Work Text:
The letter comes on a Tuesday.
It’s stuck like an afterthought between a belated birthday card and the water bill. Shane almost flips past it, before he catches sight of the MLH logo in the top left corner and the train of idle thought he’s been riding fully derails.
Holy shit.
Shane’s been expecting it for weeks, waiting for this moment for years, and somehow, it’s still a surprise. Maybe because it’s a Tuesday. News like this—life-changing news—shouldn’t happen on a weekday.
It’s easy as anything to let his body slip into that incongruous space between instinct and training. Shane’s heartbeat is too heavy to stay in his chest, the thumping echo dragging a little farther along his veins with every step. He drops the rest of the mail on the sideboard by the door and holds the letter in both hands.
It’s thick.
He pinches the edges lightly, feels the cushion of what has to be at least three or four pages inside. Rejection letters don’t need that many words. He rubs his thumbs against the grain of the paper until the stark white starts to discolor.
Maybe he should wait. His mom and dad will be home soon; they probably want to be here for the news. It’d be fun to see their reactions, too. Getting hit with the full force of their excitement might actually make this whole thing feel a little more real.
Of course, if Shane is wrong…if he gathers them around just to read off the first line of thank you for your interest—
Shane slots his finger under the flap and rips it open fast enough he feels it bite back; a sharp, stinging line through the meat of his knuckle. He ignores the pain, somehow fumbles open the letter despite every ounce of dexterity evaporating out of his body in a puff of panic, and skims past the letterhead and addresses until he sees the one word he’s looking for.
Congratulations.
Whatever else the letter says gets lost in the wet, swimmy blur that swells over the world, and Shane is suddenly, stupidly grateful that no one is around to see.
Two hours later, when he presents the letter to his parents, Shane’s eyes are dry and his words come easy, no lump in the way to choke them back. Now, though, Shane buries his face in the crook of his arm and tries not to let the weight of what’s just happened knock him on his ass.
He’s going to be a prospect.
He’s going to be in the fucking MLH.
Prospects aren’t allowed to talk to the press, but that doesn’t stop the articles from coming out anyway. It’s the same every year, wildly speculative pieces on who will go where and what that might mean for draft day. Officially, the MLH says all prospects get the same experience in the program. Unofficially, everyone knows that’s bullshit.
The worst part is, there’s no real way to predict where anyone will go. At least with the draft, there’s some transparency about how decisions are made, but whatever rationale is used to place prospects is a mystery. It’s pointless to waste any time or energy hoping for one outcome or another.
Shane makes a shortlist anyway, if only to give his mind something to chew on other than itself.
He focuses on teams instead of players, gravitating towards the ones that will keep him somewhat close to home: New York, Montreal, Boston. Not Ottawa, because even the perk of staying that close to his parents wouldn’t outweigh the disappointment of getting placed with the worst team in the league.
Toronto would be cool. Shane’s pretty sure Kent is the only former prospect they have who’s still eligible to mentor. He’s a star centre, the reason the Guardians made it to the finals three out of the last five years, the reason they might go all the way this year.
Shane could learn a lot from a player like him.
"How are you settling in?" his mom asks once the waiter has taken their drink order. The restaurant is bright and buzzing, the hum of activity around them loud enough that Shane can easily pretend he didn't hear.
There's no real chance of dodging the question completely—this is his mom, after all—but the lull gives Shane time to let the spike of adrenaline settle.
"Shane?" she prompts, and he reluctantly pulls his eyes away from the menu to find her staring expectantly. "How are you settling in?"
"It's only been two weeks," Shane says, because it's easier than lying. No, not easier. For as bad of a liar as Shane is, he's never had much problem slipping things past his parents. But it feels wrong to lie to his mom's face, even if the rationale makes sense. There's no point in making her worry over nothing.
Even if he wanted to tell her, Shane doesn't know what he'd say. Kent hasn't done anything wrong. Not really. Not on purpose.
"I know," she says, running her hands over the tablecloth in front of her. There's a pucker in the fabric that didn't quite get pressed out and Shane watches it spring back up every time she tries to smooth it out. "But you've barely said anything about it. Are you—your mentor, is he—"
"Kent's great." It's the truth by almost every metric. Kent's a great player. A great captain. A great host. The MLH wouldn't let him mentor if he wasn't great at that, too.
She's looking at him expectantly, clearly waiting for more. Shane reaches, roots around for something normal, expected.
"He's got a great house."
She smiles, but it's the thin, wide one; not even a glimpse of teeth. "You look pale, honey."
The laugh that comes out of Shane doesn't sound forced at all. "Well, yeah. I'm tired. Someone has been holding my white noise machine hostage in Ottawa for two weeks. You remembered to bring it, right?"
That cracks her, splits that nothing smile into a real grin, teeth and all. "Yes—but you wouldn't have needed me to bring it if you used the packing list I made you."
