,” Shane repeats, looking frantically between his parents and Mrs. Lin. “Is that—did I get the word wrong?”

“Buddy, that’s not—” Dad sighs even deeper, looking pained. “Oh, man. Let’s talk about it. That’s a word that used to mean someone was a little…slow to learn things, or maybe disabled. Do you know what I mean?”

“Like stupid?” Shane frowns, even more confused. Nobody would call him stupid. He’s obviously smart. That’s the problem. Other kids don’t like it so much when he’s smart, unless they can get something out of it.

“Not exactly. Like…you know my cousin Griffith? He’s in a wheelchair. We saw him at Grandpa’s house for Great Aunt Sue’s 90th birthday. He’s in an assisted living home,” Dad adds for Mrs. Lin’s benefit. “He has cerebral palsy and some developmental delays.”

“Yeah,” Shane says. “I remember.”

“It’s used for people like that. And it’s not a nice word, buddy. It wasn’t bad originally, but people started using it against disabled people as a slur. Do you know what a slur is?”

“Like Jap?”

“Is someone calling you that?” Mom practically explodes.

“No, I mean—just once, when we watched a video on the Japanese internment camps in World War Two, Brian said since I was Japanese that I was a—”

“Yes, that’s also not a nice word,” Dad says. “Those are really mean words. You shouldn’t use them to talk about yourself or anyone else, okay? And if someone is using that kind of language, you need to tell Mrs. Lin or another teacher. And us.”

“Honey, you’re not retarded,” Mom says, and her eyes are wet. Shane doesn’t understand anything that’s going on right now. “Don’t say that about yourself. You’re a—you’re just smart and nice and—you don’t need to let them copy to have friends.”

“Yes, I do,” Shane insists incredulously. What are they talking about? Of course he does. If he doesn’t, then they don’t like him anymore. This is the only reason they like him right now. ‘Like’ might even be an overstatement, but they tolerate him and he doesn’t have to sit alone at lunch. “Mom, you don’t get it. Nobody wants to be my friend. And I’m not helping them cheat on tests or anything big.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Dad says firmly. “Okay. Maybe we need to have a second meeting sometime, Mrs. Lin? I’d like to revisit some of this, but it’s getting late and we’ve taken enough of your time. I think we’ll talk with Shane at home and then we can talk again if it continues to be an issue.”

“That sounds good to me,” Mrs. Lin says pleasantly. She turns toward Shane and leans toward him across the horseshoe table. “Shane, let me just say one thing before you go. I want you to know that it’s a good thing you’re smart, and I know you don’t think it’s a big deal if they copy your answers as long as they treat you nicely. But it is a big deal, and it has to stop. I know it can be really hard to make friends, and you’ve only been in middle school for a few months, so as long as the copying stops I’m not going to report it. But I want you to know that there are people who will be friends with you because they like you. And those friends are much better than friends who are only there for what they can get from you. Okay? You’re doing great in all your classes, and you’re going to do fine. I just want you to push yourself a little in the classroom and try working with other kids. And I’ll move your seat. I’ll talk to Brian, and you and I can figure out where to move you so you can feel a little more comfortable doing partner work. Does that sound like an okay compromise?”

Shane thinks about it. He has a hard time looking up at her, embarrassed that she knows he let them copy his work and that he can’t make friends another way. But it sounds a lot better than what he’s doing now. “Yeah,” he mumbles. “I guess so.”

“And no holding him in at recess when other kids don’t do their part,” Mom adds smoothly. “We’d appreciate that.”

“I hear you,” Mrs. Lin promises. “We’ll find another solution. Okay. I’ll let you all go home now, but please reach out if you want to meet again or talk about something. I’m available by phone and email if you don’t have time to come in. Shane, keep up the good work in class and keep communicating with me, okay? I know you’re shy, but we’ll get to know each other as the year goes on. I’m sure we’ll have a good year. All right? All right. Goodnight, folks.”

“Goodnight,” they all echo back, and Shane follows his parents out the door. The sky is dark now, where it was light when they started talking after school. He didn’t know it would take so long. He didn’t know there was going to be anything to talk about. Usually his parent-teacher conferences are just—he’s doing great, he finishes his work on time, he’s smart, etc. This is the first time he’s ever had anything negative.

He doesn’t want to talk on the way home. He just wants to do his homework and go to sleep. He’s not excited about telling Dylan and Jerry that he can’t share his answers anymore. Maybe he can stay inside at lunch and eat with one of the teachers. He just doesn’t want to be seen eating all alone.

“Shane, what’s going through your mind?” Dad asks, glancing at him in the rear view mirror when they’re close to home. Shane shifts restlessly and keeps his gaze fixed outside the window. “You okay?”

“I’m okay,” Shane echoes. “I’m sorry.”

“Honey, it’s okay,” Mom says with a sympathetic sound. “I’m sorry you’re having a hard time with school.”

“I’m not. I’m doing fine. My grades are fine.”

“Yes, but with making friends, and people calling you names—you haven’t told us about that. I’m a little surprised to hear it. It can be really hurtful to hear that.”

“I’m fine,” Shane says stubbornly. He is. He mostly just moves through the school day without dwelling on it. School is neither good nor bad. It’s just something he has to do between the time he gets to play hockey and be at home with his parents. Hopefully one day school won’t even matter because he’ll be an MLH player and he won’t need to have good grades for that.

“That Mrs. Lin is a really good teacher,” she comments. Shane squints, confused.

“But you didn’t sound like you liked her.”

“Oh, no, I wasn’t sure at first. But you know, she really seems to care about you. And I like a woman who isn’t afraid to challenge me back. I just want you to have teachers who have your best interests at heart.”

