Chapter Text
It had been a long time since Shane had felt fear when entering a locker room.
The first time, Shane had been 13 years old, and he had just entertained the idea that he might be attracted to other boys. The night before, Shane dreamt that he kissed his best friend on the lips. It had been ridiculously chaste, yet he had never felt dirtier.
The school’s gym locker room that day was somehow more suffocating than usual. Shane was so sure that all the boys could see right through him. See all his perverse thoughts of holding hands and kisses on the cheek. See that his gaze lingered slightly too long on the naked torsos of his classmates. See the ugly truth.
Shane had felt like he was dying, like all his nerves were exposed.
But no one noticed.
By the time Shane signed with the Voyagers, either due to maturing or exposure therapy, Shane had settled into a careful comfort in the locker room. He followed the convoluted social rules of locker room etiquette. He made appropriate eye contact. Looking, but never allowing his gaze to fall below the naval. He laughed at the odd, aggressive flirting between straight men and forced himself not to react to the slurs hurled back and forth.
Still, no one noticed. Shane’s teammates made the simple and convenient assumption that Shane was a run-of-the-mill heterosexual man.
They also assumed that Shane was happy.
That assumption was the fuel for Shane’s current fear of entering the locker room today.
Because Shane wasn’t happy.
And usually that wasn’t a problem.
But for the first time, there was physical proof of his unhappiness blatantly visible on his body.
~ The night prior ~
Shane isn’t sure at what point he stopped enjoying hockey.
He was by no means less committed.
He dedicates every aspect of his life to hockey, which is something he used to pride himself on. Something he found supreme satisfaction in. The nonstop grind was worth it because he loved hockey.
Now, his entire life was a chore leading to an ultimately meaningless end.
But he couldn’t just… stop.
Well, he could.
It would just completely derail everything he’s ever worked for, demolish all of his relationships, and erase everything he claims to know about himself.
So he won’t stop.
He’ll suck it up and go to practice tomorrow and run drills until his entire body aches, until he can ignore the deep emptiness sitting in his gut.
The decision alone fills him with an acute sense of dread and odd restless energy.
There is a deep urge to put that energy into something. To expel it from his soul to achieve a greater peace that he can tell is just out of his grasp.
He briefly wishes Ilya was there with him.
He knows that Ilya could siphon this feeling so easily, with a simple touch or even just a word.
But Ilya’s in Boston. And Shane can’t muster up the courage to send him a message as desperate and true as ‘I need you’.
Shane paces throughout his house. Static buzzes in his head, making his teeth hurt.
He ends up in the bathroom. He turns on the shower and puts the faucet to the hottest setting. He doesn’t particularly remember shedding his clothes or stepping under the water, but when he does come to, his skin is red and splotchy, and he can hardly see through the steam.
The energy hasn’t left him. If anything, the heat of the shower has spread the buzzing across his entire body, bubbling under his skin.
He sighs, dragging his hands across his face and shielding his eyes from the spray of the water.
He washes his hair and body thoroughly, scrubbing a bit harsher than necessary. By the time he steps out, his fingers are pruny, and his face is flushed. He labors through his skincare routine, pausing as he lathers his face to shave the barely-there stubble.
His breath quickens with a rush of familiar adrenaline. It would be so easy to…
He fumbles with the razor, uncharacteristically clumsy. The buzzing concentrates in his fingertips as he manages to separate the blade from the handle.
He barely considers the consequences before he brings the blade across the wide expanse of his thigh. He shudders. The cut is thin and light, the blood not even spilling down his leg.
It’s exhilarating, and the buzzing lessens.
He brings the blade against his skin and presses down harder, dragging the cold metal alongside the first mark. This time the blood flows freely.
He gasps, his other hand pressing against the wound and relishing in the burn. He makes several more parallel cuts until he’s cooled down and his limbs are pleasantly heavy.
He cleans up afterwards absentmindedly until all evidence of his actions has been neatly disposed of and his leg is sufficiently wrapped up.
He takes care to reassemble the razor and finish shaving, humming as he does so.
It’s the lightest he’s felt since his last interaction with Ilya, and he falls asleep on top of the covers as soon as his head hits the pillow.
He wakes up to an irritating noise. He blindly reaches for his phone to turn off his alarm. He groans as he brings his phone up to his face. But his alarm isn’t going off. His phone won’t even turn on. In the hazy dream-like state of last night, he had neglected to plug it into his charger.
The noise starts up again, and Shane realizes it's coming from his front door. He curses and rolls out of bed. He had slept in his boxers and hastily stepped into a pair of sweats before half-jogging to the door, briefly pausing to check the clock on his oven.
It's half past 8. Practice started thirty minutes ago, and he always arrived at least an hour early to do some extra stretches and check his equipment.
