— hollander supposes, for a very long time that this was just something everyone else goes through. never mind the brochure— when teenage boys have been sexually abused: a guide for teenagers —that he's staring at, noting how dated it is, or maybe he was remembering it in place of something else he's staring at. internally, shane lurches around uncomfortably as he tries to navigate the knots in his stomach that have formed the inevitable lump of anxiety that makes it feel like he's going to vomit his dinner right back up. the brochure was dark blue with green lettering, talking about a specific kind of loneliness that comes with the experience. he turns away from it, a detail hollander remembers as discomfort of facing something inevitable. if he denies this long enough, it doesn't have to be real. it can't be real if nothing in his head, the memory of it and all the details out of place, makes sense. who's going to believe a statement that amounts to gibberish? it would be chalked up to nothing but hysterics. but before that, hollander notes that he hasn't even told anyone else— not even his parents, his mom and dad, bless them and their everything but he doesn't want to be watched over by a pair of hawks. if there is anything shane hollander knows to navigate, it's the whims of his parents being everywhere and wanting to be everything. mom especially, always working the knife in getting even and pushing limits to make sure her only child gets the best of the best out of a deal.
icarus flies high in the sky and close towards the sun after escaping the labyrinth either way, right? for some reason, hollander finds his own mind backtracking back to dad. has he been through the same? david played hockey too. he knows the sport more intimately, the environment, the kind of people that live and breathe ice hockey that wasn't just optics, numbers and statistics. but every conversation that doesn't pivot itself about mom, about hockey all turns into frustration and resentment. hollander has a working theory, that there are points where whenever dad wears a cap the hairline becomes almost synonymous with— no point finishing that thought, now that he's been interrupted. shane is just glad that he doesn't have to at all.
" it's not a strange place to find me. " hollander replies, keeping his voice level that doesn't come off as if he's been caught red-handed doing something he shouldn't. " funny how we keep meeting like this, as if i'm coincidentally at the scene of a crime. " he's well aware of his own reputation regarding philanthropy, as mom minds him that it plays well into the brand image of it all. how does one go from sainthood to deification, with the will of the one being hallowed out? something regrettable happened to him, he tries not to think too hard on it. it is bad to linger on those thoughts, in conjunction of the supposedly flawless life he lives, what the media wants is a reputation scrubbed clean of imperfections. you could pose an interview question for him: what does perfection mean to the likes of shane hollander? he wouldn't be able to come up with an answer, not one that's been thoroughly prepped and reviewed time and time and time again. picture-perfect response, nothing too controversial, walk the fine line and balance what is good and what isn't. do not go over the line, do not reveal more than what is good enough. this is how you protect yourself from the wolves keen on devouring you. he learnt that he had to show the soft underbelly of his person if he wanted to make it to the top, be willing to take the abuse and then be expected to re-enact the same violence be it on other boys or other people, women usually as popular targets. it is how hockey makes young boys into men, it is what it takes to become— the necessary rite of passage that determines you are one of them. a cycle that spins nonstop, as long as there's always something for boys to prove themselves as worthy as any other man.
it would have been more believable if hollander actually looked like he dressed up for the part of attending a charity. but no, he's wearing clothes that keep him out of sight— utilitarian, comfortable, as if he doesn't want to spend time someplace with the wrong textures rubbing against his skin. what can hollander say other than the fact that he's picky, a weird kind of picky when it comes to fabrics. the blue linen shirt he wears is tolerable enough if he wants to make his mom happy, to be normal, to remind her that she loves him and he loves her. it's never ironed, it hangs neatly in his wardrobe waiting the next time he's in a crisis and puts it on whenever he feels distressed and has to drag himself over to let mom know what's going on. hollander hasn't found the courage to do a lot of things needing it, and often the convenience of his schedule allows him the brand of cowardice he stews himself in remorse. one day, one day maybe he can finally get to the things he wants to say to her. it's just ... the fallout and everything about it that is something he can't see himself handling well— but hollander knows that he has a habit of borrowing grief from the future. his eyes follow briefly to the sign, as gestured by the detective, he reads the contents and unfortunately his face pales faster than he could control his reaction towards it. shit, shit, shit, shit. play it cool.
" ... something related to that case you're working on? " he figures he can make small talk happen, but there's nothing small about the topic he's broached on. hollander remembers being the center of it, main suspect or something, because his alibi doesn't line up. it's been a few months since, and he's been in the clear. sort of. not without the media nightmare that came after, but he's always been a good boy. hollander chooses not to bring that up, knowing well that it was inappropriate to self-flagellate himself over something so serious. he tries not to have his eyes linger back on the old brochure he was staring at from earlier, like some kind of hail mary to ground himself upon. it's awkward to start talking about hockey here, not when the air is thick with tension and his pretense at being something he's not.
