Chapter Text
What does someone wear to an NHL game?
He’d have to figure it out quickly, this wasn’t his first game and from the excitement of his mom and dad this wouldn’t be his last either. Puck drop was in about an hour. The whole city of Ottawa seemed to be preparing with him, but while they were walking through the streets with laughter and beer and four year old’s in their favourite players shirts (he’d seen too many Rozanov shirts to feel normal about anything), Shane was in his room staring at his closet.
Right. His array of Dickies scrub stolen from multiple clinics wouldn’t quite cut it this time.
Chanel had been let out of her enclosure and was sitting on the top, waving her white arms threateningly at him. Even she looked better than Shane, and she had an open circulatory system and six limbs.
It was four, so Rose probably wasn’t in theatre, but she might be in consults. He called her anyway, her phone would be on silent if she was talking to clients so there was no harm in anything. Maybe the client could help as well, Mrs Robbie was booked in for today and she was always wearing elaborate shawls and scarves. Scarves were a sports thing, weren’t they?
“Hello?” He chuckled a little at the relief of her picking up. “Holly, what’s going on?”
“What the fuck do I wear to a hockey game?”
She cackled at him down the line.
“Oh my god, Rose.”
“Okay, okay. Who’s playing?”
“Ottawa and Montreal.”
“What colours are they?”
This is why he called her, thank god. Ottawa were red and black, with a few gold stripes. Well, he assumed. That’s the colours the people on the street were wearing. He quickly looked at Montreal on his laptop while Rose described his predicament to Kiara.
“Okay, okay. Red and black are Ottawa, and Montreal is like, mostly blue.” He scrunched his nose when a picture of Ilya in a face off appeared, he wasn’t in Ottawa uniform, but the caption was Boston vs. Montreal so that mystery was quickly over. He had a look in his eyes he hadn’t seen before, this aggression without purpose. Eyes swirling with almost righteous anger. Shane didn’t think he liked it.
He shuts the laptop.
Rose’s voice rang out from his phone, as well as the howling of a dog in one of the kennels. He heard the familiar clang of a kennel opening and then the noise stopped.
“So don’t wear anything blue, you have black pants, right?”
“Yeah,” he pulled back a navy set of scrubs, “the skinny jeans-.”
“DO NOT!” Rose yells, “do not wear skinny jeans.”
“They’re not that tight-.”
“No way.”
“Hey,” he hears Kiara interrupt from the other side of the room, “they might make his butt pop.”
“Like he needs that,” Rose mutters, “Holly’s got more cake than me, it’s ridiculous.”
“Okay,” this simple question was quickly derailing, and the alarm clock on his bedside table was counting down the minutes to his demise, “what should I wear instead, then?” He tried pulling everything non-scrub related out of his closet.
He can hear her mindlessly clicking the mouse. “Your black cargos, you look good with the whole ‘rugged’ look.”
“Okay.”
“And a red jumper, it’ll be too cold in the arena to wear a tee, won’t it?”
“I don’t know! It’s ice so I think so?”
“Didn’t you use to play hockey?” Kiara asks, Rose hums in agreement.
“That was like ten years ago, I never sat and watched either, playing is different.”
“People online say jeans and a hoody, these people say jeans and a hoody and… yep, these people also say jeans and a hoody. I think you know what you’re wearing?”
“Erm, cargos and a hoody?”
“Good boy,” she answered with the tone reserved for antsy terriers and aggressive cats, “go get your mans.”
“What, I’m not getting anyone!” Shane spluttered as he rested the phone on the table to search for the cargos. “Rozanov isn’t anything.”
“He’s playing tonight, isn’t he?” Kiara asked. If it was Eleanor or Rose he’d accuse her of winding him up, but Kiara genuinely didn’t know anything about hockey. Then he heard Rose’s laughter, so she was pissing him off on purpose.
“Oh my god.”
“Hey, no judgement, we all need a sugar daddy in these trying times,” he heard Eleanor yell, Eleanor. Now this had apparently turned into a team meeting, weren’t they all meant to be working?
