Chapter Text
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Shane shifted and opened his eyes, drew in a deep inhale, pushed the duvet down, took a survey of his body. They'd played a game last night so his body held the expected aches and pains, the expected exhaustion. He stretched his limbs, moved his fingers and toes, rolled his shoulders and yawned, something in his left knee popped. No fresh injuries although his right hip did feel tender. He prodded the flesh with his fingers recalling the brutal body check that was the probable cause of the discomfort. He'd still scored. They'd still won. The bruise would purple and then yellow and then fade to be replaced with other bruises. He looked through the crack in the curtains of his sparsely decorated, minimalist bedroom. A sunny bright winter day.
A day off. After an intense week of four games. Three of which they'd won.
Which meant a recovery routine. A scripted schedule of food and liquid intake, meditation and yoga, body conditioning focused on joint mobility and sometimes sauna. Reading a book and early bedtime. Well, probably reading a book in bed until it was far too late as sleep didn't come easily most nights.
But the most important part of recovery was the silence. Shane counted down the days, the hours, until he could have silence.
After the three beeps that announced the start of the day there would be no noise in his apartment. Finally, no fucking noise. No yelling, no talking, no singing off-tune while a speaker bleared out one or another dance hit in the locker room, no laughing in the showers, no coaching whistle, no airplane engines, no traffic noise, no roar of the crowd nor goal horn. Not even the cut of the skate blades on fresh ice, a sound Shane has loved his whole life. There would be no phone calls as by now everyone who knew him knew his phone was on silent. No one coming to knock on his door. No one and no noise at all.
He spent a few minutes watching the slice of sunshine cut across the hardwood floor and just breathing. His tenth season playing professional hockey, his seventh as the team's captain, three cups, a wall of awards including an Olympic gold medal in one of the spare bedrooms of his apartment. Shane Hollander was currently the highest paid player in the league, and on his way to surpass several historical records. Canada's golden poster boy since his rookie year, Montreal's biggest sports celebrity, the face of several lucrative brand deals, "the most eligible" or "the sexiest" or something or other. His mom kept a portfolio of all his successes, had fiercely managed his career before there was a career. His dad sent him pictures of their garden or the fish he'd caught or "go get them Shane, we love you!".
He got up, opened the curtains and made his bed. Washed his face, brushed his teeth and ran his damp fingers through his hair. Checked the bruised hip in the mirror. Slowly moved barefoot through the large apartment to his kitchen.
He just needed a quiet day alone.
No noise. Well, apart from the extraordinarily expensive blender that had promised and failed to be "muffled". He took the fresh ingredients for his shake out of the fridge, the fruit and vegetables already carefully washed and dried, spinach, blueberries, then added protein power, spirulina and oat milk. Spur of the moment he decided on some fresh ginger. He always had some for tea but rarely used it otherwise. As the machine broke through the quiet Shane looked over the fully equipped kitchen where the blender and the microwave did most of the work. His meals came prepared according to his nutritionist's guidelines. A freezer full of just the right ratio of protein, fat and carbs. A fridge of salad and shake ingredients. A bowl of fruit on the counter. He only used the stove to heat water for tea. His parents had gifted him an espresso maker but they had used it more on the occasions they visited than Shane did. In the eight years since he'd bought the apartment and moved in he only ever broke one glass in this kitchen. All of this for one man. It felt extravagant, still did, although he owned three more properties and there were other investments his mother and his accountant would send him reports about quarterly, not that he read them. He grew up with his parents in an average house in Ottawa, with a beat up sofa and hand-me-down plates and stained tablecloths and lovingly cooked meals. Now there were cabinets and linen closets he hadn't opened in years. A cleaner who came weekly, who watered the plants that were supposed to make the apartment "more domestic".
He drank his shake standing up by the kitchen counter. Typically he'd look forward to an uninterrupted hour of yoga but today he felt tired and strangely empty. The season had just started and they were playing well and on their way to the playoffs, again. The team was solid, a mix of seasoned players and a fresh crop of rookies every year Shane worked hard to integrate, on and off the ice. He still loved it. He did. But some days he felt strangely unmotivated, lost in the huge apartment, lost in the fixed schedule, even lost in the quiet he longed for.
Unlike when Shane started playing, when spitting on the locker room floor and casual slurs were the norm, slowly but surely the culture had changed and Montreal was now an inclusive team with spouses and partners joining the players for charity events, an openly out gay defenseman, lots of barbecues and birthday parties. Playing hockey at this level took serious work and commitment. But building up and captaining a team where he trusted each one of the guys to come to him with their worries and problems, trusted they had his back in return, this had been his life work.
Shane was different. Had always been. Had to work hard to fit in. Parents of two different ethnicities, always the only Japanese Canadian kid on the ice. And he was quiet, focused, "too serious for his age", a loner. Choosing a team sport surprised his parents. His mother seemed bossy, well, she was bossy, but both his parents only ever offered him support, encouragement. He'd found a life in hockey but Shane was sure they'd love him just the same if it had been another, less lucrative, less exciting career. He started so young and with such determination that everything else fell away. Now, as an adult he sated his curiosity by reading on any and every subject that piqued his interest.
As a rookie he had really tried to fit in. Did the clubs although the sound and the lights overwhelmed him, although more than two beers meant feeling sick the next morning. Tried dating and hookups, both disasters that only led to disappointment on both sides. Sure, he liked girls, and they seemed to like him. He could be attentive and funny, take them to restaurants and buy them gifts. The sex stuff was a problem. The way all the other guys spoke about it, as a need that surpassed all others, Shane saw it more as a chore, a necessary effort to keep the relationship going. After a couple of tries and a girlfriend who thoughtfully asked him if he was gay, he gave up on dating. He felt no more urgency to touch a boy than he did a girl.
He'd tried therapy. Tried self-help books. Tried feeling out different identities, queer or asexual or autistic, but none of them felt right.
So he decided enough. Enough of trying to be who he wasn't. Enough of pushing to conform. Enough performing. Enough.
His parents stopped asking. And it took years but after a while the pressure, teasing, jokes, were less and less frequent until the team just settled on Shane as he was, well, being enough. He still joined all the barbecues and had a calendar of everyone's birthdays, bought everyone's kids toys and books, sat down next to any struggling player on the bus, the plane, the bench, even when there was nothing to say out loud, even when his presence, hand on the shoulder or nod of encouragement was all he could offer.
He cleaned up in the kitchen and rolled out the yoga mat in front of the balcony doors to take advantage of the winter sun, took off and folded his pajama pants and t-shirt, and sat down just in his boxers to start with a breathing exercise.
A deep breath and soon Shane settled into a routine his body recognized, settled into the quiet.