"Yeah, yeah," Shane says, leaning back against his chair, posture loose and easy even as the knot in his stomach twists and twists. By the time the waitress comes, Shane only feels a muted nausea where his appetite had been.
That's fine. Kent's a stickler about diet, anyway.
For a while after Shane moves in, the contract sits in a half unpacked box at the back of his closet, along with all the other paperwork that felt smart to bring, if largely unnecessary to have on hand. Two months later, Shane fishes it out, put it in the drawer of his nightstand, signature page on top.
It helps, on nights like these. When he’s tired and sore and his thoughts won’t stop circling. When he’s stumbling, clumsy from drinks he hadn’t wanted to finish, needing a minute—just a minute—but knowing if he stretches that minute too long, Kent will come looking for him. When the urge to go home is so strong, Shane thinks he'll choke if he tries to swallow it down.
He rolls the drawer out and looks at the peaks and valleys of his signature and reminds himself:
This is his choice.
"извращенецPervert," Rozanov spits at the TV as Hunter swipes the puck from Kent, dekes left and tears down the ice in a breakaway. Shane doesn't need a translation—he's heard it enough times by this point that he has it memorized
"He's having a good night," Shane teases, loose, and warm, and well-fucked, caught up in the languid pleasure of having nowhere to be and nothing to do for the next eight hours. It’s a prospect combine weekend and they've been assigned to room together again. Kent is miles away in New York and while the next two days might be filled to bursting by the MLH, the nights are theirs.
It's nice. A little vacation from reality.
Shane's feeling so good there's only a flicker of dread when Hunter takes his shot and puts it past the net. It doesn't matter if the Guardians lose tonight. Shane won't be home to deal with the fallout.
Rozanov boos and tosses a pillow at the screen and even that flicker gets snuffed out under the burst of laughter Shane can't hold back. "Jesus Christ, where's that interteam spirit I've heard so much about?"
"Shoved up all of our asses, along with their cocks," Ilya mutters. Shane thinks it's meant to be funny, and maybe it would be, with a little less bite, a little less anger burning up under the surface. Maybe it will be, years from now, when all this is behind them.
Maybe we'll look back on all this and laugh.
"Nobody said being a prospect was easy," Shane says as, on-screen, Kent slams Carter Vaughn into the boards. "Hunter seems nice."
"Nice?" Rozanov scoffs, and Shane can feel him stiffen where their sides are pressed together. "He makes me suck his old man cock. In Russia, we do not call this kind of person nice. We call them rapist."
Cold washes over Shane, his limbs going heavy, his skin numb. He sits up, his mouth flooded with the metalline taste of adrenaline.
"Don't—it's not—"
"Fuck, Hollander," Rozanov says, brow pinched together, reaching for him. "What are you—”
Shane slaps his hand away, too angry and disgusted to be touched. "How can you even—you signed a contract. We all signed a contract. You can leave anytime. Nobody's getting raped."
Rozanov stares at him, jaw tight, the muscles at the hinges clenching and unclenching like he's chewing something up instead of spitting it out. All at once, he's up, a string of Russian trailing behind him as he crosses to the bathroom and shuts the door behind him. A moment later, the shower starts up. Shane considers going in after him, but he's still too angry and he doesn't want to chase down what'll just be another fight. Instead, he wipes away the stickiest parts of the mess on his body, pulls on a pair of boxers, and drops back into his own bed to sleep.
It's still dark when he wakes up again, the room pitch black except for the lit up buzzing of his phone on the nightstand.
"Hollander," Rozanov grumbles from the other side of the room, voice sleep rough but clear enough that it's obviously not the first time he's called out. "Your fucking phone."
"Sorry, sorry," Shane says. He scoops the phone up and tries to turn off the alarm, except it's not the alarm.
There are three notifications on the screen — all missed calls from Kent.
"Fuck." Shane is wide awake now. He slips out of bed, throws on whatever clothing he can find, not even caring if it's his or Rozanov's. Before he heads into the hall, he glances back over his shoulder. "I'm just going to—"
"I don't fucking care. Do what you want."
And Shane does. He lets the door click closed behind him and calls Kent back.
Greatness requires sacrifice.
Shane had learned that early: ten years old, sat between his parents as they laid out the reality of life in the MLH.
“You’ll miss out on a lot of things you’ll want,” his dad had warned, though Shane couldn’t fathom ever wanting anything more than hockey.
“And you’ll have to put up with a lot,” his mom had added. “Things that don’t seem fair. Things others won’t have to deal with.”
That Shane could fathom. He’d already seen it, in the way his team treated Liu. He knew it was only a matter of time before he played on a team that wouldn’t lump him in with everyone else just because of his last name.
Still, even then Shane knew he’d put up with whatever level of bullshit necessary to climb to the top of the league. He knew it’d be worth it.
And it will be, Shane reminds himself as he showers, taking care to sluice the remnants of the evening off his skin and out of his body. It will be worth it.
It has to be worth it.
