˚⁎⁺˳ . ⊹ every year, y/n l/n, center for the new york admirals, goes into the olympics looking to have fun. it's expected of him, too — everyone expects him to get papped at least once causing some sort of havoc in the olympic village, and sochi probably isn't going to be that different. except shane hollander's here, and y/n can't really keep himself away.
˚⁎⁺˳ . ⊹ male!reader, shane x reader. reader is a hockey player.
˚⁎⁺˳ . ⊹ part one!
Sochi Olympics, 2014
Early Arrival Practice | February 8
Embarrassingly, Shane doesn’t notice the person in the stands until they grin and wave.
In his defense, they’re slouched near the back, hood pulled up over their face — the lights in the stands aren’t turned on for the open-practice, only the ones illuminating the rink, so he probably wouldn’t have noticed the guy unless he’d been actively searching.
And he hadn’t been, obviously. Except — now he’s staring, because fucking Y/n L/n is manspreading in the back row of seats, phone pressed to his ear and necklace caught obnoxiously in his mouth. His grin is wide, almost infectious; a mix of cocky and genuine honed only through years of media-training and press exposure.
And he has the press exposure, obviously. Shane can barely go grocery-shopping without catching a glimpse of Y/n’s face plastered over a gossip magazine in the check-out aisle, wearing a shit-eating grin, arm slung around his flavor of the week fuck buddy.
The guy was basically a minor celebrity — when he wasn’t on the rink, he was in music videos, ad campaigns, doing bit parts on cop shows. Shane can still remember how he’d choked on his spit watching Y/n’s arms flex in a black tanktop when he’d boosted Sabrina Carpenter onto the hood of a car in Please, Please, Please.
Tremblay skids to a stop next to him, flicking up his visor, and Shane suddenly realizes that he’s frozen motionless on the ice.
“You okay, Hollander?” Tremblay asks, slightly out of breath. Shane nods, and Tremblay’s eyes flick past him to land on L/n, who’s started to pick his way down to the mouth of the rink.
“Holy fuck, Y/n? Is that you?” He shouts, and Y/n raises his hand in a lazy wave.
“No fucking way.” Tremblay whispers to Shane, skating past him to the opening of the rink to wait for L/n. At Tremblay’s shout, the majority of the Canadian team turns as well. Shane’s throat suddenly feels dry.
Suddenly, inexplicably and embarrassingly, he recalls the poster of Y/n hung on the wall of his bedroom. The Y/n in front of him, only about a stone’s throw away, has the same glint in his eye that’s also forever preserved on the glossy 18x24 Shane’s had secured above his dresser for years.
His mom had kicked up a fuss about it — the Metros despised Y/n, burning bundles of straw decked out in Y/n’s jersey outside of the rink before games against the Admirals — but Shane had insisted. Even at 18 and freshly drafted, the Admirals had immediately pushed Y/n into a press campaign, and Shane had snapped up every bit of merchandise released. He was only three years younger than Y/n at the time, but Y/n had still felt larger than life. He was the player Shane wanted to be.
And now he was here.
It wasn’t like Shane had never run into him in the past; they’d met for the first time after the Rookie of the Year awards, when he’d been leaning back on the bar and sipping on his ginger ale. Scott Hunter, of all people, had joked that Shane better not have been drinking alcohol, and Shane had stuttered a promise that he’d never “indulge” in front of Scott. It’d been a joking moment, but still sort of tense — and then Y/n had settled down on his other side, forearms propped on the bar, and any semblance of seriousness was erased.
“I’ll cover both of us, rook.” L/n had said, winking at Shane. The player had knocked back a shot and was making bedroom eyes at the bartender before Shane had even quite realized that Y/n L/n was lounging a couple of feet away from him. Shane had seen him leave with the bartender that evening. The male bartender. And no one batted an eye, either — they all seemed almost affectionate about it.
“Yeah, he sleeps with… uh, everybody,” Scott had laughed when Shane had tentatively brought it up. “He’s kind of a slut.”
L/n’s reached the lip of the rink, now, and pulls Tremblay into a brief, one-armed hug over the rink gate before releasing him.
“Hollander, hey!” L/n shouts. He’s decked out in a baggy Team USA sweatshirt, and Shane wonders briefly what the sweatshirt would look like on his frame, then dismisses the thought immediately because it’s fucking crazy. Jesus Christ.
