I would like for us to consider the way Shane probably crashes hard after each season.
I was that student in school who went overboard every semester. I’m talking color-coded notes, binders on binders of prep for exams, overly prepared for every contingency on the final. I earned my A’s, damnit. So when that last exam was done, the grades were in, and I could relax? Baby, I was down and out for at least a few days. Don’t call me or beep me if you wanna reach me. My phone is off. My leg’s half off the bed. My bonnet done came off—it’s halfway across the room. My mom has to wake me up to drink some water. I barely speak English. Huh? What? No sé. Je ne sais pas. I can’t do the words right now.
Whether the Cup is won or not, the end of the season is Shane’s equivalent of that last final exam. The months-long adrenaline rush is over. Pencils down, hit “submit,” you’re out of time. Shane’s always aiming for the A+ but time’s up, regardless of the grade. He can rest. He needs to rest.
Every year, Shane powers through an hour of his team’s post-season celebration before his eyelids start to droop. The physical, mental, social, and emotional pressures of the year have evaporated in an instant and fuck, how long has he been this exhausted? He goes back to his hotel room, gets a quick nap in, then makes his way to his parents’ place.
That’s when his strings get cut and he just drops.
The moment he’s through the door, he hugs his dad, kisses his mom on the cheek, then heads straight for his childhood bedroom and faceplants into familiar navy blue sheets. He’s out like a light before he hits the pillow. Yuna waits 5 minutes before she comes in to gently take his shoes off, plug his phone in on the dresser, and pull the blankets up to his chin. She tousles his hair and smiles at the way he nuzzles into her hand before she pulls away.
Shane’s dead to the world until dinner. He stumbles out of his room with one sock on, one arm out of his shirt, and eyes half unfocused. Nobody says anything; it’s pointless. Shane’s lost all ability to speak coherently. Any attempts at conversation will be met with gibberish. He’s physically exhausted and mentally fried. Cannot people right now. Try again later, please and thank you.
He allows David to guide him to the table and plops into his seat, blinking owlishly as Yuna sets a plate in front of him. He has to eat with his chin propped up on one hand, to avoid faceplanting into hot food. He can and has fallen asleep in his dinner before without so much as flinching.
David unapologetically takes advantage of the situation every year by making a carb-heavy dish. It’s usually pasta. He knows Yuna will back him up and give Shane seconds. And instead of arguing or making a face, Shane will eat every bite. He’s on autopilot and simply fulfilling basic bodily functions to address hungry-tired-thirsty-sleepy-feed me-take care of me as efficiently as possible.
After he clears his plate (at least twice), Shane smacks his lips and cringes. Good God, his mouth tastes like lasagna and death. Has he brushed his teeth today? He wordlessly makes his way to the bathroom and finds everything set up for a quick routine. Brush, pee, shower, brush again because he forgot he already did. If he has a quick cry, muffled by the shower, nobody says anything. Nothing’s wrong, but the emotional release is very much needed. Retainer in, stare at reflection in mirror for a bit, and right back to bed.
David comes in around midnight to leave a glass of water on the nightstand. He takes his turn to ruffle Shane’s hair and laughs softly at the muffled nonsense he gets in return. Realistically, Shane’s training unicorns to ballroom dance in his dreams and murmuring about their godawful adherence to accepted waltz standards with half the blanket in his mouth. David chooses to take that as “love you, Dad, thank you for tolerating me in my zombie state.”
When Shane wakes up the next afternoon, he accepts a cup of coffee, then looks blearily up at Yuna and utters the first words he’s consciously strung together since arriving the morning before. Usually, Yuna and David take bets on whether it’ll actually make sense. Last year it was: “Why is…cookies and cheese?” The year before was “I have no idea where dogs lie in keyboards for boats.” He always looks at them in confusion when they don’t answer, then chugs the rest of his coffee before putting his head down and napping a bit more.
This year, with Ilya still asleep in the navy blue sheets down the hall, dead to the world and snoring like a freight train, Shane comes up with something different.
David blinks. That’s…surprisingly coherent. Also, tea?
“Um,” Yuna responds. “We have green tea.”
“Mmm…no,” Shane yawns, jaw clicking as his mouth opens as wide as possible. “No caffeine in off-season. He gets…mm. No.”
None of them have noticed that the snoring’s stopped. As if on cue, Ilya stumbles into the kitchen—curls flat on one side of his head, eyes barely open, and creases from the sheets imprinted on his face and chest. His sweatpants are on backwards, but it’s highly unlikely he notices.
Yuna and David have a silent conversation as Ilya plops himself into Shane’s lap, grabs his coffee, takes a sip, and makes a face like someone just insulted his mother. He whines pitifully and flops back into Shane, who buries his face in Ilya’s neck and promptly falls asleep again.
“This is too cute,” David says with his eyes. “They’re like drunk toddlers.”
Yuna nods jerkily toward the table at their cell phones. “Take a picture, take a picture!”
stormborns
2087
gracieabrams
romaincrisis
