Testing testing

The thing about playing hockey in Toronto is that everyone in the building wants to kill you and wants you to know about it.

Twenty thousand fans, a twenty-three man roster, unknowable numbers of people watching from home, every single one of them cursing the Metros’ entire existence… and Shane couldn’t care less. It’s hard to feel particularly threatened by any of it when the Guardians can barely string together three passes without telegraphing it ahead of time. 

It’s 2-0 for the Metros heading into the third period, and it’s not like the Guardians haven’t been generating chances. They’ve spent plenty of time in Montreal’s zone, cycling the puck low, working it up the walls, trying to pull Metros’ coverage apart just enough to create space for a chance on net. 

It’s structured, safe hockey; the kind of hockey coaches and analysts love because everyone’s exactly where they’re supposed to be. Systems based, methodical, clean… and the easiest fucking thing in the world for Shane and the rest of the Metros to keep track of, because the Toronto Guardians move like their skates are stuck to rails. 

It’s been forty minutes, and Shane’s finally ready to admit something to himself:

He’s fucking bored.

Forty minutes of play, and Shane has only faced fifteen shots. Fifteen; one-five; Shane stopped more dangerous attempts in warmup. All the Guardians are managing right now are complete duds—muffins from the half wall, point shots telegraphed so early Shane could track them from the other end of the rink, the occasional scramble in front that the Metros' defense clears before it becomes anything real. Toronto keeps building every possession the exact same way: puck rimmed around the boards, worked up to the point, pushed back down the half wall, forced toward the crease for a quick redirect or jam play at the top of the paint.

Over and over and over again.

2-0 for the Metros with a twenty minutes of hockey left to play. Toronto down two goals on home ice, in front of twenty thousand people who very much want them to win—

And unless Toronto figures out how to do something other than run the same predictable zone entry cycle for the forty-seventh time tonight, it’s probably going to stay that way. [put in a Shane thought here]

—

To their credit the Guardians don’t immediately try the same zone entry for the forty-seventh time—they don’t even get the chance to try. Five minutes into this game and the puck has stayed in Toronto’s zone for nearly that entire time.

From fifty metres away it looks less like hockey and more like one of those nature documentaries where a pack of wolves is slowly exhausting a cluster of prey animals. The Metros barely even have to chase, they just keep rotating in smooth circles through the offensive zone: Albright pinching down the boards the second Toronto thinks they have an outlet, Dagger drifting into the middle to cut off the easy pass, Fours’ stick constantly in passing lanes, skates always angled the right direction.

And the Guardians are just… letting it happen.

One defenseman rims it weakly around the boards to nobody. A winger hesitates long enough to get stapled to the glass. Another guy gets the puck with three full strides of space and immediately panics and throws it blindly into traffic. Shane can practically feel the bench shrinking in on itself with every failed clear.

It’s pathetic. Not because they’re getting hemmed in, that happens, it’s hockey, but because half of them already look resigned to it. Shane’s seen peewee teams defend with more urgency.

Finally—finally—a Toronto defender gets a stick in the passing lane and flips it out of their zone.  Fours turns immediately to chase, but an exhausted Toronto forward manages to lunge to the bench for a change and Dallas Kent steps off the bench onto the ice just as the puck crosses the centre line.

Shane straightens immediately in his crease, boredom burning out of his body in one clean surge of focus. Breakaway opportunity.

His skates scrape backward into position at the top of the blue paint as Shane tracks the puck sliding end-over-end down the ice. Fours is a half-step back from Kent now and he’s fast enough to pressure from behind, but if Kent speeds up it’ll be close. Shane adjusts another inch deeper, glove hand twitching once at his side while he watches the gap between them.

The puck skips awkwardly off the ice near the hashmarks, just out of the reach of Kent’s stick—and he just fucking gives up. He pulls back, slows down, and doesn’t even try to race Fours as the puck crosses the goal line for an icing whistle.  

Come on. 

“You could’ve gotten that one,” Shane mutters a little resentfully as Kent glides past him, and turns around to grab a sip of water and reset for another infinity of just standing here, when—

“What the fuck did you just say to me?”

Oh. Whoops. That came out louder than Shane meant it to, and now Kent is standing there and glaring at him. There’s a half second where Shane considers ignoring him, but—

“You heard me.” Kent’s expression darkens, and Shane shrugs. “Come on. I know it’s the third period, but you could put in a bit more effort, couldn’t you?”