Shane waves, and L/n’s face breaks into a wide smile. Shane’s heart thuds in his chest.
“Uh, it’s an honor to see you, Mr. L/n!” Shane calls, and Y/n pulls a face.
“Mister? Hollander, we have the same stats. You’re not a rookie anymore, yeah? Just call me Y/n.”
“Uh, okay,” Shane says, still standing frozen at center ice, shouting down to Y/n. He’s sure that his team is baffled. “What are you doing here, then?” He calls.
Y/n’s leaning over the rink gate now, posture casual and slouched, and he reaches up to tug off his hood.
“Checking up on my rookie,” He says, pointing at Gagnon, who’s skating eagerly toward him. “Also doesn’t hurt to scope out Canada. You’re going to look pretty in silver, Hollander.”
Shane scoffed, grateful for the diversion. He could do chirping. “Yeah, yeah. Let’s see if the US even makes top three this year, eh?”
Y/n laughed. “Oh, I’ll see you there, Hollander. I’ll be the one on the podium just above yours.”
Gagnon interrupts Shane’s reply when he crashes into the rink gate, throwing an arm over Y/n, and Y/n claps him hard on the back. Gagnon’s an Olympic rookie; he’s fast, quick, passes a little too wide on his right, but otherwise good. Shane can see why he got called up to play for Canada.
He’s also painfully aware that Gagnon plays left wing on the Admiral’s third line during the regular season.
“Trying to learn our tricks, huh, N/n?” Gagnon drawls in his Quebecois accent, leaning hard into Y/n.
“Open practice, yeah?” Y/n replies.
Gagnon frowns. “Try in French.”
Y/n groans, shoving him away. Shane watches as Gagnon slides back a couple inches on the ice, suddenly feeling like he’s intruding.
“Not in front of Hollander.” Y/n gripes, and Shane takes the invitation for what it is, skating closer to the interaction.
“You speak French, L/n?” He asks, tapping the butt of his stick casually against the ice.
“Americans speak only one language. Is terrible. I’m trying to fix it,” Gagnon answers instead.
Y/n leans back to cross his arms over his chest. “I speak Russian, too.”
Gagnon grins in bland amusement. “You know five swear words that Rozanov taught you. You do not speak Russian.”
“I know more than that!” Y/n protests.
“Didn’t know you were such a linguist, L/n,” Shane grins, and Y/n groans.
“Yeah, this is what I get for trying to be a good AC and check up on my rookie at his very first Olympics. Harassed by Canadians. This isn’t very on brand for you guys.”
Gagnon laughs. “Très bien. Thanks, Y/n.”
“Yeah, you’re welcome,” Y/n answers, then pauses and repeats it in stilted French. “De rien.”
Shane corrects his pronunciation gently. “Soften the e a little,” He offers. “More like ‘duh.’ De rien.”
Y/n smiles, and Gagnon raises an eyebrow. “Alright. Duh rien, Hollander.”
“Nah, still terrible.” Shane grins.
“Blyat.” Y/n responds. “That one was in Russian.”
“That was also terrible.” Gagnon laughs, off to the side. Shane startles. He’d forgotten Gagnon was there.
“Yeah, alright, laugh it up. I’ll see you guys in two weeks for the medal match. Gagnon, prepare to do bag skates when we’re back in New York.”
“Aw, come on.” Gagnon groans, already skating away.
Y/n waves as he walks off, and Shane waves back. What an asshole, huh? So confident they’d be playing for the gold medal.
“You brought this on yourself!” Y/n calls after Gagnon, hands cupped over his mouth. “Bye, Hollander. See you soon.”
Sochi Olympics, 2014
Pre-Prelim Practice | February 11
“And, uh, Y/n…” The reporter — Kent, he’s pretty sure — fumbles, tucking his microphone under his arm and rummaging around in the pocket of his parka for question cards. “One sec.”
Jesus, Y/n hates doing media. He understands the importance of pre-prelims practice, knows that bringing in media drums up excitement around the games, but if he has to stand here another minute, sweat sticky and still in his practice gear, he’s going to scoop his eyes out with a grapefruit spoon.
“Take your time,” He grounds out, instead.
A few beats later, Kent procures an index card from his pocket and shoves the microphone back under Y/n’s nose. Y/n lightly pushes it away with two fingers, a bemused grin on his face.
“How do you think Team USA’s going to perform this year at the Winter Olympics?” Kent begins. “Canada’s presenting a strong opposition under Hollander.”
