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The catalyst was when Hayden did something either very stupid or very honorable, depending on who you’re going to ask.
The horn has already sounded, and the crowd is already shifting in their seats, but the ice still holds the last few seconds of the game in its grooves. Players from both teams line up at center ice and angle their skates toward the handshake line because that is what players do, no matter what the scoreboard says.
Hayden is near the back of Montreal’s line, right behind Comeau and in front of Boiziau. His helmet is still on. His mouthguard is still between his teeth. His pulse is still high enough that his ears ring, yet he keeps his face neutral because the cameras love a face, and he has learned that a face can become a headline before you even reach the tunnel.
Ottawa forms their line across from them. Ilya is there, proud in the front, tall and cocky, his posture too sharp for a game that is over. Shane is right behind him, shoulders squared, eyes tired, hair dark with sweat under his helmet. Shane’s expression is calm, but Hayden sees the tightness around his mouth because Hayden has been watching Shane for years, even when he pretends he is not.
They start moving. The line meets at the midpoint, and the stream of hands begins. Quick grips. Most players say nothing because of the history between their teams. All of this means nothing when they’re in the locker room, anyway.
In front of Hayden, Comeau’s shoulders take up space. Comeau’s neck is thick. He has a habit of leaning into people even when the moment doesn't require it. He is one of Montreal’s bigger bodies, and he plays with the confidence of someone who believes size is an advantage.
Comeau reaches Shane.
Hayden can't hear most of what is said in the line. The arena is loud, and the skates and boards add their own noise. The players speak close, and most of it is swallowed by helmets and visors.
Comeau leans in anyway, too close, and he says it clearly.
“This is the last time you win, faggot.”
Hayden hears it from behind Comeau’s shoulder at the same time Ilya’s head snaps towards the word. The word cuts through the rest of the sound because it is blunt and because it is meant to land.
Hayden, in the middle of shaking Ilya’s hand, sees his expression and posture change in an instant. Ilya's hand stops mid-grip, tightening against Hayden’s. Ilya shifts from end-of-game formality to something sharper, eyes locking on Comeau.
Shane’s face doesn't change much, but his jaw flexes once, controlled, and then he nudges Ilya to move down the line as if he is trying to pretend the word didn't exist.
But Ilya doesn't want to pretend.
Ilya steps back, and that one choice breaks the rhythm of the entire thing. A couple of players hesitate. Bood looks up, alert. A referee’s hand goes toward his whistle.
Ilya’s voice stays loud enough to carry. “What did you just say to my husband?”
A hush runs through the players nearest them, not because the arena has gotten quiet but because bodies understand trouble. Hayden feels the shift on the Montreal side, the slight lean of attention. He feels it on the Ottawa side, too.
Comeau’s mouth curls. “Your husband,” Comeau repeats, and there is satisfaction in his tone. He lifts his chin toward Shane as if Shane were an object. “I said what I said.”
Ilya takes one step closer. “Say it again,” he demands.
Shane reaches toward Ilya’s sleeve, but he doesn't grab him yet. “Ilya,” Shane says, firm and careful, “don't make a big deal out of it.”
Ilya doesn't look at Shane. His eyes stay on Comeau. “He already made it a big deal,” Ilya says.
Comeau’s gaze flicks to Shane, then back to Ilya. “Faggot,” Comeau repeats, louder this time, and he says it with his full chest.
Shane’s hand finally closes around Ilya’s sleeve. “Do not,” he says, not wanting any more of this.
Ilya’s shoulders tense. “No."
The next second happens fast, but it also stretches because Hayden sees the opening and knows what is about to happen. Ilya’s head turns, quick, not toward Shane but toward the Montreal line. He moves his gaze away from Comeau and lands it on Hayden.
Hayden, still behind Comeau, still technically in line, has been watching Ilya’s face since the first question, not like he’s looking for permission, more like he’s waiting for a tell, any flicker that says now.
Ilya holds his gaze. Then his jaw sets, and down by his side, his fist tightens, fingers curling.
Hayden catches it immediately.
Hayden knows he’s in his home arena, yet he does it without hesitation or instruction. The moment he sees Ilya draw his fist for the punch, Hayden surges forward and grabs Comeau’s arms from behind, hooking his gloves over Comeau’s forearms and tightening his grip. He pulls him inward and down, taking away the easy defense that comes from having both hands up. Comeau’s weight shifts, and his balance changes because he's big, but his size doesn’t make him stable when he’s caught off guard.
Ilya’s fist lands, hitting Comeau’s face with a dull sound that carries farther than it should. Comeau’s head snaps to the side. His helmet shifts. His mouth opens in shock first, then in anger.
Shane shouts, “Stop!” as he tries to pull Ilya away without success.
