Chapter Text

endgame

Part 1 - reputation precedes me

To say Shane was nervous before the first official team hangout is an understatement. He's met most of the guys, of course – at the wedding, or on the ice, or in other contexts. Harris and Troy in particular have reached out a lot.

He's still nervous, but he's here, following Ilya onto Boodram's patio. It's a pretty late-summer evening, and the patio is full. It smells like barbeque, there's a fuckton of people Shane only half knows, and he's still not sure how to act around Ilya in crowds.

Especially not a crowd that greets his husband with:

"Captain!"

"Yo, Roz, glad you're here!"

"Good to see you, man, how was your summer?"

Ilya's in his element, tossing clever greetings and quips, hugging and clasping shoulders.

Shane hovers awkwardly. 

He's not sure of his role here. New teammate? Ilya's husband they've barely even heard of before the marriage? Shane Hollander, already a hockey legend and one of the best players in the league?

"You've got no excuses to ever be absent again," Boodram chides Ilya. "Not now that you can just bring your man along!"

That turns eyes to Shane, and he clenches his fist nervously, but Ilya pulls him forward casually with a hand on his back. 

"Well, most of you have met Shane, but introductions do not hurt, yes?"

The hand lets go immediately, like Ilya senses any touch is too much right now, and instead he sticks by Shane's side, starts introducing people one by one as they circulate the space.

Shane could kiss him, he's so relieved.

There's a stream of names and faces. Shane strives to learn them all. He's a perfectionist, and fumbling something like this by calling someone the wrong name is not a mistake he'll afford himself.

It’s good Shane has a reputation for being serious and boring, because he’s definitely quieter than ever. The team wouldn’t know, but Ilya does. Shane can almost feel his husband’s concerned glances.

He can also feel the Centaurs’ glances. It’s stupid to feel so shy and uncomfortable. They’ve all seen him kiss Ilya at their wedding, and must have seen the fucking FanMail video. They’re clearly looking now, even if covertly, keeping tabs on Shane and Ilya as they move through the room. Wondering how Ilya and Shane really fit together, or perhaps judging the distance Shane now keeps between them?

Shane doesn’t know. It makes him jittery and self-conscious.

It’s easier when Boodram and Cassie start serving up food, working together seamlessly. Baby Milo is the only child present, still too young to be left with a babysitter, and he’s passed around from member to member, everyone cooing at his chubby cheeks. The paper plate and cider Harris presses into Shane’s hand gives him something to do.

He’s not bad at small talk, exactly, but his new teammates are feeling him out carefully, which makes him nervous.

There’s no need to be. Ilya’s told him hundreds of stories about these people, it’s like he already knows them. They just don’t know him, and Shane can tell they’re unsure of how to approach him, some even a bit starstruck.

After the food, everyone seems to settle down around the fire pit – people sitting on benches and chairs and the patio itself. Even though he doesn’t want to use Ilya as a crutch, Shane still gravitates towards his husband and sits down beside him awkwardly.

“How are you feeling about moving to Ottawa permanently, Shane?” It’s Caitlin, Dykstra’s wife, who asks the question.

She has no idea how complicated the answer is.

“Good,” Shane says, but even he can hear he sounds uncertain. “I mean– I love moving back home, and I’m excited to get to know the team, but there’s been a lot of stuff happening recently.”

It’s a polite answer, nonetheless. They don’t need to know about the anxiety, or the way he’s mourning a team who didn’t afford him the same loyalty he gave them, or that it’s been an adjustment to live with Ilya permanently. That Shane’s lost most of his friends, and his fans, and some of his life’s purpose in one fell swoop. 

He feels unmoored.

“Nice to be closer to Rozanov?” Caitlin asks kindly, and Ilya perks up beside Shane. “Long-distance must have been tough.”

“Yeah,” Selena Chouinard chimes in, throwing her blonde hair over her shoulder and leaning forward, commiserating. “I mean, sometimes I feel like the team is on the road all the time. And you guys were on opposing schedules, too. I miss Nick like crazy when he’s gone.”

“Oh, I miss you too, babe,” Chouinard tells her, and gives her a quick kiss before focusing back on talking to Dykstra.

“Uh, yeah,” Shane mutters. “It wasn’t a walk in the park.”

He can’t make himself say that he had it easier than Ilya, what with having old friends around instead of integrating into a whole new team while juggling depression and a secret relationship.

“Worth it, though,” Ilya says calmly, and that makes Shane feel better. Caitlin awws and Hayes, on the other side of Ilya, looks over. “Was a shitshow when it came out.”

