Older! Captain!Male!Reader x Shane Hollander
Warning ⚠️: Panic Attack, cuddle session
Note: Retailing of the nightclub incident 👀
@velvetsighs as promised, I am tagging you :)
As always, the nightclub was too loud, too dark and too bright at the same time. You hated coming into such a place, finding it hard to enjoy yourself when you constantly ran into fans. But Shane had invited you, or begged you to come would be more exact, wanting to celebrate something. Neither of you were sure of what, but if Shane wanted you there, then you would come.
The battle in the ice had long been forgotten, resting in the dust from the past. Your goalie had made a complete recovery, but missed the rest of the match. He had to witness your loss on the screen, but unlike some teams, yours wasn't a poor sport. The Montreal Metros gave their best, and so did you, stealing the victory with a last-second goal. Made by Shane with the trick you had taught him.
Hollander won your respect when he thanked you for it, the match and again excused himself for Mickey’s injuries. He was a good kid with a promising future.
And during the following weeks, Shane kept texting you almost every day. You followed every one of his matches, encouraging him before them, calming his nerves when he seemed nervous. And you noticed a pattern. If Rozanov was around, Hollander would be acting off.
And that was when you connected the dots.
Why you were here tonight.
For Shane, who was acting off once again. He never admitted seeing Ilya, nor that bad blood or something was going on. You recognized it because you went through it too. The excitement of a secret relationship, the jealousy when the other tried to appear normal, the pain of silence… something you did not wish on poor Shane.
Shane who kept close to you like a lost puppy, shoulder against yours. You nudged him, smiling.
“Easy, Hollander. You look like the boogeyman is coming after you,” you whispered in his ear, and he pushed you off, groaning. “Or is Mister No-Name here tonight?”
That resulted in a weak glare from Shane, making you go ‘Oh shit’. You raised your hand before him, palm up.
“Keys. I am not letting you go home with a drink up your nose,” you added as Shane dropped his keys in your hand, aware you would get them one way or the other.
“I am not drinking,” he whispered, and you snorted.
“We’re in the middle of a nightclub, Shane. You ain't going to get laid or close to him before so many people. You will be drinking your frustration, trust me,” you replied.
Been there, done that. Also saw it a lot.
That was why you had given up long ago. Secret relationships weren't worth it. You preferred waiting for your retirement or actually falling in love before entering a new one. One where you wouldn't hide, where you could be proud of showing off your partner.
Shane’s only reaction was shaking his head as you hid his keys in your pocket.
“It’s just… we haven't spoken in two months,” Shane admitted, biting his lower lip. “I don’t know what to expect.”
“Definitely not a quicky,” you chuckled, getting Shane to blush, which made you laugh. “Easy. He probably missed you too. You should go search for him. Maybe he got busy with training, or something came up.”
You didn't want to admit he might have found another one to replace Shane in bed.
After all, you had heard of Rozanov’s playboy persona. You just hoped he wouldn't hurt Shane’s heart too much. Hoped he wasn't messing around or playing him like a cheap violin.
You didn't like Rozanov, but respected the man as a player on the ice.
Shane looked at you, searching for any trace of you joking. You nudged him again, and this time Shane left, going to look for his secret boyfriend.
You sat at a table with one of Shane’s friends and drank a few mocktails with them. They asked for the funniest moments in training, and you gave it to them: Mickey getting stuck in the goal, the hockey puck disappearing a few times inside your clothes. You were thankful for them not bringing up all the dark moments you had witnessed on the ice, something many others had done.
Shane, he, had asked what year to avoid. Nerdy fool probably knew by heart every events, just wanted to be sure to not forget one, to not talk about one of those events by accident. What a sweetheart.
A sweetheart that came almost running back to you, silent, that wetness in his eyes. Your heart dropped as he plunged his hands into every single one of your pockets, trying to get his keys back. He was shaking, searching frantically. You had to grab him by the shoulders and lead him away, your thoughts turning to the worst as you felt him trembling like a leaf
“Shane, stop it! What happened?” you asked, grabbing both of his wrists in a hand. “What did he do?”