“Your mother is a hard-ass,” Dad says dryly, and Mom lightly hits his arm to reprimand him for swearing. “She likes to put people through their paces. She’s just looking out for you, son.”

Shane takes that in. His mom confuses him, but he loves her. She confuses him, but she loves him. She comes to practice and tells him all the things he did wrong like the way she tells Dad all the ways he loaded the dishwasher wrong, she comes to games and yells at the ref until Dad makes her stop. It’s a nightmare. She comes to practice and tells him he’s still the best out of everyone. She comes to games and cheers the loudest.

Shane tells her when he’s fourteen that he doesn’t want her to come to his practices anymore. Games only if she can save the trash talking for the car ride home. He says when she does those things it makes his heart beat too fast and he wants to cover his face. She suggests therapy. Dad suggests she take Shane’s direction on this one.

Montreal, late 2013

“For the last time, can you stop watching it? We could be fucking right now and you’re—”

“No, I cannot. I really cannot stop, Hollander, it is so hot. Basically foreplay for me. Is this tweet right?”

“What tweet? Who cares?”

“This fan thinks you told Scott Hunter to take his 40 year old dinosaur ass home. This is early birthday gift for me.”

Shane leans against the wall in the foyer, annoyed as fuck. Ilya keeps replaying the clip over and over. Shane doesn’t remember what he said. He just remembers the blinding white-hot flash of anger behind his eyes and thinking it was worth the injury that never came. His teammates had hauled him off, being under strict instructions to never let their ace get himself unnecessarily put on Injured Reserve. It’s embarrassing now to look back at it. He wants to forget it ever happened. He thought about sending Scott Hunter an apology, because they’ve always been cordial in the past and he did in fact look up to him when he was a rookie, and Scott was a real stand-up guy to him up until last week, but ultimately he thinks that might be worse. Players fight. Chances are, Scott Hunter has other problems to waste time on. Shane is nothing but a blip on his radar.

Plus, he can’t help feeling like he gave himself away. The only reason to react to such a low-effort insinuation with that much anger is if it was true on some level. Scott Hunter probably doesn’t know they’re fucking, but he probably learned from Shane’s meltdown alone that he hit a nerve. Maybe he came away from it thinking Shane is hot for Rozanov. Maybe he just assumed Shane was gay generally. Shane doesn’t want to open up the conversation and find out.

“It’s not funny,” Shane says, rolling his eyes. “Can we just—?”

“It is funny,” Ilya insists, but when he puts his phone away and looks at Shane’s face, his humor tempers a little. “What, what? Come on. Everyone fights. You have earned a fight. Even good boy Shane Hollander can be bad on special occasions.”

“I just don’t want to be like that. It’s stupid to fight. I want to play as long as possible, and if someone fucking whales on me I might not be around as long as I want.”

“A broken nose does not end careers,” Ilya says with a snort. “What is the problem?”

Shane looks away and takes great pains to school his expression into one that says it’s not a big deal. “He just kind of said something that rubbed me the wrong way.”

“Mm. Such as?”

“Well—I mean, I started it. Told him he should show up next time, and he took umbrage to that.”

“Umbrage is professor in Harry Potter, yes?”

“I’ve never read it,” Shane says blankly. Ilya starts laughing again. “What, why have you read it? It’s for kids.”

“You caught me. I watch movies,” Ilya says with a laugh. “Is not about Harry Potter, then?”

“No, it’s not—” Shane huffs in irritation, rolling his neck to release tension. “What was I even saying? You’re always interrupting.”

Ilya mimes zipping his mouth shut and throwing away the key. It’s stupidly, absurdly charming. Shane refuses to investigate that. Not after what Scott said.

“He said I sounded like you,” Shane says. Ilya’s eyes light up.

“He said that? I am honored.”

“I thought you threw away the key.”

“Are you joking right now?”

“Am I ever joking?”

Ilya smiles, eyes glinting with mischief and maybe something else Shane can’t bring himself to name right now. “No, you are so very boring and not funny.”

“Right, well. He said I sounded like you. Or not you, but—he said, you’re starting to sound like him. And I asked him what that meant and he said, you know what I mean or something. And…I knew what he meant.”

“Which was?”

“That I fucking sound like you,” Shane splutters.

“And you think this why?”

“Who else would he be talking about?”

“Why would he be talking about me?” Ilya counters with a laugh. “He does not know we even talk or have each other’s phones. Maybe he meant Hayden. Hayden is secretly good at chirping?”

“No,” Shane mutters, a flush creeping up to his ears. “He just—it feels like he knows.”

“Great, and now he does,” Ilya says with a shrug. Shane’s stomach turns, a chill passing through him. Ilya’s voice softens at the sight of whatever shows up on Shane’s face. Horror, probably. Or nausea. “Hey. Only way he knows is if he is gay enough to notice. One thing I learn is that none of these fucking men are smart enough to even think their friend is gay. Like, it does not even cross their mind, it is that crazy to them. My hockey friend, gay? How could that be? Hockey players are straight. Gay people are on Broadway. Or in Glee. Or whatever.”

“Yeah,” Shane mumbles. Ilya is probably right. Sometimes it’s comforting to remember that being gay in hockey is so unheard of it’s like being a unicorn. And since it can’t exist, nobody actually thinks it. Right? Or is that wishful thinking? “Whatever. Maybe.”

“Nobody knows.” Ilya steps closer and cups Shane’s face in both hands, oddly tender, and then squishes Shane’s cheeks up. Shane lets him do it, still sullen. Ilya smiles and leans in to give him a quick peck on the lips. “Now get on your knees. I am horny thanks to you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Please fight Scott Hunter next time.”