Hayden keeps his grip because if he lets go, Comeau, big enough to do real damage if he gets his arms free, can swing and retaliate against him and Ilya. Hayden feels his teammate’s muscles tense under his gloves as he starts to wrench away.
Ilya hits him again, this time, more precise, landing on the cheekbone. Comeau’s knees bend. His skates scrape, and for a second, it looks as if he might go down. Big bodies like his, however, resist. He surges, and Hayden braces. The latter tightens his hold and shifts his feet wider. He uses his weight and position. It isn't elegant, but Ilya can't say it's ineffective. Comeau tries to twist his arm free and throws his shoulder backward. The movement clips Hayden’s chest and jolts him. He doesn't release. He leans in, keeping Comeau’s arm pinned close enough that Comeau can't swing it freely.
A linesman rushes in. Another ref blows his whistle hard enough to pierce the arena noise. Players from both sides close in because that is what they do when something breaks. Gloves start to come off. Someone grabs Ilya’s jersey from behind and pulls. Ilya shrugs him off and keeps moving forward.
Shane grabs Ilya’s elbow. “Enough!” Shane says, and his voice strains. “Please!”
Ilya doesn't stop on the first pull. He stops on the second, however, when a linesman gets between him and Comeau. The linesman presses a forearm into Ilya’s chest and pushes him back.
Comeau’s eyes are wild. He tries to lunge around Hayden, and Hayden tightens his grip again and pulls him off line. Comeau’s other arm swings up in a half-formed attempt at a punch that doesn't reach Ilya, but it does reach the space where a fight wants to grow.
It grows anyway. Drapeau crashes into Wyatt. Troy shoves back. Berkes throws a punch that lands on Bood’s shoulder pad. Sticks clatter as they are dropped, the handshake line completely gone, replaced by bodies in a cluster, jerseys pulled and twisted, skates cutting deep arcs into the ice.
Hayden keeps his hold on Comeau, but his balance is getting harder and harder to maintain because people are bumping into him from both sides. He feels a shoulder hit him from behind, and a fist comes flying his way. With no chance to brace because his hands are full, his jaw has no choice but to accept it. The fists keep coming, and he's unable to keep track of who among his teammates are hurling them towards him.
Ilya strains against the linesman’s grip. He looks furious and focused at the same time. He keeps his eyes on Comeau even while officials pull him back.
Shane is still trying to stop it, grabbing arms and shoulders and trying to separate bodies before this turns into something worse. He sees JJ doing the same as JJ extends his hand to keep Montreal’s rookies and, strangely, Luca from joining the commotion.
The officials finally get leverage. They push players apart, one by one. They pull Comeau away from Hayden. Hayden releases him once two linesmen have Comeau’s arms. Comeau tries to spit a word, but one of the refs gets in his face and points toward the tunnel.
Ilya is dragged back toward his own bench area. He is still yelling, but the words are swallowed by the noise. Hayden can't hear them clearly. He doesn't need to. He can read Ilya’s face.
Shane turns toward Hayden for one second, eyes wide, then exhausted, then angry in a restrained way. He opens his mouth as if he wants to say something. He closes it again because there are too many people watching.
Hayden is left standing near center ice with his chest heaving and his gloves still tight. He looks down at his hands and sees a smear of red on the white padding. He can't tell if it is his. He can't tell if it is Comeau’s. A ref points at him and barks an instruction. Hayden nods once and skates off without arguing.
But a hand grabs his shoulder, turns him around, and lands another punch on his face. It isn't over.
His visor rattles, and his teeth click against his mouthguard hard enough to sting. He takes one step to steady himself, then sets his feet again. Not wanting to give Comeau the satisfaction, he takes all the effort not to go down. Comeau is right there, chest heaving, eyes red and angry. The swelling on his cheek from Ilya’s punches makes his face look uneven. Hayden’s stomach drops. Comeau is big, way bigger than him, and now Comeau is ready. Hayden knows what that means for him.
Comeau swings again.
Hayden leans back and takes the edge of the punch on his glove instead of his face. The impact still jars his wrist. Comeau pushes forward with his weight, trying to close the distance and turn it into a clinch where size wins. Hayden’s skates scrape. He holds his ground and tries to angle away, but Comeau is already loading another swing.
Ilya, having been only half-controlled by an official, sees this and slips past the linesman’s reach and cuts across the ice in two strides without a warning. He goes straight in and lands his fist on Comeau’s face once again.
Comeau’s head snaps to the side, his shoulders rocking back. He stumbles one step, then plants his skates and turns back toward Hayden and Ilya with anger.