Because of course Ilya Romanov had done or said something. The playboy biting his new toy. Even tho you didn't know the Russian player, it didn't look like him to just hurt anyone like that. You had never read anything or watched an interview where he was nasty to his ex.
“Home, I wanna go home,” Shane replied, little hiccups escaping him as he tried to not cry, looking away from you.
You simply nodded and wrapped an arm around his shoulders, supporting him as he had all but collapsed against you. You watched as he rubbed his lips, trying to keep quiet.
A part of you wanted to sit Shane in the car and come back to beat the truth out of Rozanov, but the other wanted to take Shane as far away as possible and wrap him in a warm and heavy blanket. Baby's first heartbreak, probably not his last, and he had no one to share it with. Besides you, even if Shane hadn't named anyone.
You knew he knew you knew. Which was a headache on its own.
People stared, of course, as you made your way to the car. You played it as Shane having had too much to drink, easily believable in such a place, something you all did at least once. No one would care or remember it in the morning. Still, you looked around, searching for the one who had hurt Shane. You found him nowhere on your way out. As for Shane, once outside, he all but ran toward the car, pulling on the handle even when you hadn't unlocked it. The second you did, Shane jumped inside, sitting in a tight ball on the seat.
You took a single second, observing, wondering if he was going to break down or maybe even hurt himself before getting inside the car and starting the engine. The purring from the motor soothed you, and Shane’s hiccups became louder while he slowly lost control of his breathing.
“Shane, deep breath, kiddo,” you said, trying to sound severe even tho you felt a wave of fear hit you. “Please, don’t stop breathing.”
But no reply came. Instead, from the corner of your eye, you watched as tears rolled down Shane’s cheek, thick and constant as the young captain slapped both hands on his mouth. Even in the dark, with just you for witness, he tried to stay quiet. To not break. It was a losing battle as his shoulders shook violently and he sobbed, kicking the dashboard so hard you swore the airbag would come out. You rested your hand on his leg, squeezing hard, trying to prevent him from doing it again.
“Christ’s on his throne! Shane, don’t do that,” you hissed. “You are going to kill us.”
But Shane wasn't hearing you. You weren't even sure if the poor thing was aware of anything happening around. Wheezing made you flinch as Shane’s breathing became shallow, difficult. You opened the windows, and the wind came in howling, cold, almost biting. Shane didn't react, didn't even look.
You grabbed his hand and pressed it against your chest, just over your heart, which was racing behind your ribs.
“Breathe, follow mine,” you ordered as if you were on the ice with a recruit.
You took slow and deep breath, and continued to do so even when Shane showed no sign he understood. His sobs were heart-wrenching, crushing as he opened his mouth in screams that didn't come out. His free hand grabbed a handful of hair, and you couldn't stop him. But then, as you passed on a red light, you felt Shane take a deep breath, his hand resting on top of yours as he shifted on the seat. His forehead pressed against your shoulder, dampening your clothes.
“I got you, Shane, I got you,” you whispered, not stopping your own deep breathing.
It wasn't a panic attack, but close. Not something good to have in a car, or anywhere. But feeling Shane slowly calm down against you made it clear you didn't need to head to the hospital. No. Instead, you headed toward your hotel outside the city. Somewhere quiet where no one knew Shane would be. Somewhere private where he could drink to forget and not care about anything.
If his breathing calmed, the sobs and tears were still there when you parked the car. Shane didn't let go, pressing his forehead harder instead until you kissed his hair and managed to wrap your arms around him in a tight hug. It never got easier or less painful, but the sooner Shane learned the lesson, the quicker he would bounce back on his feet.
With a simple ‘c'mon,’ you got Shane out of the car. The silence was deafening, killing you. Gone was the joyous captain, the loud kid who was being a jock and constantly talking about hockey. He was broken, one of your arms around him, barely keeping the pieces together.
