The Long Game: A Gay Sports Romance (Game Changers Book 6)
The Long Game: Chapter 33

Walking into the Montreal Voyageurs locker room at the practice facility was the hardest thing Shane had ever forced himself to do.

For a long moment, he stood, frozen, just inside the door while everyone in the room—the men he loved like brothers—stared at him with obvious disgust. He felt sick. Or like his heart might explode. The only friendly face in the room was Hayden, whose expression seemed mostly apologetic.

“Hi,” Shane tried.

No one made a sound, except J.J., who snorted and turned away.

Shit.

Shane walked to his stall, trying to look normal. Still Shane Hollander. Still the captain of this team. Still the same guy as the last time they’d seen him. He removed his coat and hung it on the hook inside his stall, hoping, optimistically, that he might be able to change into his gear and get on the ice without much fuss.

“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.”

“Yeah?” Shane said. “Max texted me too. And Rose. I guess she was right about needing a plan B. Whatever that would have been.”

The truth was, plan A, B, or any other letter would be the same: they’d do whatever the league told them to do. Because they were professional hockey players and wanted to continue to be professional hockey players.

“We will see what Farah’s statement says.”

Shane ran a hand through his hair, knocking half of it out of its bun. “Coach told me not to post anything.”

Anger flared in Ilya’s chest. “He’s not my coach.”

“I know. And for what it’s worth, I hate that he said that.”

“Good,” Ilya said. Then, “I can drive back there tomorrow. My team is on the road, so. No reason to stay.”

“Yeah? God, I’d love that. I need you.”

“I will leave first thing tomorrow. After I walk Anya.”

Shane smiled at that. “I’m glad you got a dog.”

Ilya grinned back. “Me too! She is so good! I will send you more pictures.”

“Awesome.” Shane grimaced. “I feel like shit.”

“Try another Snickers bar.”

“I shouldn’t have eaten that. Or maybe I should have been eating them all along. Fuck, what am I even doing with this diet?”

“Trying to live forever, I thought.”

“With you? No thank you.”

“Eat what you want. If that is only healthy things, is fine. If you want treats, is also fine. It is your life, Hollander. Not the NHL’s. Not the Montreal Voyageurs’.”

“You sure about that?”

“I think we are both going to have to decide about that soon.”

Ilya woke up to two emails the next morning. One was from Farah, and included the statement she’d written for them. The second was from the offices of Commissioner Crowell, informing Shane and Ilya that he would be at the Montreal branch of the NHL’s offices tomorrow, and that he wanted to meet with both of them there.

Fuck.

Ilya went back to Farah’s email and read the statement. The first paragraph plainly described the events as they had happened: a video had been circulated, it had unintentionally shown Ilya and Shane in an intimate moment, that Hayden hadn’t realized what could be seen in the background when he’d sent it.

The second paragraph was more interesting.

Although having the decision to disclose our relationship made for us isn’t ideal, we would like to announce, officially, that we are in a committed, romantic relationship, and have been for several years. We wish we could have told you in our own way, but we don’t hold this unfortunate accident against Hayden.

It was good, Ilya thought. To the point, and made it clear that they weren’t blaming anyone (except fucking Brad, but anyway).

We know that our relationship will be difficult for a lot of people to accept and understand. We have never let our personal relationship interfere with our competitiveness on the ice, and we believe our career achievements show that very clearly. We’ve always kept personal and professional separate, and we hope our teams, our fans, and the league can do the same.

Nice. Better than what he would have written himself, which probably would have been along the lines of, We’re in love and fuck you.

A text from Shane popped up as soon as Ilya finished reading Farah’s statement: Meeting with Crowell. Fuck.

Ilya: Will be ok.

Shane: You sure about that?

Ilya: Should Farah be there?

Shane: Probably but… I kind of want it to be just us? Is that stupid?

Ilya understood what Shane was saying. If things went sideways, they could involve Farah later. But this was about more than hockey, or their careers. This was personal, and Ilya, like Shane, wanted to fight this battle themselves if they could.

Ilya: Not stupid.

Shane: I’ll tell Farah about the meeting, but explain what we want to do.

Ilya: Ok.

Shane: When are you getting here?

Ilya was keen to see Shane, but before he got on the road, Anya needed her walk.

Ilya: Soon.

Ilya considered, as he walked around the slushy sidewalks of his neighborhood, that he should probably book another appointment with Galina. It had been a couple of weeks, and he didn’t want to get lazy about it. He certainly had something to talk about now.

Oddly, he’d been feeling relatively peaceful since they’d been outed. Shane, he knew, was an absolute wreck, but Ilya was ready to face whatever happened next. Even though what was going to happen next was a meeting with Crowell. He should be nervous about that, but he was more curious than anything.

Curious, and ready to fight.

Ilya passed his neighbors’ house—the one where Willa and Andrew lived—and stopped dead in his tracks. There was a large hand-drawn sign attached to the tree near the end of their driveway: We love you, Ilya!

Underneath the sign was a little shelf that held two Funko Pop figures: one of Ilya, and one of Shane.

Ilya fumbled for the phone he was glad he’d decided to shove in his coat pocket before leaving. He turned it on, took a photo, and sent it to Shane.

Shane: Oh wow. Is that your neighbors’ house?

Ilya: Yes. We are not so alone, I think.

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