“I fucking tried, it’s not my fault they pulled me away.”

“Call him a dinosaur again. Please. I am hard as a rock.”

“You’re the worst,” Shane complains, but he can’t help the irresistible upward tug of the corners of his mouth, an involuntary reaction. It’s started happening whenever Ilya gets particularly absurd or mischievous. He used to find it vaguely annoying, at least, even if it was a little funny even then. Now he can hardly find the annoyance anymore.

“Then you have very bad taste in men,” Ilya says, pressing down on Shane’s shoulders.

Shane gets on his knees.

Boston, and the darkest corner of Shane's mind, 2016

But he says Shane’s name, once.

Fuck, Shane. Not softly, not like he cares. In the throes of orgasm, base and sexual. In no universe could it be construed as anything other than a mid-orgasmic fuck-up, but with them—

Maybe because Shane says it back. Or maybe, just because Ilya said it. Shane.

Shane realizes at that point that he’s wandered too far from where he started. He hasn’t bothered himself with the question for a while. What does this actually mean? What am I? Can I be nothing?

This thing they have, it’s not real. It’s like a tree falling in the forest with nobody around to hear it. Nobody knows they do this. It’s not a loving relationship he comes home to. It’s not even a friendship.

Shane panics. Says something he can’t remember later. When’s the last time he had sex with a girl? When’s the last time he wanted to?

Shane runs and runs and runs. Eventually, he slips backward and the force-stop cord on the treadmill is yanked free. He ends up sitting on the floor behind it, crying silently. He’s so lonely. He’s got everything he dreamed of when he was a kid, and he’s miserable. He’s ashamed of it all. Ashamed this is all he can manage, ashamed of how he left it, ashamed he likes cock in his mouth and his ass and his hand, ashamed he can’t overcome it, ashamed he can’t stop crying. He’s not allowed to cry. It’s a hard and fast rule, not a guideline. This is part of being a man.

Sissy. Faggot. Retard. This is what you are. You keep running from it, but you can’t outrun yourself. So wrap your arms around it, accept it. You fucking good-for-nothing, crybaby, stupid, stupid—

Montreal, 2016

Rose is pretty, and funny, and sweet, and Shane feels whole with her.

The first girl he’s been with since Jessica all that time ago. He doesn’t tell her that, just like he doesn’t tell her about Ilya, doesn’t tell her he can come from having his ass pounded, doesn’t tell her he was bullied in middle school, doesn’t tell her he doesn’t like beer. Rose thinks of him a certain way, and he wants her to always think of him that way, and maybe if she believes it enough for both of them it’ll become true. If she constructs an image of who she wants him to be, he can aspire to it. His report cards all said he’s task-oriented.

He likes everything about her, and he feels like he could marry her, and he wants his mom to meet her. Paradoxically, he also gets sweaty palms and a skipping heart when it’s time to see her. When they’re together, which thankfully (and god does it feel awful that it is thankful to him) isn’t often, he dreads it for days in advance. First he thinks he can learn how to please her. He’s out of practice after all. He got too complacent sleeping with Ilya. With a little time and practice, he’ll remember how it was with Jessica (was it ever good with her?) and she’s so patient, she won’t be angry if it takes some time.

Maybe it would have been better if she was less patient. If she’d blown up on him and said, you’re so fucking bad at this why can’t you please me how fucking hard is it to fuck a hot actress? Then he would have slunk back into the darkness licking his wounds, with a new complex and a new thing to hate about himself, and he knows what to do with those. Work harder, be tougher. Win another cup.

But she asks if he’s ever been with a guy.

And was it different. And was it better?

Shane remembers the first time he ever stood on the ice. He could barely skate. It was terrifying to be four years old, knees knocking together, feet slipping out from under him, landing over and over again on his bottom. He’d been so scared and cried so much, and he’d come away bruised and sore and cold. And then his mom had kissed his cheek and held him and helped him get back on the ice.

“Yeah,” he chokes out, trying to wipe the tears from his eyes, every ounce of his courage poured into allowing her to see him and not running from the restaurant back into the dark. “Yeah, it was better.”

Montreal, 2016

Shane wants to be loved and he wants to be good.

He wants it very badly. From anyone, really. It’s the first thing he wants in his life. Before Ilya Rozanov, before the MLH, before hockey, before friends—Shane is born wanting love and approval.

It’s easy when he’s younger, when all he has to do is follow Mommy’s instructions and be a good boy. It’s still easy as he progresses through hockey, even if he has to cry in the dark instead of seeking out Mom’s hugs. It’s not as easy in middle school, high school, but he finds a way. He manages.

But at 25, he doesn’t know what it takes. That’s not quite true, actually. He knows that what it takes is to not be gay.

It’s a hard grind to come to terms. He spends months trying to say it in the mirror. He imagines saying it to the few people in his life he actually has a relationship with—his parents, Hayden, JJ, end of list—and every one of them says, that’s disgusting, you’re disgusting, don’t talk to me again. They’re a lot crueler in his head than he knows them to be in real life, but this is a variable he’s never thrown at them. He can’t know until he tells them how they’ll react. It’s the sort of secret that—the best people, the kindest and warmest, can be forgiven for finding their limit when they find out. Shane would still love all of them if they hated him. He thinks he would understand. He would apologize. It’s his fault they had to say those things. It’s his fault they have to be monstrous to him.

