“Hollander,” a voice barked behind him. Shane turned and saw Coach Theriault in the doorway. “Come with me.”
Shane kept his head down as he left the room and followed his coach down the hallway to his office. Coach pointed to one of the chairs in front of his desk, and Shane sat.
“Was it a joke?” Coach asked. His voice was cold and serious. Shane knew saying yes right now was the only answer the man would accept.
“No,” Shane said.
Coach’s jaw clenched. He looked at the ceiling and sucked his teeth, clearly furious.
“How long?” he asked.
Again, Shane knew the only possibly acceptable answer would be “this was the first time.”
“Years,” Shane said, and didn’t elaborate.
Coach inhaled sharply. “Go home. I will talk to management and we’ll decide what to do with you.”
“Am I...benched?”
“Yes, you’re fucking benched, Hollander!” Coach roared. “What did you think would happen?”
Shane’s whole body went rigid. He wanted to scream back in his coach’s face. He also wanted to disappear.
Coach sighed. “This order comes directly from Crowell. You and Rozanov.” He said the name like it was a particularly vulgar slur. “Until this gets dealt with, you’re both sitting.”
“Dealt with?”
“And don’t even think about posting anything online about this. No statements. You’re in enough trouble already.”
“But—”
“Go home,” Coach said again.
Realizing that arguing would be pointless right now, Shane left quickly. He considered leaving his coat in the locker room, but it had his car keys in the pocket.
Everyone stared at him when he walked back into the locker room. No one even tried to hide it.
Shane spread his arms wide. “Okay. Now you know. It’s been going on for years and it’s never stopped me from contributing to this team.” He deliberately used the word contributing; a massive understatement. “We won the fucking cup last year.”
“It’s fucked up,” someone said. Shane turned. It was Comeau.
“You think I don’t know that?” Shane said. “That’s why I’ve been hiding it for so long.”
“Not from everyone,” J.J. said angrily.
Shane took a step toward him, “J.J., I—”
“Don’t want to hear it,” J.J. said. “Is Coach sending you home?”
“Yeah, but—”
“Then fuck off and go home.”
There were murmurs of agreement throughout the room. Shane’s eyes prickled with tears. He’d expected this, but he’d also...hoped for better from this group of guys that he loved so much.
“Hey,” said Hayden, standing up. “I know that everyone is fucking weirded out right now, but try to remember who the fuck this is. Shane is our fucking captain. Our leader.”
“He’s a fucking liar,” J.J. said.
“He’s our fucking friend,” Hayden said sharply. “So maybe everyone feels weird right now or, like, totally grossed out. I get it. It’s Rozanov.”
“Okay, thanks, Hayden,” Shane said.
“But that weirdness goes away, and then you’re going to have to live with how shitty you were to Shane when he needed his fucking boys the most. So think about that.”
There was some muttering that didn’t exactly sound like agreement.
“It’s okay,” Shane said. “I’m leaving. If anyone wants to talk to me, you have my number.” He locked eyes with J.J. “You know where I live.”
J.J. looked at the floor, but then he nodded, once.
Shane left.
* * *
It was after ten o’clock at night when Ilya’s phone finally lit up with a text from Shane: I ate a Snickers bar.
Ilya sent him a FaceTime request right away.
“Are your parents still there?” Ilya asked as soon as Shane’s exhausted face appeared.
“Yeah,” Shane sighed. “They went to bed, I think. I dunno. I’m in my room. I’ve been pretty antisocial.”
Shane’s hair was tied in a messy bun, and he was wearing his glasses. Ilya wanted to hold him so badly it hurt. “Did the chocolate make you feel better?”
“No,” Shane grumbled. “Maybe. It was really fucking delicious, even though it was old. I think it was one you bought me a long time ago.” He sighed. “You gonna gloat about it?”
Ilya didn’t feel victorious. He knew eating candy was basically hitting rock bottom for Shane. “No.”
“Why not? Isn’t this what you want? Fucking relax, Hollander,” he said in a terrible impression of Ilya. “Right?”
“Sweetheart,” Ilya said gently.
Shane sighed. “Sorry. How’s Anya?”
“Asleep,” Ilya said, glancing at her bed in front of the fireplace. He’d used his fireplace more in the two weeks since getting a dog than he had in all the time he’d lived here before.
“What did your team say?”
“I only talked to Wiebe,” Ilya said. “But he was good. Sympathetic.” He’d already decided to keep what Wiebe had shared with him to himself. Wiebe didn’t know Shane.
“Really? Theriault was fucking furious.”
“Because he’s a prick.”
Shane winced. Ilya knew it was hard for him to hear a bad word spoken about his asshole coach. “He’s just, y’know, old-school.”
“Old-school,” Ilya scoffed. “A fancy way of saying he is a prick.”
“It works.”
“My coach is not a prick and we are on fire,” Ilya pointed out.
“Can’t argue that. They’re gonna be hurting without you, though.” Shane shook his head. “It’s such bullshit. We should be playing.”
For a long moment, they just stared miserably at each other, wishing there was someone to blame besides themselves.
“What do you think the fans are saying?” Shane asked.
“I don’t know. Have you looked online?”
“Of course not.”
“No. Me neither. But some people have texted me. Harris. Troy. Wyatt. Max. Svetlana called me. That was nice.”