“Are you actually—” Kent turns fully toward him now, skating closer until he’s looming at the top edge of the crease, jaw clenched. “You want to say that again?”

Shane stays where he is because he’s not about to back down—but also, crucially, because goalies don’t really have dignified escape routes once somebody’s in their crease yelling at them.

Up close Kent is annoyingly huge, and Shane is suddenly very aware that he’s balanced on skates in several pounds of equipment while Kent is planted directly in front of him, glaring down at him like an angry tree—but honestly? The glare would be more intimidating if Kent didn’t look so visibly frustrated already. It’s not even dangerous-frustrated; it is absolutely embarrassed-frustrated, because Dallas Kent was phoning it in [not trying?] and he’s embarrassed that someone noticed.

Kent is going a bit red under his helmet, and he’s leaning forward a bit, drifting even closer to Shane—

But Shane’s irritation is outweighing his survival instincts at the moment, and the puck was literally right fucking there. Kent could’ve snagged it if he wasn’t such a lazy bum; Shane wasn’t lying, and if Kent’s this offended over being called lazy, maybe that’s because he knows Shane’s right.

He’s opening his mouth to tell him that when—

“Hey.” Fours materializes at Shane’s side and immediately pushes between them, pressing a hand to Kent’s chest and shoving him out of the paint. “All right. Move along. Don’t think you want to be starting something right now, kid.”

Kent’s eyes don’t leave Shane’s face for a long moment. Then he listens—because Fours is six foot three and has approximately forty pounds on him—and starts skating back toward centre ice, pausing only to send one last venomous look back at Shane that communicates several things clearly.

Shane only barely restrains himself from waving. Instead he maintains eye contact, takes an aggressively casual sip of water, drops his water bottle back in the holder and settles back into his crease. [add something about: like he definitely hadn’t just almost gotten into a fight during live play.]

“Thanks Fours.”

“What the actual fuck is that kid’s problem,” Fours mutters, and pats Shane’s pad with his stick before skating off.

—

Kent has been living at the top of the crease for the last six minutes and it’s seriously starting to piss Shane off. 

He’s not doing anything obvious enough to draw a penalty, and honestly if a puck came through right now Shane wouldn’t even have a case for goaltender interference—but it’s still a constant parade of little things. Snow sprayed a second after whistles. An extra pair of jabs at rebounds that are absolutely dead underneath him. Shoulders that drifted a little too close in net-front scrums. 

Fucking annoying. 

Nine minutes into the third period, and Shane is tracking Dallas Kent almost as closely as the puck.

—

The stoppage comes at the thirteen minute mark after Toronto ices it again, and JJ appears at the top of Shane’s crease already halfway through a rant.

“— holding in the corner,” JJ is saying, low and irritated, in French. “They keep letting it go. I’ve talked to both refs.”

It hasn’t been a particularly chippy game, but now that Shane’s thinking about it, the Guardians have been getting away with murder along the boards all game.

“Kent?” Shane guesses.

JJ makes an aggravated gesture with one glove. “No, Barrett. Every time Hayden goes into the corner, the kid’s got an arm wrapped around him.”

Huh. That would explain the weird fall Hayden took on the last rush. Troy Barrett, number 16, the other rookie, the one that actually managed a shot that Shane had to put actual effort into stopping. Physical guy, took a tripping call in the first period already.

“Which ref did you talk to first?”

JJ gestures vaguely. “The one on the boards. It’s happening fucking right in front of him. ” 

Shane considers this. “Yeah, okay, so now he’s committed to not calling it.  He’ll just dig in more if you keep bringing it up. If you can get the other guy to pay closer attention, then that’s problem solved.” 

JJ looks at him.

“Just– make it his idea,” Shane says. “Holding’s a clear call. But if he doesn’t, you can probably get Theriault in on this. ”

There’s a pause—then JJ reaches out and slaps a hand on Shane’s shoulder.

“Do you want to be my alternate captain,” JJ says seriously, but his eyes are smiling, “because that was significantly smarter than what Hayden told me he’s going to do.”

Oh no. “What did Hayden say?”

“He said he’s going to do the exact same thing back to Barrett until one of them gets a penalty.”

Shane laughs—actually laughs, short and genuine, because what the fuck. “That’s not a good idea.”

“That’s what I said.” JJ taps his stick against Shane’s pad. “Okay. Tattle to the other ref. Then tell coach.”