That’s when he misses Ilya most. Ilya is the only other queer man he knows. Knew, at least. They haven’t talked since Shane left his home that day. He wishes he knew someone like himself, just to be able to hear someone say, I get it. You’re not the only person in the entire world who feels like this. It’s okay. You’re okay.

Shane can’t be uniquely bad. There are lots of other gay people in the world, probably. Statistically, at least half of all the gay people out there are gay men. Like him. Shane is gay. Not bisexual. Gay. If he’d been like Ilya, maybe he’d have had to give up someone he loved, but he could meet a woman eventually and maybe be just as in love with her, and he wouldn’t have to sacrifice everything else. It wouldn’t be perfect, but he could make it close to perfect. But he loves Rose, as much as he can possibly love any woman, and if it doesn’t work with her then he just knows. It’s not going to work with another woman. It’s never been the same as with Ilya. It’s never been even close.

For the rest of his life, he will have to make his choice between his career and his private happiness. He can’t have both.

The only upside is that he’s not confused anymore, really. He understands why everything in his life is the way it is. Maybe it would have helped, when he was younger, to know. But then again, maybe it would have been too painful to bear. Maybe it would have terrified him too much. Maybe he would have hated himself even more. Maybe he would have quit hockey to escape the dissonance. Would he have been happier like that, living an ordinary life, never scoring another goal, coming home to a boyfriend? A husband? Would he be able to bring his partner home to his parents in that universe, or would they have cut him off?

Will they cut him off now?

Hayden and JJ probably would. Maybe not. He doesn’t know if any of the people who love him would still love him tomorrow if they found out.

It’s a sobering thought.

Tampa, All-Stars 2017

Long after they’ve finished fucking, when Ilya’s chest is pressed to his back and his fingers are stroking mindless circles over the stretch marks on Shane’s hip, Ilya asks him about it.

“What made you decide?” he murmurs, voice deep and a little rough in Shane’s ear. From crying, from sucking him off, who knows. Shane finds the little rasp comforting and familiar. The way Ilya’s skin smells, the solid heft of his arm, the angles of his accent. Shane isn’t lonely anymore, when he’s here. For the first time in weeks, he feels full up, surrounded with love. It’s probably not what Ilya feels for him, but it’s acceptance, at least.

“Decide what?” Shane asks, brow furrowing slightly. His mind is fuzzy, having wandered far while they lay in silence.

“That you are gay.”

“Oh.” In the end they hadn’t really talked that much about it. They’d ended up talking about Ilya’s dad, his family, the pressure of being straight so that he can still visit his mama’s grave someday. Shane has never wanted to hold him so tightly before. “I just…I loved Rose. Everything about her. She’s exactly the kind of person I thought I wanted, but…”

“But?”

“But it made me realize it wasn’t real,” Shane says. “Not like…not like this.”

It lingers in the air, a terrifying admission. Does Ilya think this is real? Shane can’t take it if this is all still some game to him.

“And you are…okay?” Ilya presses. Shane blinks and rolls onto his back, still encircled in Ilya’s arms. Nobody has ever held him like this, he realizes. He feels safe, almost like when he was a child and could fall asleep on his dad’s lap. With girls, it was always a given that he’d use his six foot plus, two hundred pound frame to hold them. There’s no expectation with Ilya that he’ll be the protector, that he’ll be the big spoon. Sometimes, he will. Sometimes. The idea of having sometimes is tantalizingly close. “With being gay. I’m sorry I laughed.”

Shane shouldn’t smile about that, but he never does what he’s supposed to around Ilya. There’s no such thing as supposed to with someone like him.

“I guess I’m okay with it,” Shane says eventually. “I don’t know. Maybe not all the way yet.”

The truth is too raw even for such a tender moment. He knows he could probably tell Ilya without being laughed at again. And he needs to eventually, but it’s not easy to say sometimes I hate myself for it, but only because you weren’t there to make it feel right. It wouldn’t be true, anyway. He walks into the locker room and feels like an impostor, and it’s not because Ilya isn’t there, wouldn’t be solved if Ilya was there. It’s just easier to hold in his mind than the entirety of his fucked-up feelings. It seems so easy for Ilya in comparison.

“It is hard to accept,” Ilya says quietly, pulling Shane into the curve of his body. “But it will be easier someday. I know this. It got easier for me too.”

“Were you ever really upset about it?”

Ilya hums. “I don’t know. Not upset, maybe. I was much younger when I realized it, and so maybe I was more scared, but also I had less ideas about what it meant. I liked having a secret. It was exciting. Any sex was exciting at that age. Eventually I had to think about things like consequences. The worst thought was that my mama would not have liked it.”

“Would she not have?”

“I don’t know. I was young when she died. We never talked about this kind of thing. But she loved me, so. I don’t know.”

“Did it scare you?”

“Mm,” Ilya says quietly, and Shane thinks he means to say yes. “When you are child and you are different, yes, it is scary. But I was scared more of other things. Like never coming to America. Or never being free. Everything else, I could worry later.” Ilya is quiet for a moment, and Shane wonders if he should say something in response, but Ilya speaks again. “I was scared of my father, mostly.”

“Your dad?” Shane doesn’t know what to say except to echo it back, try and push Ilya to talk more. Tonight was the first time he told Shane anything about his family, and Shane would have held him in his arms all night if he’d needed it. Sick like...dementia. Shane’s father is probably twenty years away from something like that, but Ilya’s father must be older. He can’t quite picture the family dynamic. He wants to know how Ilya grew up, how he became the man holding Shane right now. If his life in Russia was so terrible, then how did he learn to make Shane feel safe?