“He’s not my sugar daddy.” Shane groaned as he shoved a bright red t-shirt over his head, “I’m not pimping myself out in red, it’s not my colour.”
“But in general?”
“Oh my god.”
“If two thousand isn’t sugar daddy material, then I don’t know what is!”
He really regretted texting the group with that information.
“Turn your camera on, Holly! Let’s see you,” in a testament to their friendship Rose was one of the only people who he’d video call, but in this ridiculous bright red top and cruddy cargos he faltered, and then weakly clicked the button.
He can hear Eleanor wolf whistle from the other side of the room, “you could crush somebody with those biceps, go off Wasian king!”
“Landry! Turn me back around!” He’s always been a blusher, the blood on his face had always appeared as a heady maroon that was obvious to everyone around.
“Oh my god,” Rose gasps, “is that the gay thermometer shirt?”
He looked down at himself. The t-shirt was a genuinely nice colour and fit. The arms were tight, it cut in a little at his waist and it was nice and slimming. He actually looked like a normal person wearing it, not just a box with sagging pants like he did in scrubs. He’d mooned most of his clients over the years whenever he crouched down to see their dogs, Rose found it hilarious but she knew she was doing the same. Sometimes when a nurse would come into the room to check something with either of them they’d give a look, the look that really said the client did not pay for an extra show.
The only issue with the red shirt was the thermometer on the front, which had the incorrect increments along the side. It was also completely rainbow. Rose had bought it as a joke when they’d first met at the last clinic, he’d cried on her shoulder at some random bar that they’d gone to as a ‘date’. She kissed his cheek, wiped his face with lavender scented tissues and the next week she’d gotten him the shirt with a ‘gay thermometer’ front and centre. That was the only thing on it. He basically never wore it out, sometimes Rose would wrestle him into it like some sort of anxiety vest and trot him down to the nearest, calmest, gay club in the city.
“Do not take your hoody off.” Kiara warns.
🐾 🐾 🐾 🐾 🐾 🐾
The rink is packed. His mom had told him this would be a ‘low-key’ game, it wasn’t the playoffs or anything ‘notable’. He’d seen Ottawa on playoff game day, and while it was definitely crazier he’d never been walking into the thrum of people like he was now.
His tight tee did feel like one of those dog thunder shirts, the type that people put on them when going to the vets or if it was firework season. It was tight in all the right places and the slightly strange feeling of the laminated thermometer would’ve normally been uncomfortable, but instead it was a nice reminder of Rose.
He gets his elbows out ready to face the crowd. His mom’s waiting for him at the back of the rink, by the staff entrances, but because of all the barriers put in place he needs to walk diagonally through the throng of people to get there. He considers jumping the barriers to get around them all, but there must be some kind of security somewhere and he doesn’t like doing things wrong.
The crowd smells of strong deodorant, weak beer and the musk of men. Shane had always found himself in female dominated areas: small animal clinics, equine clinics and even the farm rotations he did after college. Sure, there might be another man or two but he’d grown complacent to not having to deal with men over the years. He liked men, a little too much, but the lack of experience meant he was quickly overdosing on their presence.
A lot of them were just so wide, and they seemed to take up so much space that he had to stick his arms around to practically squeeze through the gaps. It was a job to avoid spilling drinks as well, even though they were being held protectively against everyone's body they were still sloshing threateningly whenever they moved to take a sip.
The outer wall of men dissipated slightly, more families with smaller children appeared as well as a gaggle of college aged girls with different player jerseys. It somehow got more crowded until Shane popped out the other side, like the crowd had just given birth to him. Which was a disgusting thought, but this was a disgusting environment. Just looking at people's hands clutching the barriers made his stomach queasy and he yearned for his yellow spray to coat everything he saw.
It was much quieter around the back of the rink. He spotted his mom talking animatedly to a bearded man, he was leaning towards her to show something on his phone. People streamed past her, there was medical staff, media with massive cameras and people he assumed were family of the players or just staff he couldn’t identify.
“Shane!” His mom beamed at him, beckoning him over. “Hi, honey! I’m just talking to Harris.”
