Chapter Text
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The Breakaway Playlist on Spotify
PART I - SHANE
The car ride was tense and quiet, a song he’d listened to twenty times playing in the background, volume low. Shane’s mind was distracted, anxiety swirling as his eyes stayed fixed on his cellphone screen.
“Ugh, why are hockey tickets so fucking expensive?” Shane asked.
Laurent didn’t answer, his jaw set and his eyes rigidly fixed on the road, irritation simmering just beneath the surface the way it always was.
“I think I’m just going to get the season tickets. It comes down to like $30 per game.”
“[Why would you do that]?” Laurent asked in French, his voice sharp with annoyance, as if the suggestion had personally offended him. “I don’t even like hockey that much? For that, we’re better off getting season tickets for basketball.”
"[Oh, and you have ten thousand dollars lying around]?" Shane replied in French. He didn’t. They both knew he barely had a tenth of that. "Hockey will be way less. I don’t need to be against the glass. I just want to be there."
“[Since when are you such a hockey fan]?”
“[Since now, obviously].”
Laurent rolled his eyes. “[Wait another month. By then, you’ll be onto something else. Like you always do].”
It was true. Shane tended to jump from hobby to hobby, always chasing after a new interest. But tonight, uncertainty gnawed at him, mixed with a longing he couldn’t explain. Hockey felt different. He’d gone to his first game with Laurent last month, and the energy in the arena, the camaraderie, had made something in him click. It felt right. Like he belonged there. Like he had found his people. No other sport—not even basketball, which he and Laurent attended together often—had stirred anything close to this feeling in him.
It sounded corny, but it had felt like fate, almost.
“And if I’m not?”
Laurent didn’t answer. So sure, he was of it.
Shane's hands trembled as he stared at the glowing numbers. What if Laurent was right? Maybe this was another phase—but it didn’t feel like one. He willed the doubt away, clutching his phone tight.
“There’s a waitlist anyway. And the season is almost over. I might not even be able to get them.”
“[Then why are you even bringing it up]?”
“Because I was looking into it and thought it would be fun. A fun thing to do together.”
“[I am not going to any more hockey games, Shane],” Laurent said, his frustration bleeding into each word. “[I went to that last one with you because you insisted. And it was okay. For that one time].”
“Yeah, well, I am.”
“[Alone]?”
“[Obviously].”
Laurent scoffed. “[You won't make that drive every time. No way. You’re too lazy for that.]”
“Watch me.”
“Shane,” Laurent said, his tone cold and flat, lips pressed tight, making it obvious how unhappy he was. He always used Shane’s name that way when he was closing off, warning him to drop it.
He told himself that was the reason he paid the hundred-dollar deposit right then. He used his credit card—the one Laurent didn’t have access to. Months later, he got the email with the details. Not only had he gotten himself a season pass, but he’d purchased tickets at the lower level, behind the home goal. It had cost more than he could afford. Still, his pride and ego were worth the debt, he told himself, as he accepted an extra shift.
Being obsessive with his hobbies meant Shane went all in. So, he spent the months leading up to the first game of the season learning everything he could about his home team. The Montreal Metros. Turned out, they were terrible.
This meant Shane had gotten lucky with the price of his season tickets. Tickets for other teams, like the current Stanley Cup champions, the Boston Raiders, cost ten times as much. All the better, since Shane just wanted to go and enjoy himself. He didn’t like it when they lost - and apparently that's all they did- but the only time he’d attended, they had won so maybe Shane was like a lucky charm or something.
He spent countless hours searching for videos of past games, making up for a lifetime of missed hockey—twenty-six whole years of it. He had apps on his phone and hockey podcasts in his headphones, which he listened to during breaks. Yes, he was very obsessed, but he didn’t care. It gave him a thrill—this sport, which Shane knew existed but had never explored.
A notification on his phone from ESPN is how he found out the news.
ABSOLUTE CHAOS IN THE HOCKEY WORLD: Boston Raiders Captain Ilya Rozanov SHOCK‑TRADED to Montreal Metros in a Massive Five-Year Deal
Fans, analysts, and even players left reeling as the franchise's face of Boston is shipped north in one of the most explosive trades of the decade.
The hockey world erupted tonight as the Boston Raiders confirmed the unthinkable: Captain Ilya Rozanov — Conn Smythe winner, Stanley Cup hero, and the heartbeat of the franchise — has been traded to the Montreal Metros in a blockbuster five-year deal that blindsided nearly everyone.
Sources inside the organization described the negotiations as “fast, aggressive, and unprecedented,” with the Metros pushing hard for Rozanov after weeks of quiet back-channel talks. The final agreement reportedly includes multiple first-round picks, two top prospects, and a veteran defenseman, marking one of the largest trade packages in recent league history.