“Yes,” Ilya says. Shane remembers hearing him on the phone the day he ran away. He didn’t know what was being said, but he remembers hearing papa and gathering quickly that something was wrong at home. “Yes. My father is...I don’t know. He could say yes or no to anything, and that would be it. If he made me quit hockey, I would not be here. But he probably thought, Ilya can make money, Ilya can join KLH, he can make our name famous. He was not happy I chose MLH.”

“I’m happy you did,” Shane says, voice so quiet. He’s afraid to say it in case it’s the wrong thing to say. 

“He likes total control,” Ilya says, bypassing it entirely. “He was very strict. So yes, I was scared of him. And scared he would stop me from coming here. But he didn’t. And...and I don’t want to talk about him now. I’m sorry.”

“No, no, that’s okay,” Shane mumbles, rolling toward Ilya and kissing right above his heart. Ilya makes a surprised sound. “Sorry. I just...you’ve always made it look easy. Being...like this. You were never scared.”

“Because I already did my accepting,” Ilya says simply. “You are just starting yours.”

“Yeah.” Shane closes his eyes for a moment, breathing through his nose. He’s starting to get sleepy, which is how he knows he has to go. “I have to get back to my hotel room. I’m not—I’m not running, though. Not like the last time.”

“Relax. I know.” Ilya reaches up and ruffles his hair, then sits up and pulls Shane upright by the arm. Shane smiles sheepishly at him. “Time to go, then. Clothes on.”

Shane slides off the bed and gets dressed again. He puts his shoes on by the door. When he looks back, Ilya is looking at him in a way he’s never seen.

“What?” he says. Ilya doesn’t answer, really. Shane already knows.

Tampa, a blink of an eye later

The weight gets a little lighter, or maybe he gets stronger. Either way, it’s easier to bear.

He’s never had a real crush before. All the times he thought he liked a girl, none of it ever felt like the way he feels about Ilya. It makes him stupid. He looks back at Ilya on the ice, giddy with love, and wham! The next thing he knows, he’s in the hospital. By the time he comes around, he’s on enough morphine to kill a horse.

And then Ilya comes, and he’s glowing like an angel. Shane has literally never noticed the halo around his head before. He can hear Ilya’s thoughts. I love you Shane. We will be together forever. I want to come to your cottage. Please invite me to your cottage.

Shane listens. He loves following instructions.

And Ilya says maybe! Maybe isn’t no. Maybe is yes, actually? Blah blah logic inclusive if… Yes, Ilya wants to come to the cottage so bad. He just knows Ilya will say yes. They’re going to fall in love and fuck in front of the lake. Shane cannot remember for the life of him why he was so upset about being gay. Ilya is so beautiful it’s insane. Shane is so, so lucky. All he can think of is Ilya.

He tells the nurse as much after Ilya leaves. All dopey and euphoric. He swears his eyes are doing the big throbbing heart thing like in cartoons. His own heart feels like it’s beating so fast.

“I love him,” Shane says dreamily, unable to stop smiling. The nurse raises an eyebrow at him, then glances toward the door as if Ilya might be peering through the tiny window.

“Mr. Rozanov?” she asks patiently, taking his vitals efficiently at the same time. “It was nice of him to come see you. I thought he was your rival.”

“I love him,” Shane repeats. His face hurts from smiling so much. He can’t remember the last time he was this happy. Last time he won the cup, probably. “No. Wait. I mean like him.” He laughs. “I like him sooo much. He’s so hot. And nice.”

“Oh,” she says, and very kindly does not tell him to shut up. “Wow. He’s certainly a handsome fellow. He must be different in private than on TV, huh?”

“Yep.” Shane pops the p and sighs happily. “Hey, you can’t tell people stuff, right? Doctor…doctor-patient confidentiality?”

“Well, honey, I’m a nurse, not a doctor, but yes, I can’t repeat anything you tell me.”

“I have a big secret,” Shane says, thrilled to finally be able to share. “And you’re the first one to know! I can’t tell anyone else, so I can tell you. You wanna hear?”

“I’m not sure that I do, hon,” she chuckles, readjusting his pulse oximeter. “This sounds like a big deal. Maybe you should tell a friend before you tell little old me.”

“No, I need to tell you,” Shane insists. He squints at her name tag. Janice. “I need to tell you, Janice. Here it is. Ready? You ready? I’m in love with him. We’ve been having sex for like—“ He scrunches his nose and does a rough calculation. “I don’t know, seven years. Shh. It’s a secret.”

“Oh, that’s quite the secret,” she says after a slight pause, eyebrows disappearing into her bangs. “You know, I don’t need to know the details. I’m glad you’re happy, though.”

“He has a nice dick,” Shane adds. It’s nice to brag about it at last. He’s never been able to talk about how perfect Ilya’s dick is. It should be praised all the time. “But what’s even nicer is his heart. He’s so nice to me. He makes me feel like I’m full of butterflies and clouds.”

“Is that so. All right, Mr. Hollander, I’m going to let you rest. Try and get some sleep, how about that? And let’s not talk about Mr. Rozanov any more. I wouldn’t want to hear something you don’t want me to hear.”

“I wanted you to hear it, though.”

“Okay, buddy, I definitely heard it.” She pats his arm, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Your secret is safe with me. Now close your eyes. Let’s get that heartrate back down.”

From his parents' couch, 2017 Championship Cup Final

Shane Hollander: Hey, Mr. Hunter. Just wanted to say I think it’s really cool of you to come out. Congratulations on winning the cup and MVP and everything. Congratulations on the relationship—I hope you and your partner are doing well and are happy together.

Scott Hunter: Shane? How’d you get my number?