“You didn’t deserve that,” Selena agrees.

Ilya bumps Shane’s shoulder with his, a warm point of contact. “We wanted to do it on our own terms. After the wedding. Or well, to the team, earlier.”

Wyatt nods. “Either way we would have had your back.”

It cuts to hear Ilya’s teammates say what Shane desperately wanted to hear from his own. His teammates now too, Shane reminds himself, but it doesn’t feel like that yet.

Ilya says something back, but Shane can’t register the words. The conversation continues around them.

“Hollander?” 

Someone has asked him a question.

“Mind repeating that?” It makes his ears burn, but Wyatt simply repeats the question and Shane answers it briefly.

Across the fire pit, someone is snapping photos on their phone, and Shane feels like he’s sitting way too stiffly. Are they in the frame of the shot? He’s sitting so close to Ilya–

Ilya, who leans in close to his ear, voice low and intimate only for them. “What is going on?”

“People are taking photos.” 

Shane swallows dryly. They still have precious few of those themselves, after so many years of being paranoid and careful, and of course he wants more of them. But he doesn’t want pictures of them to wind up on social media again. It makes him stupidly nervous, considering there will obviously be photos of them on the team’s social media accounts soon enough. But that’ll be the official ones, posed and edited. And they won’t catch anything Shane and Ilya don’t want to show.

“Don’t worry about it,” Ilya tells him calmly, then raises his voice to call across the pit. “Hey, Boyle and LaPointe! No pictures of us,” he waves between Shane and himself lazily, “on social media yet!”

Shane’s ears burn, and he ducks his head. Fuck, he didn’t want to make a big deal of it either, but now it is.

“You got it, Cap!” Boyle answers, and LaPointe salutes both Ilya and Shane before they return to goofing around.

Shane digs his nails into his own thigh.

“Not yet?” Hayes lifts an eyebrow at them.

Ilya shrugs. “Such a big deal right now. It will die down a bit. Maybe at some point we will be more open. Just don’t want a repeat.”

Hayes nods. “There’s gonna be lots of questions. After games, at interviews. The media will have a field day each time the two of you are in the same place.”

“Let them.” Ilya seems relaxed about it. “We will not give them anything we don’t want to.”

That Shane doesn’t want to, he means. Ilya is an open book about their relationship.

“That’s the spirit!” Hayes chuckles. “Fuck them for being nosy fuckers!”

Ilya smiles widely, grinning happily at the goalie, and Shane’s stomach is still tying itself into knots. And when his husband turns to him, still caught up in the feeling and obviously aiming to kiss Shane’s cheek – a peck, like he usually does at home when he’s made a good joke that Shane reluctantly rewards with a laugh and an eye-roll – panic flares, sharp and bright. 

Shane dodges the kiss, stands up abruptly.

There’s a flash of hurt in Ilya’s eyes, but also a sense of understanding following immediately after.

“I’m just gonna, uh–”

Shane searches for words, some excuse to get away, shifts his weight nervously from foot to foot. Ilya’s hand lands on his forearm, gripping tight.

“Wait, Hollander. I’ll come with–”

Whatever Ilya was about to say gets interrupted by Hayes' surprisingly steady and loud voice.

“Hollander. Shane.” Like he wants people to listen up, and so they do. Shane hovers awkwardly, caught in Ilya’s grip and Hayes’ gaze. "You know whatever you do and say with this team present will never get repeated anywhere else, don't you?"

Shane is sure he looks like a deer caught in the headlights. "O–okay."

"I'm serious," Hayes says, eyes wide and earnest. The group on the patio has quieted down, every single one of them turned to watch this unfold.

Anxiety is rising, constricting Shane's throat and lungs. Ilya's hand is still clamped on his arm, like an anchor point. It's all that keeps him from bolting.

"We promise," Cassie, Bood's wife, says quietly and kindly. She seems to be the spokesperson for the partners, perhaps because she's hosting. Perhaps just because she seems like a lovely person. "All of us. No photos, no quotes, no nothing. If you guys want to be private about this, it's your call."

Shane is shaking, and he's overwhelmed, and do people this nice and kind really exist?

“You already know anything the social media team puts out about you guys will go through me,” Harris reassures. 

"And we won't bring dates or girlfriends who don't know how to be respectful to team hangouts, so you guys can attend as a couple and not feel like you’ll be gawked at," Young promises, and a few of the other single members of the team nod seriously. “We've already talked about this, when you guys were outed."