The man looked up from his phone to beam at Shane, “hey!” The smile that stretched across his face was comforting in the way it broke through his eyes and showed off a few teeth. Shane could almost imagine a caramel tail wagging behind the man.
“I’m so glad you’re able to make this game,” Harris said, beaming at Shane like he wasn’t interrupting. “It’s always lovely to see the staff's family on game day, we really like to get everyone involved!”
It was now pretty obvious why his mom seemed to love working here, Harris’ cheeks were struck with a genuine flush and his grin was stretched wide. Shane hadn’t met many people as invested in hockey as his mom, but it seemed she had managed to find someone here. Or a whole horde of people, based on the energy surrounding the stadium.
“Er,” Shane began, stupidly, “yeah, I haven’t been to a hockey game in a while y’know… so I’m, yeah, I’m excited.” He cringed at the tone, feeling its damp stickiness as the vowels spread across his tongue in a way that definitely didn’t convey excitement. If Harris was offended he didn’t express it, instead he beamed and turned back to his mom.
“I’ll let you go and enjoy the game, Yuna.”
“Text me if you need anything,” Yuna told the bearded man as he smiled and walked away, sending a wave in Shane’s direction. He’d turned around before Shane could wave back, giving him the sinking feeling that he wasn’t about to be well liked by the social media manager at all.
“We’ve got really good seats,” his mom exclaimed, walking into the building, “your dad’s there, I think he’s managed to already find some new friends.” She chuckled, seemingly overjoyed that everything seemed to be going to plan.
They walked through the tunnels of the staff entrance, there were pictures lining the walls of famous players jersey’s, group photos and awards. There was a noticeable gap in the years, the photograph quality went from pretty awful to quite decent in the time jump. Shane noticed a familiar Russian in the higher quality photo, his large frame seeming to dominate the group on-ice shot. He could see at least one chipped too
The rink was packed. He had been expecting it, he’d even watched some YouTube videos of random people going to ice hockey games just to get a reminder of how busy it was to prepare himself. No video could fully contain the organised chaos which hummed through the seating. The constant murmur of people was like white noise, with the occasional louder exclamation cutting through the crowd like a scalpel. Apart from that the smells were also fairly heinous. A strange mixture of cheap hotdogs, popcorn and the sickly sweet smell of sugary foods pounded through his nostrils in a dizzying haze. It was also freezing cold, which meant he wouldn’t have to remove his burgundy jumper to reveal the gay thermometer shirt.
His mom did have good seats, they were close to the ice and near the Ottawa bench. Where Ilya would be sitting. He was going to watch a hockey game where llya would be playing. He and the Ottawa team captain had discussed the controversies surrounding flea treatments for way too long last night, and now he was going to watch him play hockey. He was going to show up, at what was basically his work, unannounced like some kind of crazy stalkerish fan.
His dad was clutching a massive tub of popcorn in one hand and a can of beer in the other talking to two other men in the row behind. They were laughing together, but his dad broke off to look up when Shane and his mom squeezed past the people in the outer chairs to get over to their seats.
“The media’s doing better now, are they?” He asked Yuna who gave him a sly smile.
“Well, we’ve got them to interview the players in groups instead of one on one,” she offered a smile to David’s new friends behind them, “they’re all much more suited to that setup, their strengths really rely on being a team rather than alone when they’re playing and doing media.”
“Your mother has been sending some very passive aggressive emails to some very angry interviewers,” his dad explained with a laugh.
“You’re enjoying the new job, then?” Shane asked hesitantly. His dad offered him some popcorn, as usual he refused. He could see the faint sheen of the sugar lining each piece and could feel the tart stickiness it would leave coating his mouth.
“It’s amazing.” Yuna sighed dreamily, “the job at the gear company was nice, but it was only on the outskirts of hockey, I’m right in the centre now.”
“Ottawa needed some fixing up as well,” his dad said, “she’s been able to really get her teeth into it.”
Yuna beamed, “yeah, the social media team is amazing and they’ve been able to keep up with the extra publicity from Rozanov joining the team, but some of the people helping out with the traditional media and making sure that the team’s identity is still going strong have been getting a bit overwhelmed.”