Scott Hunter: I’m assuming it’s you because nobody else calls me Mr. Hunter. You know I’m only three years older than you? You and Rozanov seem to think I’m in my 50s

Scott Hunter: Anyway, Kip and I would love to have dinner with you next time you’re in New York. And thank you for the congratulations—I hope you’ll be next!

Shane Hollander: Oh, well. I’ve always respected you regardless. Would love to have dinner with you and your partner. Anyway, I don’t know if I’m going to be winning another cup any time soon. We’ll see how the shoulder heals.

Scott Hunter: wasn’t talking about the cup buddy

Shane Hollander: What?

Scott Hunter: you know

Shane Hollander: Mr. Hunter?

Scott Hunter: hope you got some courage from me going first. you know what I mean. see you in NY some time

Shane Hollander: (typing) …. (typing) ……… (typing)….

Shane Hollander: Oh

Shane Hollander: Well. I’ll see you soon. Regards, Shane.

Scott Hunter: 😂

Perhaps in the shower, perhaps that very night, but a long time coming either way

For the first time, Shane understands what his mom was talking about the day they shot the CCM commercial.

Someone like him. She meant someone of Asian descent, the pinnacle of proof that they were just as capable as any other person of achieving the highest level of success in a sea of white faces, but he didn’t grow up looking for a face like his. Almost from day one, he was as good as the white kids, better even, and every time they looked at his face under his visor they knew it as well as he did. Sports were the one area where true skill and natural talent could make up for almost anything. Nobody would be looking at the shape of his eyes when he was skating circles around everyone else and posting better stats than nearly every kid his age on the entire continent. He was lucky in that regard, that he never had to compensate by working twice as hard. He was just good, good enough that nobody could afford to overlook him on account of his race.

But he understands what his mom wanted him to be. It’s what Scott Hunter is to him.

He’s someone like Shane.

Ottawa, Summer 2017

The days at the cottage with Ilya that summer are the happiest Shane has ever had. Winning the cup twice, winning silver at the Olympics, winning awards at the end of each season—not a single one of those moments compares to how happy he is with Ilya. He worships Ilya with his mouth and hands, spends hours with his cock in his mouth feeling like the most treasured and beautiful person on earth in the eyes of the man he loves, and there’s no more pain and fear. He doesn’t feel grief for the life he imagined as a kid. He doesn’t want anything else. He doesn’t want it to be different, even if it would be easier. He wants Ilya. He wants the reminder that Ilya is even stronger than him, that his cock is big and heavy and uncut, that Ilya’s hair is short and his body hair unshaven, that he’s a man just like Shane. And Shane feels more like a man than he’s ever felt when Ilya’s cock presses into him, his hole, proof of what he is and how he makes Ilya feel good. And when they’re not devouring each other, they’re this—two souls luxuriating in the privilege of each other’s company, hopelessly intertwined, inseparable.

Shane is so overwhelmed with it he gets restless, smiles like a madman, hops and skips and runs from the bathroom straight back to Ilya’s side like a dog. He’s so high on love he forgets about the outside world just long enough for the outside world to find him.

In a split second, the oasis shatters. Shane is bent over, heaving for air. He used to cry when he woke up in the middle of the night with his PJs and underwear soaked through, apologizing to his parents and clinging to them for evidence of their forgiveness and love even in the face of his failure. He’s close to crying now.

He thought he was brave. Ten minutes ago he could have slain dragons. Now he’s shaking, almost sick to his stomach.

“This is my nightmare,” he gasps as Ilya coaxes him back upright and draws him in for a hug. Shane droops over his shoulder, throat tight and aching viciously. “Ilya, this is my fucking nightmare. Fuck, I’m scared.”

His voice warps with the promise of tears. Ilya squeezes him tight and rubs a comforting hand up and down his spine. “Yes, it is scary,” Ilya murmurs, much steadier than Shane in this moment, and Shane wants to bury his face in Ilya’s neck and hide in his arms and stay there until the threat passes. This wasn’t ever part of the plan. Months of carefully shored-up confidence and hope sluices down the drain in an icy rush when faced with the sharp reality of his parents discovering that their perfect son is hiding a bone-crushing secret. All he feels is molten shame and terror. He can’t do this. If they take it badly, it’ll leave a scar that can never be erased even if they eventually come to terms with it. “But you are brave.”

“No,” Shane chokes out. He’s not. That’s the problem.

“Yes, you are,” Ilya says firmly, kissing his temple gently. “You are so brave, Shane. He’s your dad. He loves you. It’s going to be okay.”

“He ran,” Shane breathes, squeezing his eyes tightly shut. “He ran, Ilya. He must have been horrified. What if he tells my mom before I do? What if—what if he thinks I’m disgusting?”

“Shane,” Ilya says, shaking him slightly and forcing him to stop spiraling for a moment. “Hey. Don’t go there. It’s scary, but you can do this. Come on. Take a deep breath.”

Shane does as he’s told. Ilya puts a hand on his shoulder and looks him in the eye. “What do you want to do?” he asks.

Shane wipes his eyes with the back of his hand and digs deep for all the courage he can find. “I need to talk to them,” he says, voice quivering. Ilya nods in agreement.

“Yes, good idea,” Ilya murmurs. “Do you want me to come?”

“Would you?”

“Yes, of course.” Ilya caresses his cheek, so stable and assured that Shane can feel himself slowly ironing back out and standing straighter. “You want me there?”

Shane bites his lip and nods. “Please,” he mumbles. Ilya pulls him into another big hug and kisses his cheek.

“Is going to be okay,” Ilya whispers. “Get dressed, hm? You want me to drive?”

