The Centaurs very quickly learn that Shane’s versions of jealousy and possessiveness look different from what they’d expect.
Scary. That’s it. Plain and simple. Without even trying to be, Shane Hollander is absolutely fucking terrifying. On the ice, yes, absolutely—but specifically when it comes to Ilya.
“I’m scared,” Wyatt croaks from behind Bood. “Make him stop!”
Bood’s trying to maneuver his way behind Wyatt. “Call a priest. An imam. A rabbi. Call the police!”
Luca honest-to-God whimpers. “What have we done? What have we unleashed?”
Harris blinks behind the camera. “Uh…so. Did you have an answer, Shane?”
Across the room, Shane is half on the floor, red-faced, and out of breath. He struggles to collect himself and stop the giggles (to him; they’re unholy cackles of evil to everyone else) that have had him struggling for air for at least 5 minutes.
“I-I’m sorry,” he gasps around uncontrollable laughter. “I’m so sorry, Harris. Let’s—go ahead. Repeat your question, please.”
The locker room erupts into pleas and shouts of “no,” “don’t do it,” and “for the love of all that’s holy, cut the camera!” Despite the obvious protests (which he may or may not edit out), Harris pushes forward.
“You see someone flirting with your significant other. What’s—“
Shane pitches forward and the demonic cackling starts up again.
LaPointe will deny it later, but he starts muttering Father Merrin’s lines from The Exorcist. Dykstra joins in at “the power of Christ compels you!” Neither of them is Catholic.
“We are not safe,” Troy whispers behind his boyfriend—a good distance from the camera and, more importantly, Shane. “Not here. Not anywhere.”
Coach Weibe nods appreciatively. His eyes are wide with both fear and plans for a Stanley Cup celebration. “I’m going to hear him laughing in my nightmares. We’re going to win so many Cups, but by God…I don’t think I’ll ever sleep peacefully again.”
Shane picks himself up off the floor again and tries to collect himself.
“Oh God,” he chuckles. “Okay. Okay, I can do it this time. One more time, Harris. I can keep it together. Shoot.”
Harris stares straight ahead as he makes his fifth attempt of the day. He knows if he looks back at the rest of the Centaurs, he’ll lose his nerve.
“You see someone flirting with your significant other,” he recites. “What’s your immediate response?”
Shane snorts behind his hand—and whether he purposely uses his left hand to show off the gold wedding band is up for debate—but keeps his cool. For a second, it seems like Harris will finally get an answer to post on the team Instagram. Something intelligible, instead of 20 minutes of Joker-esque cackles that belong in a horror movie.
Then, suddenly, Shane goes stone-faced. Not his typical flat expression—no; a far more horrifying version. The unhinged grin he’s worn since the first take slips off instantly and is replaced by something that makes everyone take a step back. Brows slightly furrowed. Mouth set in a straight line. Eyes laser-focused on the camera, staring into the lens like he’s speaking directly to the future viewers and daring them to challenge him.
“No.”
Harris blinks. “Uh. It…it wasn’t a yes or no—“
Shane quirks an eyebrow, like he wishes Harris, the camera, the millions of people who will watch this clip later on, and any random motherfucker would try him. “No.”
“But it’s—“
“The answer,” Shane interjects, tone deceptively soft, “is no.”
Behind Shane, leaning up against the lockers with his arms crossed in what is supposed to be nonchalance but looks far more lovesick than should be humanly possible, Ilya beams at the camera.
“You heard the man,” he quips to an almost entirely silent room. “The answer is no. Next question.”
The video never sees the light of day/the internet. Harris archives the footage and locks it away in a fireproof box marked “Do Not Open Without Spiritual Guidance.” The one time he opens the box looking for misplaced documents, he swears he hears demonic laughter behind him. Troy says it must’ve been the wind, but even he’s spooked enough to sleep with the lights on for a week.