“They’ve been too Canadian to send any aggressive emails,” David replied with a small smile.
“There’s no such thing as too Canadian,” Yuna said, “especially a game.” She gestured to everything around them. “No matter what happens, Canada still wins.”
“I just hope everyone has a lovely game,” his dad said. He always said this before every game on the tv, while his mom would be hollering over her favourite teams David was content to just watch the game for ‘the art’. He would always be more focused on individual players or lines, occasionally pointing out to Shane interesting moves or plays or trying to guess how the team's tactics would change throughout the game. There was no point in Yuna playing, she always guessed the tactics right and figured out the winning team by puck drop. Very rarely would something catch her out.
“Hope for Rozanov using his media training instead,” his mom replied with a smirk, “although we love the whole ‘bad boy’ image he does need to reign it in sometimes.”
His dad just chuckled.
The lights over the crowd dimmed and the ice was brought up in dazzling hues. His mom sat perfectly still next to him while his dad relaxed back in his seat. The crowd had finally hushed, anticipating the players and saving their voices for the screaming and cheering Shane was waiting for.
“Please,” the announcer began, “welcome the boys in blue… The Montreal Voyageurs!”
The other side of the arena lit up in hollers and cheers. Blue scarves twirled through the air in a mesmerizing thrum as the whole rink was lit up in blue. The players emerged, Shane couldn’t tell who was who for obvious reasons but he was captivated by the easy way they glided over the ice and waved to their fans who screamed back.
“And now,” the announcer continued in a husky voice, “please welcome you hometown heroes, the Ottawa Centaurs!”
The colour changed from blue to a deep red and Shane was swept up in the crowds movement as everyone around him began to pump their fists in the air, wave around their scarves and flags or even just clap loudly. His dad began to wolf whistle through his teeth and his mom yelled so much she sounded a little hoarse by the end. He could feel the pounding of the crowd through the floor, and even the plastic red seat underneath him shifted with the weight of people as they moved about to welcome their team.
The Ottawa’s were slowly moving around their side of the ice, the goalie moved into his little section and the others began to do slow rings around him. Shane couldn’t tell who Ilya was from up there, but then he saw the flash of ‘Rozanov’ on the back of a jersey. It felt a little weird, like he shouldn’t be seeing him here. The Rozanov on the ice and the Ilya crying about Anya felt like two different entities. Especially when Rozanov skated close to a Voyageur and the jumbotron picked up the faint movement of mouth as he whispered something before he skated away again, quick and light. The Voyageur glared back, mouth drawn.
“Oh, honey,” Yuna whispered into Shane’s ear, “I forgot to mention. That’s Hayden Pike. He’s the Montreal Voyageurs captain, you used to play with him in the junior league, do you remember?”
Shane realised he somehow did, he didn’t remember this confident man skating in front of such a massive crowd baying for his failure, but instead a smaller preteen who’d cried when Shane told him he’d be quitting. He was perhaps one of the only true friends that Shane had ever made, he hadn’t even cared that Shane was statistically better than him or favoured by the coaches due to his rare combination of a docile nature and skill. Most of the other boys were friendly enough or just generally ignored Shane. He didn’t mind this arrangement, he could still remember the anxiety that would bubble in his chest before every practice and rehearsing in the mirror how to talk to his teammates. It was always easier with Hayden, he’d made practices feel a little more enjoyable.
For a brief moment he could almost see himself there skating confidently next to Hayden, covered in Voyageurs blue.
“Yeah,” he murmured back, “yeah, I’m glad he’s still playing.” He said ‘still playing’ like this was some kind of beer league, when Hayden wasn’t probably one of the best players in the country.
“He’s one of Montreal’s best players,” Yuna mentioned as though reading his thoughts. They both watched as Hayden skated over to his teammates with the ‘Pike’ emblazoned on his back. “But he’s a better captain than player, they were in playoffs last year thanks to him.”
“So,” Shane asked, “they have a chance of beating Ottawa?”
Yuna cackled, her eyes shining as she seemed to acknowledge the goalie and he waved back. “No way.”