“I don’t know,” Shane manages, pushing back the hair off his forehead. “Maybe. No. It’s fine.”

“It’s fine,” Ilya agrees. “Everything will be fine.”

Home, finally

Mostly, it is.

But not without some hard conversations. And hard thoughts. His mother asks, a little hurt, if he was ever going to tell them had they not been caught. That’s before she understands that they’re in a relationship, that this isn’t something taken lightly, especially with everything at stake for Ilya. And Shane realizes that, in fairness, he’s not sure he was.

He understands. She carried him for nine months. She birthed him. She poured every ounce of herself into raising him, into making sure he never wanted for anything, into managing all of the variables and stressors and external pressures she could for him to give him the best chance at succeeding and thriving. He was her everything. Her passion project, her job, her love. And the whole time, she thought she was making him into the man he was, while in silence he was becoming someone else.

She’s angry with herself because she loves him. She’s wounded by her own blindness. When she hugs him, and apologizes for making him feel like he couldn’t tell her—with her expectations, her refusal to accept his faults, her determination to propel him to the highest heights—he forgives her. He’s not even sure there was anything to forgive.

His father is somehow harder to face. He should be the easy one—placid, accepting, openminded in the face of Ilya’s sudden appearance in his life. Hockey isn’t important to him—not as important as Shane is. He ran because he was afraid of upsetting Shane, ashamed of having seen something Shane clearly wanted to keep private. He makes sure to explain all that when Shane’s mother takes Ilya outside for a chat to assure him he’s welcome in their house. Shane would be worried about that if he wasn’t so tongue-tied sitting next to his dad on the couch.

“I can hear you worrying,” he says calmly, squeezing Shane’s shoulder. “What’s wrong? Did I say something?”

“No. No.” Shane shakes his head, taking deep, deliberate breaths to calm his nerves. He’s been a wreck since they arrived. Everything still feels unsteady. It feels like the final judgment is yet to come, once everyone has finished talking, and then his parents can deliver their decision on whether or not he’ll be welcomed back for Christmas. “Dad, was it hard to see me with…with a man?”

His dad laughs uneasily. “What do you mean? It was…I mean, I guess I’ve never seen you kissing someone before, and it was clearly…you know, very passionate, but—” Shane sighs audibly, pained, and his dad shakes his head fondly at him. “It’s fine, Shane. You’ve been an adult for a while. It’s normal. I’m glad you’re having normal experiences. Whether it’s with Rozanov—Ilya, sorry—or someone else, I can get along with just about anyone, you know that.”

“Yeah,” Shane agrees absently. His dad is the weaker personality of his two parents, the more willing to listen first and speak later. When he was a kid, and his mother pushed him too far, his dad was the one who came to his room later and talked him down from the tightly-wound ball of stress he’d become. He learned his emotional regulation from his dad, not his mom. “I mean, but specifically with a man. Was it hard to see me with a man? Was it…” Shane scrubs his palms over his face, unable to articulate the insecurity sitting behind his words. “I don’t know. Gross, or wrong, to see your son kissing a man?”

“Are you asking if I think it’s gross that you’re gay?” his father asks plainly, a little shocked. Shane cringes. It sounds awful that he’d even accuse his father of such naked bigotry. It doesn’t fit with the soft-hearted dad he’s always known, but he needs to hear it spelled out. He needs to know this. Because it’s his father, the only male figure in his life, the one who taught him what made a man and what didn’t.

“I don’t know. Not like that. I know you’re not—I don’t know why I said that.”

“Shane, apart from the normal discomfort of seeing my own kid in an intimate moment, all I felt was sad that you’d had to hide it,” his father says softly. “I thought, oh my god. I gave him all those talks about sex and dating and it was all about girls. You had to figure it all out yourself. I failed you there.” His father smiles regretfully, fidgeting awkwardly in his lap. “Shane, every child grows up and becomes an adult with a sex life. Sometimes as a parent, you—you miss the precise moment when it happens, but you always know it’s going to happen someday. I guess we missed it by a long shot.”

“So you—it was just a normal…parent thing?” Shane pressed, face flaming. He does wish more than anything that the moments he had with Ilya at the cottage had stayed just between them. He wishes they’d found out some other way, even if he still didn’t ultimately get to tell them himself. Anything would have felt better than his dad walking in on them being intimate.

“You think your mom babies you, but when I look at you I still see you, one year old, this sweet little boy who loved watching hockey games on my lap,” he says, eyes welled up with nostalgia. “Shane, I’m so sorry I left so fast, but I thought you’d want space. I thought if you’d wanted to tell us you would have, I guess. I’m sorry.”

“No, that’s okay,” Shane says, voice more even and breathing slowly returning to a more normal pace. Relief. Oh, god, relief. “I get it. I just—yeah. Maybe there wasn’t a good way to deal with it. Either way.”

“I think you might be right.” His dad pats his back sportingly. “I will say, I am so sorry I never gave you a gay sex talk. Clearly you figured out how it works just fine.”

Shane clears his throat with a wince, casting his gaze up at the ceiling and wishing he could disappear. “Uh. Hm. Thanks, Dad. Wasn’t necessary.”

“There’s plenty on the internet nowadays. I probably wouldn’t have been able to tell you anything helpful, anyway. You are wearing condoms, right?”

“Dad,” Shane protests, dropping his face into his hands. “Really. I’m almost thirty. Please.”

“Okay, okay,” he chuckles. “Just thought I’d cover my bases. Shane, I’m happy for you. You know that? I think your mom is still in shock, but I suspected. I’m actually relieved to know that you weren’t just lonely all these years. I’m glad you were with someone, however it happened. I’m glad to have been wrong about that. And I’m looking forward to getting to know Ilya. So don’t let your mom scare him away.”