Hayden reacts on instinct. He grabs Comeau’s arms again, trying to lock them down and keep him from swinging. But Comeau is ready this time. He twists, wrenches, and slips out of Hayden’s grip immediately. Hayden’s glove slides off the sleeve again, and Hayden gets nothing but air. Comeau faces Hayden fully, eyes locked, fists up.
Then Comeau’s arms jerk backward. He makes a startled, furious sound because Ilya is behind him now. Ilya has stepped in close and hooked both of Comeau’s arms from the back, dragging them tight and up enough to take away leverage. Comeau tries to buck free. He throws his weight backward, but Ilya keeps his feet and holds on, jaw clenched, ribs and shoulders working.
“It’s your turn, Pike,” Ilya says before spitting blood from his mouth.
With no hesitation, Hayden’s hit meets his teammate's jawline, reminiscent of the infamous blow Cliff Marleau received from him that time Shane got knocked out. Hayden feels the impact run up his arm. Comeau’s head turns. He tries to twist his shoulder forward and free a hand, but Ilya’s grip tightens. Hayden hits him again. Comeau snarls through his mouthguard and tries to stomp his skates into Ilya’s feet, trying to create space any way he can.
Ilya yanks his arms tighter, face set, and Comeau’s balance goes wrong.
Hayden hits him a third time.
A whistle shrieks. A referee shouts, and the words are lost. Officials move in fast now because this is no longer a simple fight.
Drapeau suddenly reappears and crashes into Hayden from the side, pulling him away, before landing a blow on his face. Hayden falls on the ice as Drapeau repeatedly punches him while shouting “Traitor!” in his face. JJ manages to appear near them and pulls Drapeau on top of Hayden, but he also gets shoved.
Comeau surges, suddenly half-free as bodies collide. Ilya’s grip slips for a second, and Comeau tears one arm loose. He swings backward blindly, hitting Ilya.
That is enough for the other players to join again. Even the guys on the benches hop over the boards, and the ice fills with bodies. For the second time tonight, gloves hit the surface and slide, helmets get yanked loose, and punches start landing in close, fast bursts while people get shoved into the pile and dragged back out by their jerseys. A linesman goes down to one knee when someone crashes into him, and a stick snaps under a skate before the officials can force a gap.
Shane is left in the center of it all, pressing his hands over the top of his helmet.
~
The quiet inside Shane and Ilya’s house is deafening. There are no skates scraping, no whistles, and no punches landing on someone’s jaw. Only the humming of the refrigerator from the kitchen exists.
Ilya and Hayden are sitting on the couch, faces bruised and noses bloodied. Shane is in front of them with crossed arms.
“What were you thinking?!” Shane finally asks after a whole ten-minute staring contest.
Ilya moves his towel away from his mouth and works his jaw carefully, stubborn even through swelling. “I am thinking that Comeau is still breathing,” he says.
Shane’s eyes close for a second. He opens them again and looks at Hayden.
“And you,” Shane says.
Hayden shrugs once. His shoulder tugs at a bruise. “Same thing,” he answers with a wince.
Shane takes a slow breath and tries to choose the version of himself that has a future. He's grateful that he has these two who can come and be there for him, but he also knows what it costs when they start swinging on his behalf, especially after everything that already happened. He has spent years building a career out of control and composure, and he refuses to watch that get taken apart in his living room by two idiots he loves in different ways. And more importantly, he's afraid of what will happen to them after tonight. “I appreciate you protecting me. I really do, but you don't have to start fights for me.”
Hayden looks down at his hands and then back up again, stubborn to the bone even when he’s bleeding. “I don't like those ungrateful bastards treating you like that,” he admits, and Shane hears the part he isn’t saying, that Hayden doesn't like anyone deciding Shane is less than anything he was during his time in Montreal.
Ilya raises his hand. “Me too.”
Shane sneers at them for a long second. His jaw flexes as he tries to decide whether he’s more furious or more guilty. He lands somewhere in the middle and hates that too. “We could’ve told the officials,” he argues. “We could’ve let the league handle it.”
Ilya snorts, then flinches at his own mistake. “The league will handle it in three weeks,” he mutters. “They will handle it with a fine.”
Shane steps forward, eyes intense with anger, disappointment, and guilt. “You could’ve let me handle it,” he insists.
Ilya’s posture shifts. “You shouldn’t have to handle it."
Hayden stays still as he feels Shane’s eyes moving towards him.
“And you,” Shane says. “Do you know what they’ll say about you in Montreal?”
Hayden answers honestly. “They already say it even before this."
The honesty makes Shane’s frustration spike. “Then why give them more?!” he snaps, and he hears himself raising his voice, which makes him angrier because now he’s losing control too.