Jesus, Kent needed a notecard for that? Seriously? Y/n’s pretty sure he’s gotten about fifteen variations of this question over the past two days.
“I have high hopes. We have a great team this year — I’m actually here with my captain, Scott Hunter, and the guys on the ice are hungry for a win. Hollander’s fantastic, of course, and I’m looking forward to playing against him.”
“Alright, uh, thanks, Y/n.”
“Yeah, you betcha, buddy.” As soon as the goodbye’s out of his mouth, Y/n’s racing down the hallways immediately, picking up the pace as he hurries toward the locker room, desperate to avoid any other interviews.
Around the corner, through the back, and — fuck. Y/n collides suddenly with a warm body, sending them both careening toward the wall, and he pivots easily to catch the person against his chest instead.
“Shit, sorry,” He gasps, glancing down to lock eyes with — holy shit. “Shane?”
Shane Hollander, flushed, braces his hands against Y/n’s chest and pushes slightly to free himself. Y/n lets him go easily, trying to ignore the way Shane had looked up at him, shy and heated.
“Uh, Y/n. Thanks for the save.”
“No, that was my fault. I’m sorry. Press is fucking everywhere.”
Shane’s still pressed close to his chest, and Y/n is barely breathing in hopes of avoiding spooking him. He’s fucking adorable in the low lights of the hall, dressed in casual clothes and a baseball cap.
Desperate to continue the conversation, Y/n waves a hand in the general direction of the rink. “Came to return the favor? Wanted to watch us practice?”
Shane smiles, slightly, swaying more into Y/n’s space. “Mhm. Can’t have any surprises.”
“God forbid,” Y/n smiles, reaching forward to twist Shane’s baseball cap backwards on his head. Shane’s eyes slip shut, and Y/n can feel his breath catch. Jesus, he needs to get a grip.
“Uh, well, I need to go shower and change, so I’m going to…”
Hollander’s eyes shoot open. “Oh, yeah! Of course. Go ahead.”
“If you want to wait, maybe we could grab a drink?” Y/n offers impulsively. “There’s a bar a couple minutes down from the dorms I like. You could get your ginger ale.”
Shane blinks. “You remember that?”
“‘Course I do.” Y/n replies, then soften it with a joke. “Five concussions and smarter for it.”
“I — uh, yeah, I’d love that.” Shane replies, and Y/n genuinely grins for what seems to be the first time today.
“Fantastic. You want to come along to the locker rooms? I’ll just be there for ten minutes.”
“Sure, okay.” Shane answers. “The other guys won’t mind?”
“God, I was stuck in interviews for like forty-five minutes,” Y/n grouses, already guiding him towards the locker room with a gentle hand on his back. Shane leans slightly back into the warm weight. “Scott wasn’t here today. I doubt any of the guys are still in there. I’m surprised you’re still here.”
Shane averts eye-contact. “Yeah, I’ll come.”
He settles on a wooden bench while Y/n wanders away to shower off, shucking off his hockey gear on the way and throwing it into his temporary locker. As soon as he’s out of view of Shane, Y/n strips off his undergarments and steps under the spray of the showers, scrubbing at his skin with a bar of soap someone left behind.
Once he’s satisfied, he shuts off the water and grabs a towel, wrapping it around his waist, and walks back to where he left Shane. When he steps back into the changing area, Shane startles, a fully-body jump. Y/n laughs as whatever Shane had been turning over his hands drops to the floor.
The clatter echoes in the empty locker room. Y/n raises an amused eyebrow. “Woah, Hollander.”
Shane blushes and gropes for what he’d dropped — a skate — then scowls. “Make some noise next time, Y/n.”
“Yes, highness.”
There’s a beat of silence while Y/n opens his locker, spins the combination lock and extracts his after-practice bag — he’d left the gear one on the floor of the room earlier. And — yeah, Hollander’s about elbow deep in it. Y/n grins affectionately. What a hockey nerd.
“Is this your skate?” Shane asks, shoving it forward to him. Had he gotten it from the bag?
Y/n glances at the label; it’s a Bauer. “Oh, yeah.”
“These are Bauer Vapor APX2’s.” Shane whispered, reverent, turning the skate over in his hands. “They’re supposed to be groundbreaking.”
“Try ‘em on,” Y/n offers. “I got them early. I have a brand deal — they sent me a couple of pairs. I brought that one in case I might use it.”