“Yup,” Shane confirms. “Now you’re thinking.”

JJ pushes off toward center ice. Shane sets himself in his crease, and settles in. Seven minutes left to play.

—

There are five minutes left in the game and Kent has not improved.

If anything, the futility of Toronto’s offensive zone actions has only made him more of a pest—like he’s decided that if he can’t generate offence, he and the rest of his line can at least make Shane’s life mildly irritating. 

Case in point: Toronto needs a change so they dump the puck into Montreal’s zone, the puck rimming hard around the boards with nobody coming to collect it, so Shane leaves the crease to stop it before it does a full loop back out to the other side. He settles the puck near the trapezoid and looks up to find his pass—

Just in time to see Kent closing in fast on his left.

There’s room to avoid him. Not much but enough, if Shane moves quick or if Kent makes an effort. 

Kent doesn’t make an effort, and Shane doesn’t move at all. He stays right where he is, plants his skates, keeps the puck still, holds his ground—and drops his shoulder. 

Directly into Kent’s chest. 

It’s not even a full hit in the sense of a collision between equals—it’s a goalie planting himself like a rock [or wall?] and a skater discovering, a fraction too late, that the rock is not interested in moving. 

The net jumps sideways on its moorings with a metallic screech as Shane stumbles backward into it, blocker scraping mesh, but Kent gets the worse of their collision by far. His upper body [describe], momentum completely redirected, and he goes sprawling onto the ice [stick/helmet? where].

Kent slides back a few feet before catching himself on an elbow, staring up in open disbelief. More bewildered than offended at first, like his brain still hasn’t caught up to the fact that Shane had actually held his ground.

And Shane, tangled halfway with the side of the net [more; stares him down?]. 

Because that’s the thing: Kent hadn’t lined him up. Probably wasn’t even trying to hit him. He was playing the puck and expecting Shane to get out of his way. To give in and just let him have it.

And Shane didn’t. 

—

Kent is back on his skates before the echo of the whistle dies, and he is visibly furious as he starts to piece it all together.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” He's already at the nearest referee, glove jabbing back toward the net. “What the fuck was that, he just– what the fuck!”

He whirls back towards Shane but before he can take so much as a single step back in his direction, the Metros arrive.

Hayden gets into Kent's chest immediately, walking him backward, and Oggy swings in from the other side. The rest of the Guardians pile in after, and suddenly it’s a proper tilt in front of the net—sticks discarded, gloves grabbing, bodies tight together, everyone shouting at someone while the linesmen wade in with arms extended in the time-honoured tradition of people whose job is mostly damage control. 

Shane retrieves his stick from where it landed during the collision.

He checks the strap on his blocker. He gives the net a firm shove back into place with one hand, aligning it with the pegs. He skates a slow semicircle out toward the near faceoff dot, taking his time, while the scrum continues behind him.

He doesn’t look over.

Kent's voice carries above the rest—still arguing, still trying to get someone to believe that he’s been interfered with, his case getting slightly less coherent with each retelling, even as he’s being herded back to the Toronto bench. 

4:11 left to go in the third period. It’s still 2-0 for the Metros. 

Shane settles himself back in his crease and waits.

—

“Shane, walk us through that big hit in the third there. Did you see Kent coming at all?”

Postgame interviews are always a bit ridiculous. Win or loss it’s all the same questions: tough game or good game, how did you feel out there, do you think there’s things to work on, yes or no?

Sometimes, rarely, if Shane has done something particularly interesting—a huge save or a fucking embarrassing miss—the questions get a little more personalized, but Shane does his absolute best to keep it as generic as possible. 

Most of the time the media figures out they’re not going to get anything too interesting out of him; but tonight…

Shane adjusted slightly in his stall. “Just reading the rush.”

“So you didn’t see Kent there at all?”

Shane shrugs. The reporter is evidently very good at his job because he pivots effortlessly. 

“And the contact?”

There are two ways Shane could answer that question. The first and probably most correct way to handle it is to say something noncommittal: don’t admit responsibility, don’t admit to anything incriminating. A tried and true tactic and one that Shane knows how to deploy effortlessly; he can already hear his mom and Farah whispering in his ears, telling him to do the smart thing. 

Or.

“It’s a fast game,” Shane said, and tilts his head to stare directly into the nearest camera. “Stuff [shit?] happens.”

Somewhere in his bag, his phone is vibrating already.

—

Lily: [something vaguely horny and complimentary about the hit]