Iām merging my own headcanons now. Get ready for Hockey Man Exhibit A David and Badass Goalie Shane!
So in one corner we have the most infuriating thing to ever happen to college hockey, McGillās own problematic shadow-dweller and king of textbook hockey, David Hollander. In the other we have a budding masonwork masterpiece, pint-sized Shane Hollander in too-big goalie pads.
David starts to notice around age eight that Shane swaps between shooting pucks and blocking pucks when theyāre play practicing frightfully well. He later learns that Shane is the only kid in his whole Timbit class who doesnāt make a fuss over being the goalie for the day, other than the singular boy who flat came to class on his first day talking about how he wanted to be a goalie. Wendel, was it? Wayne? Anyway, once that kid moved away, the only other kid who wasnāt mortally offended by being asked to wear goalie pads was Shane. And Shane was really good in goal, for a ten-year-old boy.
But ten-year-olds grow. Shane gets better.
David has to start practicing and polishing up his, not inconsiderable, old skills in earnest just to keep challenging his son. It gets to the point that he recruits all his beer league buddies and anybody around from college days or work who played hockey to come and play hockey with him and his son on the odd weeknight and rare, clear weekendā¦ all to keep ahead of Shane. Just to keep him challenged and hungry and learning how to cope with a faster pace, more chaos, traffic, confusing plays, and no-win judgement calls.
By the time Shane is fifteen, he subs in every once in a while for this very team when their goalie is out. It squeaks by because itās rare, and even though heās not very big, heās good enough to hold his own in an adultās game.
Quiet, compact, eerily sharp Shane Hollander slowly becomes a name to watch for in Juniors.
Goalies donāt develop as fast as the other positions, but Shane is notable before he can legally drive.
Thanks to all the extra practice with Shane in goal, Davidās beer league sharpens up and takes their championships more often than not. A bunch of blue-collar men have to work harder than they have in years to outwit lilā Hollander in goal.
Itās frustrating when heās not in goal too, because heās a great forward in a pinch, with an impossible stride thanks to his flexibility rather than long legs, freaky fast without thirty pounds of pads strapped on, and a good head for defending. Davidās friends have shaken their heads and tutted that his son has settled into the crease instead of a position as a flashy forward.
By the time Shane Hollander hits the NHL, he is like a shark moving quietly through the development teams, devouring the confidence of every puck handler that faces him in the net, leaving wrecked egos in his wake, and he is the only goalie prospect in the first round of the 09ā draft.
Nobody expects him to be the rock that Ilya Rozanov crashes into, and does not give ground in the onslaught.
Greater, more experienced, award-rich goalies get bamboozled by Rozanov.
Not David Hollanderās son. Not the son of the man who cut through flashy feints and straight to the quick when he checked or stole the puck.
Hollander has been defending against bigger, better, faster, more experienced players since he was ten years old. He sees your bullshit, raises his glove, and swallows your dreams of a goal. He is the only player, goalie or otherwise, not intimidated or enraged by Ilya Rozanov after playing him. Rozanov will have to work hard to break the brick wall that Hollander has made himself in goal. And Hollander will improve his game to keep abreast of all the skill and pressure Rozanov brings to the ice.
David enjoys listening to his friends lose their marbles over every Montreal game that his boy owns the net in, and basks in the satisfaction of watching all the hard work his son put in over all the years as it pays off and Shane lives his dream.
(Edit 07.14.26: the fic is up!)
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