Chapter Text
June, 2000.
Ottawa.
A suitcase sat near the door, a carry-on stacked on top, a pullover folded neatly across the duffel. Shane shuddered to think about how his tux was probably wrinkling inside of the suitcase, even despite the careful consideration he had taken to avoid creased sleeves. His boarding pass sat on the dresser, folded too many times. Los Angeles International. June 24th. 10:40 a.m. In an hour, they’d leave for the airport. For Los Angeles. For the NHL Draft, for everything Shane had been working desperately, determinedly, his entire life. Well, maybe not his entire life, but at least since he had been three and skating clumsily with his father, David.
It wasn’t like he didn’t deserve this. He’d earned it. Over and over again, he’d earned it. It wasn’t his God-given right like some players would think, like Ilya Rozanov would think, but Shane damn well deserved to be up there. He’d be a first draft pick and go somewhere great, then become a hockey legend like Sergei Vetrova. A penthouse or two, buy his parents whatever gifts of gratitude he could find, and maybe, build a cottage for himself like his parents lakeside oasis. That was the plan. That had always been the plan. Shane was so lost in his thoughts, chewing on the hoodie string, that he didn’t notice the door creak open.
“Are you ready?” David Hollander shuffled into the room, his gaze sweeping over the walls. Each memento of boyish youth and childhood accomplishments from plastic gold trophies to his first jersey mounted on the navy walls.
Shane was. He was ready. Nervous, excited, his stomach aching so badly he could barely breathe.
“Yeah, I’m great.” Shane said but he couldn’t look at his dads eyes. His shoes, New Balance, grey and shiny, but anywhere besides his dads eyes because if Shane did, then he might tell him everything was whirring in his head like an airplane engine. He couldn’t do that. His parents had worked so hard to get him here and now it was his turn.
He had to do this for them.
“You could always go to McGill!” A laugh, a gentle playful shove at his dads shoulder. “Just because they’re the greatest college team ever, dad, doesn’t mean I’m going to miss a chance at the NHL.”
“Besides, it’s too late now.” Shane said with a swallow, trying to play it off with the ease of laughter.
“We’ll support you no matter what, you know that right?” His father said.
They had supported him enough. It was Shane’s turn now. There was a sharp, unexpected and loudly annoying ring of the landline in its bell like tone throughout the house. A mercy to silence Shane’s spiral that would happen if he thought one more time about disappointing his parents.
“I’ll get it!” Bellowed his moms voice from below. “I better go check on her, make sure she doesn’t need any help. Come on down in a minute, you know your mom, she’ll want to take a picture of you with your suitcase.”
Just like that, his father left, a squeeze on his shoulder in parting and left the room, creaking stairs echoing in his wake leaving Shane alone in his childhood bedroom. The silence embraced him, comforting and familiar. His eyes shut, shuttering into complete darkness as he inhaled.
Inhale.
Exhale.
It didn’t help.
“Shane, can you come down here?” Cried his mother from downstairs.
His eyes flicked open and stilled on his bedroom once more. Navy sheets, typical wooden adornments of his dresser and bedside table, and all the hockey memorabilia that could fit into his bedroom. Shane’s fingers stilled on one frame, a photo taken right before his game against Team Russia. Against Ilya Rozanov. Not much had changed since then. He hadn’t grown any taller or lost all the baby fat of his face that he despised. Shane wondered in some deep shameful and bizarre disturbing chain of thought if Rozanov had changed much. Has Rozanov grown taller? Faster? Had the curls gone unruly, the edges of him sharpened into something Shane couldn’t catch up to? Was he still an asshole?
No.
Ilya Rozanov was still an asshole.
And somehow, that made it worse
Why the fuck was he thinking of Ilya Rozanov? Snap out of it, idiot.
“Shane!”
“Coming, coming, sorry mom.” His cheeks flushed, flustered and embarrassed, as he stumbled through the room grabbing his suitcase, slinging down the duffel bag over his shoulder before bounding out of the door. A final wrap of Shane’s fist around the doorknob before closing, gently, the door to his bedroom. When Shane reached the bottom of the stairs into the welcoming living room, both of his parents had gathered and seemed.. Unsettled? His eyebrows shot up. The knots in his stomach seemed to twist and pull, so stretched like a tightrope. Shane had never seen his mom with an ounce of unsettledness across Yuna Hollander's visage. She was always so steeled. So ready to take on any challenge that came her way.