Shane smiles a small, tentative smile and lifts his face off his hands. “Yeah. I won’t.” He looks up at the framed photos on the wall, a myriad of childhood memories and family moments. There’s a picture front and center of him on skates with a hockey stick, Grandpa standing right behind him and guiding his hands on the stick. It was always one of Shane’s favorite pictures. Hockey was always about Dad and Grandpa. He knew every time he played he was making them proud.

“Grandpa would have hated it, though,” Shane says without thinking. “If he was still here. He’d hate that I’m…he’d hate it.”

To his surprise, his father takes a deep breath and says, “I suspect so.”

Shane nods, almost a little disappointed that his father didn’t disagree. But there’s no colorable argument to be made.

“How much do you remember him? You were still young when he passed.”

“I remember a lot. He used to come to my games and stuff. I know he played a lot outside with me in the yard. He used to tell me to toughen up. Don’t be a sissy. That kind of stuff. I guess it made hockey easier, being tougher.”

His father looks at him with slightly watery eyes, brow minutely furrowed. Shane has the odd sense that he’s said the wrong thing. “I mean, I loved him,” Shane adds quickly. “So much. I just wanted him to be proud, you know. He taught me a lot. I’m not saying it was bad.”

“You know, I never discussed this much with you,” his father says quietly, “but we had a lot of fights over you when you were a kid.”

Shane blinks a few times, caught off guard. “You did?”

His father sighs deeply and rubs the bridge of his nose, evidently uncomfortable. “Oh, yeah. I don’t know, kid. I knew when you were two or three that there would be issues. I mean, he raised me. I knew how he would be with you. And you were quiet, shy. I just knew.”

“I don’t think you’ve really talked about growing up,” Shane ventures uncertainly. His mother’s childhood was laid out to him in vivid detail across the years, full of fun and warm memories of her parents and grandparents and being in the first generation of her family to be born in Canada. Shane assumed his father’s childhood was relatively plain, not worth talking about.

“You know, I grew up playing hockey and hearing him tell me the same damn things. ‘Don’t cry,’ ‘don’t be a sissy,’ ‘don’t be a pussy,’ ‘man up,’ all of that. I don’t know. It felt normal to me growing up, but it didn’t feel normal when he said it to my five-year-old.” Shane’s dad dabs the moisture from his eyes with the heel of his hand. “There’s a special kind of hurt, watching your kid get hurt. He was tough as nails. Military man. He used corporal punishment on us kids pretty liberally. He tried to spank you when you were about two, and I told him if he ever touched you again I’d beat his ass. Kicked him out of the house that day, told him to come back when he was ready to apologize. I’m hoping you were too young to remember.”

“I don’t,” Shane affirms, startled. “Dad, why didn’t you tell me this stuff?”

His father cringes, exhaling uncomfortably through his nose. “Oh, I don’t know. Some of it was my own shame. I didn’t want you to think of me being disciplined like that. As a father, you want your son to look up to you. It made me feel weak to remember how easy he used to scare me. You want your kid to think you’re brave and strong, like you can protect them from anything. I thought I had to project that to you to make you feel safe.”

“Of course I looked up to you. You’re my dad. You’re—you’re the only man who counts,” Shane says, and realizes with a sudden clarity that it’s true. No other man’s opinion of his masculinity has mattered to him for a long time. He cares what people think, but at the end of the day, the only man he wants to affirm his masculinity is his own dad.

“Well, I wish I could go back and do a better job of setting those boundaries with him. You shouldn’t have heard him call you names. We had a lot of fights out of your sight about it. He had a very particular worldview. He loved you—he loved me, too, in his way—but I know he wouldn’t have tolerated you being gay. I’m glad he passed long before you could see that side of him, before you knew it yourself. I think he’s been dead long enough that I can finally say, he was a mean old bastard.”

Shane laughs, and his father does too, tears and all. 

“I never wanted you to grow up to be like him, or even like me,” his father says. “I wanted you to grow up being you, whoever that was. And now I finally know who that person is. Being gay—it changes very little of how I see you, okay? But it’s also important, because it’s who you are. You’re my kid. I love all of you.”

Shane reaches out and wraps his arms around his dad’s shoulders for a big hug. There’s a lump in his throat. Grandpa Hansen watches from the photo on the wall, no longer a gargoyle on his shoulder, and hopefully no longer on his father’s either, power diminished.

“I love you, Shane,” his father whispers, squeezing him tightly in return. “I promised myself I’d do better than my dad with me. If that’s all I achieved, well, I won’t be taking many regrets to the other side.”

“Dad,” Shane croaks, tears pooling in his eyes. He buries his face in his father’s shoulder like he did when he was little, when he scraped his knee and came inside bawling. His dad never told him to get tough, never told him boys don’t cry. He just held Shane, patched him up, and dried his tears when they stopped. “I love you.”

“Oh, buddy. I love you more than I think you know. I wish you’d told me years ago. It doesn’t change a thing.”

Maybe it doesn’t matter anymore, being a man. Maybe it just is what it is. He takes off the skin suit and removes all the pins. He doesn’t really need them anymore. He’s one unified piece, whole in body, an enigma of many things. He was a boy, and then a man, and then a lot more things.

And it just—doesn’t matter. He doesn’t need to keep trying to grow into the silhouette of a man his grandfather would have approved of. He’s done his growing up. This is where he stops for now. Maybe short of the finish line, but not by much.

It’s a pretty good place to end up. Shane thinks he can learn to live with it.