For how large Ryan Price is, he's remarkably easy to miss. The banquet room where the mixer is being held isn't big, there aren't many places to hide. Yet, somehow Shane doesn't clock Price until he's just there. Sidled up right next to him out of nowhere.
They haven't interacted much beyond a passing hello at team events—he's not part of Kent's crew and Kent doesn't like Shane talking much to people outside his chosen circle—but Shane makes a point of keeping track of who's who on the team anyway. Still, Shane doesn't know much more than the bare details: he's a recent trade, Toronto’s new enforcer. The shield that’s supposed to keep Kent off the boards, out of the hospital and netting goals.
He does a good job. Shane tries not to resent him for that.
“Hey. Hollander, right?” Price says, and Shane nods, forces a smile, sticks out his hand. Networking is important. Price’s hand is big, but his grip is light and loose, eyes everywhere but Shane's face. He leans in a little, hunched forward, like he’s trying to swallow up his own bulk, voice dropped low as he asks, “You’re Kent’s?”
Kent’s. Shane’s stomach puckers right along with his smile. Funny the effect a bit of punctuation can have on a man.
“I’m his prospect, yeah.” Shane’s correction is cold, but Price doesn’t seem to notice. He’s jumpy, like there’s nothing but fast-twitch muscle fibers in that bulky frame of his. Shane is about to pull away, make some polite excuse, when Price whispers:
“I was, too. Five years ago.”
The words cut through Shane, clean as a papercut. His body reacts with visceral immediacy—throat tight, face hot, his heart a relentless slam of muscle against his ribs—before the full weight of that even registers.
“That’s great.” It's as meaningless as a scream, just noise his body can’t contain. Something to fill the space between them where what he wants to say can’t fit.
“Is it—” Price stops, shifts, starts again. “How are you doing?”
It’s such a stupid question, Shane can only wonder at what his first, aborted attempt was going to be. Shane wets his lips, remembers that he has a drink and takes a slow sip as the prickle of worry in the back of his mind simmers into full on paranoia. Anyone could be listening. Anyone could be watching.
A loud, familiar burst of laughter carries from the other end of the room and Shane’s head swivels towards it. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Price move, too.
Coincidence, Shane’s sure. It’s natural to look toward a loud sound. As natural as deer looking up at the crack of a stick underfoot. Nothing more.
Kent is near the bar, holding court surrounded by his group of cronies, no WAGs in sight. He’s telling a story, the men around him all demonstrating some exaggerated proof of how funny it is—bowled over, clutching at someone's shoulder, head thrown back—all of them laughing, laughing, laughing. Too distracted to notice the path of Kent’s gaze. Not that anyone would think twice about a mentor keeping an eye on their prospect during an event like this.
A responsible mentor, doing his job. That's Dallas fucking Kent.
Shane drains the rest of his drink and sets it down on a passing waiter’s tray. Price is watching his face. Shane can’t make out the full detail of his expression in the blur of his periphery, but he hopes for both their sakes that it’s as blank as Shane’s own.
Kent gives the slightest jerk of his head and Shane feels an answering tug in his gut, then the slightest, barely there brush of a hand—Price’s hand—against the back of his arm.
“I just need to know how you’re doing,” Price says and Shane keeps his eyes on Kent’s face, makes sure he sees the smile Shane slots back into place.
“Living the dream,” Shane says, and walks away.
Later, Shane won't remember it all.
It's a good thing, he thinks. Easier, probably, to have everything blur into a confusing smear of awful rather than exist in the same vivid technicolor he experienced the first time around. He's grateful. Mostly.
It's not gone, of course. Shane knows what happened—the same way he knows he went to prom or learned to drive—but knowing and remembering are two different things.
It's a good thing. It's proof, isn't it, that what happened wasn't that bad in the grand scheme of things. If it really mattered, he'd remember every single second of that too-long night. Wouldn't he?
He'd remember more than bits and pieces he has, those unsettling freeze frames and snatches of sound, of Kent's voice.
More than the earnest blue of Kent's eyes as he leaned in close enough to kiss.
This only lasts as long as you want it to.
More than the warmth of his hand under Shane's chin.
You don't have to keep going.
More than the tangle of fingers in his hair.
Look at me. You know how to make this stop.
More than shaking.
All you have
Shaking.
All you have to
Shaking his head no every time Kent asked.
All you have to do is—
It's June. Shane is standing on a stage, accepting a Montreal jersey. The crowd is cheering. His mom is beaming at him. He thinks his dad is crying.
Kent is behind him. He reaches for the jersey in Shane's hands and Shane almost jerks away before he remembers.
Right. Tradition.
Shane hands it over, lets Kent pull it over his head, tug it down onto his body. Like dressing a favorite doll.
When it's done, Kent pulls him in, hugs him tight. Shane swears it'll be the last time the fucker ever touches him off the ice.
Just this one, last time.
It's fine.
It's worth it.