What was it?
Was it his grandparents?
Had their flight to Los Angeles been canceled?
“Shane, why don’t you sit, buddy?” Patted David Hollander against a cushion on the sectional where too many throw pillows were stacked. He said it gently, too gently.
He didn’t move.
“What is it?” Shane suddenly became aware of his fingers twisting and his feet shifting beneath himself. The beat of his heart quickened like some terrified prey animal.
Thumb to pointer, middle to pinky.
Again.
Shane stared at the carpet. He could see the individual fibers now. Navy. Darker navy. One frayed thread curling at the edge.
Yuna swallowed. She opened her mouth, closed it again. Her hands curled tight in the fabric of her coat. Shane became painfully aware of the sound of the clock ticking on the wall. One. Two. Three.
“I just got off the phone with the board of the NHL and the Montreal Voyagers.” She stepped forward, trying to bridge the distance. “ I don’t know what happened. We’ll fix it, I promise, sweetheart. But, they’re not. They’re not drafting you this year, Shane.”
They’re not drafting you this year, Shane.
Was this some sick joke? He was Canada’s biggest upcoming player in hockey. This couldn’t be true, right?
“Apparently, there’s been some rule change and discourse with the commissioner about making an example of not drafting people from the NCAA.”
Something about rules. About examples. About four years. Shane didn’t quite hear what his mom said, but he felt it.
Shane’s world fell from its axis.
He didn’t move.
He couldn’t.
“They want to make you and some other players look like that isn’t true. That they’ll draft players from the NCAA into a guaranteed spot after four years. The Voyagers wanted you and Coach Theriault wayou after the NCAA.”
They’re not drafting you this year, Shane.
Again.
“I don’t understand.” His dad said.
Louder the words screamed at him.
“It’s ridiculous. I’ll call someone, a lawyer. We’ll fix this.” His mother angrily muttered, already jumping into her manager role to fix this.
Fix this? How, how could they possibly fix this? He had failed. They couldn’t fix Shane for failing. He wasn’t good enough to make it to the NHL. Shane hadn’t proved his worth and now they were benching him to the NCAA.
Shane couldn’t be fixed.
His ears rang. His mother said his name again, but it sounded far away, like she was calling from the end of a rink.
“Shane?”
Her voice was warped. Further and further away from him until all Shane could hear was the distant shout of his parents.
His lungs seized.
Shane couldn’t breathe.
He tried to inhale. It failed halfway in, sputtering and useless.
Again.
Thumb to pointer.
Middle to pinky.
It was useless. His heart beat heavily against his chest. Thumping crazily.
“I can’t—” Shane tried to say, but the words tangled in his throat. His tongue felt thick.
Wrong. He couldn’t swallow away this feeling.
Shane needed air. He needed to escape this room where the walls closed in far tighter than they had ever been before. Fingers shook, buzzing like pin needles as if they had been asleep this whole time.
He tried to breathe. He really did. Sucked in another breath, faster than before. It burned so badly that it sputtered out in a chest aching cough.
“Hey, hey,” His mom said, suddenly right there, hands on his shoulders. “Shane. Look at me.”
Shane couldn’t. He couldn’t stop this. This spiraling where his vision blurred into one dark obsolete tunnel. He couldn’t avoid the buzzing in his ears that was more deafening than a crowd's roar.
He was going to pass out.
He was going to embarrass himself.
He was going to die on the carpet of his parents’ living room.
“I can’t breathe,” Shane gasped, the words tearing out of him.
Later, hours later, he would only remember the feeling of failing and the sounds of his brokenness. The sound of a hospital's echoing intercom. They had bandaged him up… prescription… psychologist… Whispered words that Shane shuddered to remember.
In the car ride home, the city passed in streaks of light he couldn’t focus on. His cap was pulled low over his face. His parents thought he was asleep.
“Rozanov didn’t get drafted either,” Yuna said quietly.
Somewhere, unbidden and cruel, the image of Ilya Rozanov’s face surfaced, sharp, smug, untouched by this moment. Except, it had been. Yet, Shane couldn't imagine that Ilya Rozanov would have completely shut down and lost his mind like an idiot.
Silence.
“There’s always McGill,” his father replied.
Shane didn’t open his eyes.
Somehow, that made it worse.