Hayden’s throat tightens. He thinks of Comeau’s face. He thinks of the word said into Shane’s helmet. He thinks of the way Ilya’s voice rose when he asked Comeau to repeat it. He knows he should regret it. He knows the consequences that come with leaving a line and grabbing arms, especially since it’s his teammate’s arms. But still…
“I don’t regret it,” Hayden says, and he hears how blunt it sounds. “I won’t pretend that I do.”
“Same here,” Ilya cuts in immediately, as if there is a prize for being the first to refuse remorse.
Hayden catches Ilya’s gaze, and there’s a shared smirk that makes Shane put his hand over his head again.
Ilya starts again. “Comeau deserves it."
Hayden nods. “He does."
“I would do it again."
“I would, too.”
Shane shuts his eyes, and the moment he does, he can feel how tired he is. He can feel how much he doesn’t want to keep doing this version of his life where he has to be the responsible one while everyone else throws themselves at problems with their fists. He paces once across the living room, then stops because pacing isn’t helping either. “I’m going to shower,” he says. “I’m going to probably take several hours… I can’t keep doing..." he gestures to everything in front of him. "...all of this right now.”
He leaves them in the living room with their injuries and their righteousness. The hallway light clicks on and then off as he moves toward the bedroom, and the house swallows him up with the same quiet it started with.
The living room settles into stillness again. Not knowing what to do with his hands, Hayden sits on the edge of the couch. His knuckles are swollen. He flexes his fingers slowly. His jaw aches. His shoulders feel tight.
Ilya remains on the other side of the couch, his bloodied towel now folded on his lap, his eyes still bright with leftover adrenaline.
They are both looking in the same direction, the television that hasn’t been turned on.
“He’s angry,” Hayden says.
He didn't expect to hear Ilya laugh at that. “You are funny, Pike.”
Hayden joins Ilya in laughing, and the two had themselves in stitches until they realize the sound doesn't belong in the room right now, so they both try to strangle it before it gets too loud. They keep it contained for a full minute, shaking with the effort not to laugh too loud because Shane will hear. When it finally dies down, they sit in silence for a few seconds before one of them speaks again.
“You don’t even play for Ottawa,” Ilya points out at last, and his tone tries to sound accusatory, but it lands closer to confused respect.
Hayden shrugs, completely knowing what Ilya means. “They were insulting my brother,” he replies.
Ilya nods once. “They were,” he says, satisfied with the logic.
They don’t talk about friendship or about liking each other. They don’t talk about the fact that Ilya has spent years chirping Hayden on the ice and in interviews and anywhere there is a microphone. They don’t need to. They share a point of agreement, and right now, it feels enough for both of them.
Hayden shifts his weight, and pain pulls across his shoulder. He exhales through his nose and looks toward the hallway where Shane disappeared.
They sit in silence again for a moment. The hum of the refrigerator continues. A car passes outside, and its lights move across the wall, then vanish.
Hayden leans forward and picks up his jacket. “I should go,” he says.
Ilya’s eyebrows lift. “It’s late.”
“I know," Hayden answers. "That’s why I need to go.”
Ilya watches him stand, and his gaze sharpens on Hayden’s face. “Pike,” he calls, and there’s a pause that suggests he is deciding what kind of person he wants to be for the next sentence. “Your nose is bleeding.”
Hayden touches his face and feels the wetness he has been ignoring. The movement makes his nostrils sting. He looks down at his fingers, red under the living room light. “I’m fine,” he responds.
“Stay the night.”
Hayden moves his gaze to the jacket on his hand and shakes his head. “Shane is mad at me. This is the first time my best friend is actually mad at me, and I don’t want another hour of staring contest with him. Besides, I have another scolding to attend at home,” he says, and he tries to make it sound casual.
Ilya’s gaze stays on him. “It’s two hours to Montreal."
“That’s my Uber driver’s problem. I'll manage,” Hayden says.
Ilya is about to speak again but stops. He looks toward the hallway and lowers his voice. “Shane wouldn’t want you to leave."
Hayden smiles at that. He slides his arms into his jacket. “Tell him goodbye for me,” he says, giving Ilya’s shoulder a tap.
“You are very stubborn as always, Pike.”
“You’re worse,” Hayden shoots back, and there's warmth in it that both of them don’t acknowledge.
Ilya’s mouth twitches, silently admitting that.
Hayden opens the front door and steps out into the cold. He turns once, just enough to look back at Ilya, who's still on the couch, staring at him. Ilya lifts a hand that doesn't fully commit to a wave.
Hayden nods once and leaves anyway.
Ilya sits there for a moment longer, listening to the sound of Hayden’s steps on the porch. Then the steps fade. Ilya’s mouth pulls into a small smile that he doesn't show often.
If you ask him whether what Hayden did is stupid or honorable, Ilya will meet your eyes and make you certain of the right answer without saying a word.