Chapter Text
November 2016
A news story breaks when the Voyageurs land in Boston the day before their game against the Raiders. Shane is sitting on the bus when it starts to circulate, and one snippet of conversation catches his attention and stops his blood cold.
“—and it says it was another player who made the complaint—” someone is saying, and Shane tunes in immediately, heart in his throat.
Shane swallows, takes a breath, and forces himself to relax. He leans towards Hayden who’s sitting on his right. “What are they talking about?” Shane asks, keeping his voice as neutral as possible.
Hayden shakes his head, brows furrowed as he stares down at his phone. Shane follows his gaze and oh.
Detroit Novas player Dustin Gardner named as aggressor in leaked internal team memo regarding an alleged sexual assault.
A shaky breath rattles its way out of Shane’s lungs. Then, he feels guilty. He’s thankful that someone may have been sexually assaulted by their own teammate, and it makes him sick to his stomach, but he doesn’t know how else to feel. Is it wrong to be glad that this article, while it has the potential to expose someone else’s pain, wasn’t about his own?
“Jesus christ,” he finally forces out, feigning mild distaste rather than the forest fire of disgust and hate that’s currently ripping through him.
“I know,” Hayden says, shaking his head grimly. “Says it was that rookie player Carlson? The one they traded to Buffalo at the deadline last year.”
“Wow, so, what, they swept it under the rug and traded him?” Shane says, the anger bleeding through just a tad.
Hayden turns, finally meets his eyes. They flicker over Shane’s face for a moment, like he’s studying him, and Shane tries not to squirm under the scrutiny.
“If what’s in that memo is true, then yeah, it looks like it,” Hayden agrees.
“Yo, Pike, you read this, too?” Comeau calls from across the aisle.
“Yeah, bro, it’s sick,” Hayden replies.
“I don’t know, man. Remember how bad he played? Was a total bust,” Drapeau pipes up a few seats up. “Probably just knew he was gonna get traded and wanted to cause trouble.”
Shane’s mouth goes impossibly dry. He says nothing, eyes flicking teammate to teammate as the conversation devolves into exactly what he was afraid of: a dogpile on a guy who isn’t even here to defend himself. He sits with it, lets it wash over him and serve as just another reminder of why he kept his mouth shut all those years ago and why he’s going to continue to do so.
Shane makes a beeline for the bathroom the second he and Hayden get to their room at the hotel. He sits on the edge of the bathtub and frantically types the name ‘Dallas Kent’ into the Google search bar. The only news it returns is about the player’s latest fight in Colorado and the OT goal he scored in Brooklyn a few weeks ago. He lets himself breath fully, then, and swipes the tab closed. Good. Everything’s fine. He can forget about it again.
Except he doesn’t forget about it, because all that’s running through his head when Ilya says his first name at his place later on that day is “and I know you’ll keep your mouth shut, because it’d be a shame if it hit the news over the summer that Ilya Rozanov is a fucking fag just like you, right?”
So he leaves. He practically runs out of there, flees and pretends like ripping himself away isn’t like losing a limb. Because he can’t drag Ilya into a mess like the one Shane’s been in since Kent followed him back to his room in Sochi. Because he can’t be the reason Ilya ends up in a Russian prison or, worse, dead.