The main reason I push back against the “Shane Hollander doesn’t really listen to music” camp: I believe deep down in my soul that this man has insane rhythm. He may not always know who’s singing the songs he likes, but he likes music. More than that? Shane Hollander can dance and you will not convince me otherwise. Shane can move them hips.
Walk with me here. Imma hold your hand, no napkin in between.
Picture this. Harris shooting silly videos for the Centaurs’ IG account. The guys are competing to see who can hula hoop the longest. Everyone fails spectacularly in twenty seconds or less, save for Bood (2:14; West Indian rhythm, baby), Ilya (2:02; simply refuses to be bad at anything), and Shane (9:58, 9:59, 10:00…).
“I didn’t realize this was possible,” Harris murmurs behind the camera. “How much longer do you think he can keep this up?”
“Forever?” Troy’s not sure’s blinked in the last two minutes. “Or at least until practice tomorrow?”
“I have nothing straight to say,” Wyatt interjects. “And I’m not putting my life on the line with Roz here.”
Bood snorts. “Guarantee Cap can’t hear us. He’s on another planet right now.”
Ilya’s gaze has been locked on two alternating points for the last twelve, almost thirteen minutes: Shane’s face, completely blank as he concentrates on the music on his headphones and the task at hand, and Shane’s hips, moving in a repetitive figure-eight over and over and over and—
“Oh, he’s gone,” Dykstra chuckles. “He’s not in this universe.”
“I feel like we’re intruding,” Haas whispers. Despite his statement, he remains just as transfixed as everyone else. “And learning more about them than we needed to know.”
Wyatt pipes up again. “Okay, but are we leaving or…?”
Nobody says anything. The locker room is silent, save for the rhythmic shift-whoosh of the hula hoop moving around Shane’s hips.
Bood hums appreciatively as they pass the fifteen-minute mark. “What do you think he’s listening to?”
“Recording of him and Roz. For muscle memory.”
What’s Shane listening to?