Hayes sighs heavily. "We met as a team and we told Roz his business was his own, and that we'd support him and not say a word to the press or on social media unless he wanted us to." The goalie looks to either side of the gathered circle, at team mates and management team members and significant others. "We told Troy the same when he came out, and Ilya back in March, and we'll tell you now, Shane."

Shane blinks, eyes watering. He hardly dares to believe it, but they're all so focused, so intent on him. Every pair of eyes trained on his face.

"I– I don't–" Shane glances helplessly at Ilya. He can't find the words. He's thankful, but also terrified, and he can't find the words. "Ilya–"

Ilya doesn't mind speaking for him, Shane knows.

"It's okay, moy lyubovnik." The Russian endearment flows over him like a breath of fresh air, and he exhales shakily. Slowly, Ilya runs his hand down Shane's arm, weaving their fingers together. Tugs him down to sit at Ilya's side.

Shane goes, almost like a marionette.

Ilya turns to the team. "We appreciate it. Hollander's too overwhelmed right now, but he will thank you later. Many times. Until it is annoying."

That gets a weak huff of amusement from Shane – which was likely the point – and a few scattered laughs. 

"We are not used to being open," Ilya says quietly. "It is–" he searches for a word. "–scary," he settles on, squeezing Shane's hand. "After so many years of secrecy, it has become second nature."

"I'm– sorry," Shane manages, and tries to steady his breathing. The first of many annoying sorries he supposes. It's so fucking embarrassing, panicking in front of his new teammates, and he feels tears prick at his eyes, cheeks likely bright red. "Sometimes I still forget. That we aren't hiding."

"That's totally understandable," Hayes says soothingly, and he's so calm and gentle for a big, tough hockey player. His wife – Lisa, Shane thinks – nods along with him. "And we're not saying you have to be affectionate, or flirt, or do anything except what you feel like doing. We're just saying we don't judge."

Shane's eyes flicker restlessly across the people gathered, but then he lands on Troy and Harris. Troy's got his arms around Harris, his boyfriend's body almost disappearing into Troy's bulk. They've both got a pained look on their face, and Shane knows they've likely been in his shoes. Perhaps that's why the reassuring nod from Troy is what makes him breathe easier.

"I want to try," Shane starts, and feels shy and awkward and clumsy. Only Ilya's warmth at his side, his husband's grip on his hand, soothes him. "Don't get me wrong, I'm proud of us. Of Ilya." It feels like dragging the words out of his throat shouldn't be this difficult, but Shane is so private with anyone outside his own close circle. This is Ilya's circle, though, and will hopefully be his, so he tries his best. "It's just going to take time for me. And I don't want it plastered all over the internet."

The others nod, and that's probably something they're all familiar with.

"We likely will post things," Ilya says calmly. "We just want to control the flow of information. And I don't want Shane uncomfortable."

Like he is right now. It's not a rebuke, not really, but the intensity of the moment breaks.

"Glad we got that sorted," Hayes says, and rises to get more beer. He claps Shane on the shoulder on his way, friendly and firm. "Lisa, you want something to drink?"

Boodram returns to the barbecue to check on something, and slow chatter fills the space.

"Alright?" Ilya whispers in Russian, bending close. Shane nods, and swallows. Tries his best to relax. 

Ilya's stroking over the back of Shane's hand with his thumb – soft, slow movements. Reassuring.

The circle breaks apart a little, people scattering into smaller groups. Ilya sticks close to Shane, like they’re a package deal now, and maybe they are. At some point, Shane wants to stand on his own two feet. Right now, he’s thankful Ilya’s here.

“Hey, man.” That’s Boyle, quietly sidling up to Shane. “Didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable by taking pics.”

“It’s fine,” Shane hurries to say, but it sounds flat. They all know from Ilya’s request and Shane’s reaction that it’s not. “Sorry it became a thing.”

“Don’t give me that polite Canadian bullshit,” Boyle smiles, still talking quietly. “I’m a big boy, I can handle it. But I do like taking pictures. It’s sort of a hobby. So do you mind if I like, take pictures? I won’t post them, but I’ll send them directly to you guys if you want, or in the team chat if it’s group photos.”

That does sound like a nice compromise, and Shane feels relieved Boyle is approaching this in such a low-key way.

“That works for me,” he responds, and Boyle looks pleased. “Thanks, Boyle. And sorry it got a bit blown out of proportion.”

Boyle tilts his head and grins. “Roz is right. You apologize way too much.”

Shane rolls his eyes, they share a laugh, and surprisingly, he feels a small kernel of hope. 

Maybe this will work out.