The Raiders front office released a brief statement acknowledging the trade, calling it “a difficult but strategic decision for the long-term future of the team.” The Metros, meanwhile, wasted no time celebrating, posting a single, electrifying message across their social platforms: “Welcome to Montreal, Captain.”
For the rest of the day, that’s all anyone in the hockey world could talk about.
Shane watched a short clip of Montreal Metros Head Coach, Brandon Wiebe, where he said, “You don’t get chances like this often. Rozanov changes everything for us.”
There were league analysts claiming, “This is seismic. You don’t trade a player like Rozanov unless something massive is happening behind the scenes.”
And social media was the worst of all. Fans were going wild.
“TRADE THE FRONT OFFICE, NOT ROZANOV.”
“Montreal just stole the crown jewel of the league.”
“Ilya Rozanov in a Metros jersey? I’m not emotionally prepared.”
“This is the biggest trade since the expansion era.”
Things were moving quickly, with Rozanov expected to arrive in Montreal within 48 hours for a press conference in the Metros’ arena -his arena now. The whole thing was already drawing in massive crowds with fan-made merch hitting the internet mere hours after the initial announcement.
Shane was beyond invested and excited in the whole ordeal. He checked ticketing websites and found tickets for all home games had tripled in price overnight.
He realized he could either go to a single game himself, or resell his tickets, now that the prices had tripled, and make five times the profit—maybe even more if the team made the playoffs for the first time in twenty seasons.
“Did you hear about Rozanov?” Laurent asked, hours later.
“Have I?” Shane asked, craning his neck to accept the chaste kiss on his cheek.
“Crazy, right?”
“Beyond.”
“What’s for dinner?”
“I made some pasta. The pesto one you like.”
“Oh, cool.”
Shane smiled softly at Laurent’s back, a familiar ache threading through the small gesture. Watching him serve himself in silence. Shane cooked for them every night, had been doing so for eight years since they’d moved in together. He didn’t expect thanks every time, but Laurent hadn’t offered a single word of gratitude in months—maybe even longer. That silence weighed heavier than he liked to admit.
“Do you like it?” Shane asked, standing.
Laurent nodded, chewing as he went to sit at the island. Shane had waited for him to get home to eat, as always. He served himself and then, realizing Laurent hadn’t served himself water, filled a glass for him. He filled himself one as well. Then he sat beside Laurent.
“So, how was work?”
Laurent groaned. “[Can we not]?”
“That bad?”
“[Worse].”
Laurent was an investment banker at a major firm, one of the country’s largest. The market hadn’t been behaving as expected. That meant long hours, even longer meetings, and many angry clients. And a very bad temper.
“How was yours?”
Shane didn’t have a job as exciting as Laurent’s. He was the social media coordinator for a law firm. He worked remotely and was basically always on call.
"Good. Tom is out of the office for the week, so I’m covering for him. It’s a bit stressful. I’ll probably work a little more tonight to catch up, but it’s not bad."
“[Tom is an asshole. Isn’t this his third vacation this year]?” He asked in French. He always switched to French when he was angry.
“Yes,” Shane answered in French as well. “But it's his time to take. No one can say anything if he has coverage.”
“You are too nice.”
Shane rolled his eyes. That was always Laurent’s go-to explanation whenever he thought Shane was doing something stupid.
“I’m just not being an asshole.”
“You should be more of an asshole.”
“I think you have that part covered for both of us,” he said, and he meant it as a joke, but Laurent dropped his fork and turned to him.
“[What the fuck is that supposed to mean]?”
“[I am sorry],” Shane said quickly. “[It’s been a long day, I'm not thinking- I didn’t mean anything by it].”
“Whatever,” Laurent said. He pushed his empty plate away, as if the meal itself had betrayed him, face tight with anger or something deeper. The sudden coldness in the air made Shane flinch.
“[Food was shit, anyway].”
Then he stormed off, slamming the door to their bedroom, and Shane sat there.
Tears blurred his vision, the room going watery and strange as he fought to keep silent. His breath came shallow, shoulders hunched.
He stood, sometime later, when he heard the shower turn on. Cleaning up their plates, drying them, and putting the leftover pasta in the fridge, he tried to shake the tension that lingered from dinner, his hands trembling slightly. When he settled at his desk in the living room and logged back into work, the sharp ping of another ESPN notification cut through the hush.
He picked it up.
It was a headline, something about Rozanov finally breaking the silence. He was smiling in the photo, sweaty, dressed in his hockey gear, clearly during a game in his Boston Raider’s uniform. He looked… happy.
Shane locked his phone, turned on his monitor, and slipped on his glasses, just as the shower turned off.