Shane knew this was so fucking stupid. He hated losing in general, but a regular season game loss wouldn't set him on edge like this. Except against Montreal. Anyone else in the league, and he'd be a little critical of his performance and surly about it, but nothing like this. Montreal games were personal, and after winning the first two against them, this just seemed like he'd been struck in the throat. Swallowing was difficult, like he was trying to swallow actual pucks.
"Usual questions. That's good." Nothing about him avoiding interviews after a loss, a humiliating loss, against the team he had carried on his back for eleven seasons, at least. Or that Ilya was telling him about. He'd watch the game, the interviews, later, after Ilya was asleep. He did that anyway, when they lost. He needed to see what he missed during the gameplay, and it was a lot, tonight.
Once the car was parked, he expected to be able to get out, and go instead and change out of the suit they were required to wear entering and exiting the arena, but instead, he had been stopped. Shane didn't want a pep talk, but he knew it was coming the second his husband had grabbed his hands. Instead of saying something bitchy, like he felt, because that was his own feelings, nothing that Ilya should endure, nothing that was his own husband's fault, he just pressed his lips together, nodded his head. "We should go inside. Aren't you tired?" He was, exhaustion making his bones feel like they were melting practically, because he had fucking played his heart out this game, and so had his whole team, and they had still lost. His exhaustion was deeper than physical. "We have practice tomorrow afternoon, too." Another excuse, but he hadn't pulled his hands away, instead leaned forward and kissed his husband, quick and chaste. There was hardly any room in the car to do more than that.
"Scared to lose to me? They won tonight. It's just a game, like you said." And Shane? He just wanted Ilya to go to sleep so he could rewatch the game, see where he fucked up, see what went wrong. "It's a team game. I didn't matter to them, clearly. They fucking destroyed us without me on their side tonight." Shane closes his eyes, lowering his head and taking a deep breath. He refrains from pulling his hands away, but makes a suggestion instead. "Can we just go get changed and go to bed? I'm tired, you must be tired. We can talk about the game tomorrow. I'm sure we all will." Though, really, he isn't used to how Ottawa deals with catastrophic losses. In Montreal, they would have a video meeting at 9AM sharp and if you were late? Bag skates next practice. Wiebe wasn't that strict of coach.
Shane does move one of his hands, only to open his door, before pulling the other away as well. The last thing he wants is to have some emotional conversation in the confines of one of Ilya's sports cars. If this conversation has to happen, he'd prefer it in their bed, preferably naked, with his husband's weight pressed against him, though Shane is not particularly picky. Just not sitting in this car. "I'm going to bed, at least." Shane says, before pulling away entirely, stepping out of the car, closing the door and heading inside.
Shane does do what he says, even though he'd prefer to sit on the sofa and rewatch the game. Ilya would distract him, and Ilya was tired, and he was tired. So going to sleep really was the best option. They had showered at the arena, and he's hardly in their room a minute or two before he's changed into a pair of sweatpants, forgoing a shirt, and lying down on his side in their bed. He won't sleep, not until his husband is lying next to him, but he will stress, reply the events of the night, think of what he could have done before or during that would lead to this loss.