Hollander brightens immediately, already unlacing his boot. “Really?”
“Knock yourself out.”
Y/n finishes getting dressed while Shane shoves his feet into the skates, glancing up intermittently with a pretty pink blush painted across his cheeks. Y/n smiles when Shane stands up to wobble forward on the blades.
“How do they feel?” Y/n asks, repacking his bag.
“Good,” Shane responds. “I think I’d have to be on the ice to really tell.”
“Oh, yeah?” Y/n asks. “Then let’s do a scrimmage. The rink’s still open for another hour.”
Shane balks. “No… I couldn’t — you just showered.”
“Ah, big deal. I’ll shower again. You want to go a round? Rather do that than the bar, right?”
Shane beams. “Yes.”
“Alright, Hollander. Try not to bruise your ego too bad.” Y/n teases lightly, already unzipping his bag to tug out his skates and a thicker pair of socks.
“Try not to bruise too bad, old man.” Shane fires back, sitting back down to unlace the skates to carry them down to the rink.
“I’m three years older than you.” Y/n laughs, kneeling in front of him to loosen the laces on his left boot while he does his right.
“Ancient, huh?” He muses, smiling softly.
“Yeah, yeah.”
Sochi Olympics, 2014
Preliminary Round | February 14
United States v. Switzerland
It's important to understand that everyone was under a massive amount of surveillance at the Sochi Olympics. The Soviet Union may have fallen, but the KGB lived on under "new" management as the FSB, which monitored ALL communications at Sochi for competitors and spectators alike. There likely would have been undercover Russian ops in every public space, and every inch of every location or facility was bugged, including competitor housing and areas of visitor traffic from the Games. Ilya, as captain of the Russian men's hockey team, was important enough to be under direct personal surveillance on top of the blanket surveillance everyone was under.
There was absolutely no safe way for Ilya to engage with Shane while in Sochi, period, full stop. Even their brief, curt conversation in the nosebleed seats was risky, and no one was more aware of that than Ilya.
Exclusive: Investigation uncovers FSB surveillance system – branded 'Prism on steroids' – to listen to all athletes and visitors
(This Guardian article from 2013 is a wild, illuminating read and adds a whole lot of context to the Hollanov of it all.)
AU where Shane is still a hockey player, in Sochi for the Olympics. He’s having a crisis because he accidentally checked out Scott Hunter working out in the sluttiest compression shirts known to man. My boy Shane is freaking out and maybe David grew up Catholic and the grandparents insisted on Shane getting baptized and all of the jazz, but the Hollander family doesn’t really practice religion like that.
So, Shane is walking around Sochi, midst crisis and intense internalized homophobia and he thinks “hey maybe God will fix me”. Only, he is in Russia, he doesn’t have his phone and also it’s 2014 and he doesn’t really know the difference between Canadian Christians and Russian Orthodox Christians.
He sees a white church with some icons, thinks “good enough” and goes in fully expecting to do confession and maybe get absolution for the massive amount of guilty he carries, hoping and praying someone in there speaks English.
And then first thing the priest says when he walks in is “you are Shane Hollander!” Because, surprise surprise, Father Ilya speaks English and loves hockey and “hockey is important for Russia and you are important for hockey so everyone one here knows who you are Shane Hollander”.
And what are the odds right? Shane goes in expecting anonymity and faith and he finds a hockey fan and a menace.
Still, they talk and Shane finally gets the courage to ask Father Ilya to take his confession and “are you Russian orthodox, Shane Hollander? No? Then I cannot give sacrament, but I can listen.”
All Shane cares is if that’s still confidential, and Ilya promises it is, but offers to get him in touch with the priest at the only Catholic Church in Sochi, but Shane panics and refuses.
Shane finally tells him all of it and it feels like exhaling for the first time in years and Ilya tells him god made him exactly the way he was supposed to be, but to be careful while in Russia. “Don’t go around telling strangers that, Shane Hollander, even if they are priests. Especially if they are priests.”
And Shane is freaking out that he will be outed and Ilya reassures him that he won’t tell anyone and then, to assure mutual destruction says “it would be hypocritical yes? We have same secret”.
Because when Ilya was 15, his father caught him with Sasha and it was either religious path or who knows what really??
He chose religious path because his mother was devout when she was alive and he choose celibacy over having to marry a random woman chosen by his father or the church.
And it was going really well, until Shane Hollander walked into his church.