He flings open the door, an apology already at the tip of his tongue.
Hayden Pike stares at him, hand raised to knock again.
“I am so sorry, man. If you give me like… 5 minutes I can be ready and-”
“Whoa, slow down, buddy!” Hayden reaches out, his hand hesitantly landing on Shane’s bare shoulder, “Are you alright?”
“Yeah… I’m fine,” Shane mutters, shifting uncomfortably.
“Are you sure?” His words are careful, like Shane is something breakable. It makes Shane itch.
“Yes, of course. I just- my phone died,” he waves his hands in explanation, “just can you wait in the car please? I’ll be out really quick, I promise.”
Hayden nodded his head once, his eyebrows still drawn together in concern, before obediently heading back to his car.
Shane exhales heavily, mind reeling.
He closes the door and quickly scampers back to his bedroom to pull on a T-shirt and socks. His bag and shoes sit for him by the door where he left them after last practice. He bends down to slip on his shoes when a sharp pain reminds him of his late-night activities.
The gauze he had taped over the wounds was bulky and stark white. Obvious to anyone who even glanced his way. In a split-second decision, he pulls down his pants and rips off the bandages, hissing as one of the wounds reopens slightly.
He pulls his sweats back up, hoping the dark fabric is enough to hide any potential stain, and tosses the soiled bandages in the trash, quickly covering them with other garbage on the off chance someone looks in the bin.
Finally, he puts his shoes on, grabs his bag, and heads out. Hayden has the car running and peels out of the driveway as soon as the passenger door closes with Shane inside.
Hayden attempts to make conversation several times throughout the 15-minute drive to the rink, many of them warning him about how mad Coach is gonna be. Shane remains silent through it all, and Hayden eventually gives up, tapping his fingers restlessly against the steering wheel.
Shane knows he should be coming up with excuses for his cuts, but his brain is strangely empty. He almost hopes someone brings it up. Maybe he’ll get benched. That would be one way to stop playing hockey.
“We’re here,” Hayden coughs awkwardly, sparing a glance at Shane’s still face.
The pair runs from the parking lot into the building and right into Coach Theriault, who is stalking outside the entrance to the locker room. Shane can tell from his body language alone that he’s monumentally pissed off.
He silently points into the locker room, and both Shane and Hayden hurry in, not bothering with apologies or excuses. Not yet, at least.
Oddly enough, the entire team is waiting in the locker room, gear already on. Various expressions of annoyance and discomfort paint their faces.
Shane struggles to swallow down the bile rising in his throat.
“You two, get dressed and listen,” Theriault yells at them. Shane stands there dumbly, his mouth opening and closing with no sound escaping. He pales as he feels the tacky fabric of his pants catching on his cuts.
“Did you not fucking hear me, Hollander?” His face is almost purple with rage.
Hayden, who’s already halfway into his gear, tries to nudge Shane into action, which only serves to make Theriault more infuriated.
Watching himself from outside his body, Shane pulls off his t-shirt, all too aware of everyone’s eyes on him.
It didn’t matter that this was quite literally the only time he had been late to a practice (unless you count that time Shane had pneumonia, which Theriault no doubt did). His one misstep was the perfect opportunity to set an example that no one was above the coach, not even the mighty Shane Hollander. Shane was sure it was Theriault’s wet dream come true.
“Do you think you deserve preferential treatment, Hollander?”
“No, Coach,” he slowly unlaces his shoes, delaying the inevitable.
“No? Then why the hell do you think it is acceptable to come in here 45 minutes late while everyone else managed to get here on time? Is it not your responsibility as the captain of this team to show up to practice? Is that too much for you to handle, Hollander?”
He’s so close that Shane can feel his hot breath on his neck, and he tries not to physically recoil.
At this point, Hayden is fully dressed, while Shane stands barefoot and shirtless, swaying slightly as Theriault berates him.
“It won’t happen again, Coach.” The statement sounds flat even to Shane. Theriault obviously thinks so too, because he gets impossibly closer to Shane.
“I said,” his hand reaches towards him, and Shane watches it happen in slow motion, “to get your fucking gear on!” Before he can dodge out of the way, Theriault tears Shane’s pants down in one mortifying motion.
He doesn’t even have time to register the fact that his fucking NHL coach just pantsed him in front of his entire team because his leg is definitely bleeding. Bleeding a lot. And based on the gasps and muttered ‘oh shit’, his teammates saw it.
He may have been able to hide it better had he not fallen on his ass from the force with which his clothes were ripped off him.
“My office. Now,” Theriault’s voice is ice cold, “Everyone else, on the ice! Bag skates, get to it!” It’s a testament to the severity of the situation that no one complains and silently files out. Even Hayden reluctantly shuffles out.
“Get up.”
Shane listens, because what else is he supposed to do?