The second you reached your room, Shane headed straight for the bed and rolled into a ball again. He had chosen your side of the bed, your own pillow you always took with you everywhere you went. You lay down by his side, pressing your body against his. It was useless to try to comfort him more now; you were giving him the chance to take it at his own pace. To tell you or not what happened.
Five minutes, or maybe even hours, passed before Shane shifted in your arms. You were dozing off when the young captain turned, facing you. His damp face found your neck and hid there, just under your chin, and Shane grabbed your clothes in handfuls. It woke you up, startled, not expecting it. Yet, you returned the embrace, hand rubbing Shane’s back.
“He replaced me with a girl,” Shane’s said, voice groggy and harsh from the crying. “He was dancing with her, saw me and didn't even care. We haven't spoken in two months, but I didn't imagine he would throw me away like trash.”
“You are not trash. If he didn't realize the jewel he had, then it's his loss,” you whispered, nose buried in Shane’s hair.
Two months was an awful lot of time, but it wasn't your relationship. Your friend could do as he pleased and, more than probably, had a good reason for that. Are they open or exclusive? But seeing his reaction made you realize it wasn't a discussed topic. They hadn't talked about the face they were going to show the world, the mask to hide the truth.
Something y'all did sooner or later.
It pained you to see Shane like this. The one person in your life who did not deserve any of this. You kept everything in the back of your mind, swearing you would make Rozanov pay on the ice the next time you face his team. The guy wouldn't understand why it happened, which would be great. Because Shane, too, didn't understand now.
“Hey, wanna watch some movies? We could watch Lance et Compte or Les Boys. I haven't watched those in a while,” you offered, and Shane sniffed. “What about Slap Shot?”
Shane perked at that, and you chuckled as you turned on the TV. Finding the movie didn't take time, and, as it started, you got up to grab some cans and snacks. When you came back, Shane had gotten under the covers, still on your side of the bed with your pillow. You decided to leave it to him, at least this time. He immediately snuggled against your side, stealing all the snacks, which made you snort. At least the tears were gone for now.
You weren't watching the movie. Your attention had turned on Shane, keeping an eye out in case the young captain went down again. You could still hear his feet hitting the dashboard, wondered how the hell the airbag hadn't come out or how you didn't also lose your shit. You hoped to never see Shane like that again, but you knew you couldn't protect him from himself. Shane had a too big heart; you suspected he would forgive and return, that he would get hurt again.
You smiled, half asleep, ar one point when Shane held a potato chip in front of his open mouth, not yet eating it. You took out your phone and took a picture, your arm visibly wrapped around his shoulders. Shane looked at you from the corner of his eyes, which were still puffy but no longer red. He didn't stop you as you posted it online with the caption ‘Y’all look at the pigeon I found with a broken wing. Think I can teach him how to skate good?’ and tagged Shane.
And Shane immediately took out his phone, looking at what you posted. He simply smiled and flipped you off as he took a picture. You were laughing and laughed hard when you saw his reply. It was a picture of him flipping you off with written ‘hrrr-oo-oo hrrr-oo-oo‘ under it.
And there, you didn't care about how anyone would react. You just wanted to return the favour to Rozanov, giving him a taste of his own medicine. It was a dangerous game, one which you knew you would get burned. Because Shane fitted just perfectly in your arms, against you. Because it felt right to have the younger man in bed with you, watching the Hansons brothers being chaotic gremlins on the ice.
Because you thought it would be nice to fall asleep and wake up every day with Shane’s weight against you.
You sighed, relaxing as you felt your friend slowly melting against you, slowly but surely putting everything in the back of his mind. And you dozed off, listening to Shane’s mumbling about strategies that made no sense and all the actions the Hansons brothers were doing wrong.
You fell asleep to Shane's voice saying, “Hey, that's some shit you would do,”. And you smiled, falling asleep, because you knew he was right.
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