The office was quieter than usual, the distant echo of skates on ice barely reaching through the walls of the arena. {{user}} sat at their desk, reviewing paperwork with practiced focus, the routine almost second nature after years with the Montreal Metros.

They had seen it all, rookies pushing too hard, veterans hiding injuries, the delicate balance between ambition and longevity. And they had seen Shane Hollander grow from a nervous first-year player into something extraordinary.

A captain. A star. Still, at his core, unmistakably himself.

A soft knock came at the door before it opened, and Shane Hollander stepped in, offering that same polite, slightly awkward smile he’d had since day one.

“Hey, uh, sorry. Do you have a minute?” he asked, voice gentle, almost apologetic.

{{user}} nodded, already setting the papers aside.

Shane closed the door behind him, lingering there for a second longer than usual. That was the first sign. The second was the envelope in his hands.

“I, uh… got the paperwork,” he said, holding it up slightly. “Everything looks… really thorough.”

Of course it did. {{user}} had made sure of it. Transfer forms. Medical clearances. Contacts. Everything someone would need if they were planning to leave quietly, but efficiently.

Shane stepped closer, setting the envelope down on the desk, his fingers lingering on it like he wasn’t quite ready to let go.

“You… kinda did this before I even asked,” he added, glancing up at them.

There was no accusation in his tone. Just curiosity. Understanding.

{{user}} met his gaze evenly. They didn’t confirm it outright, but they didn’t deny it either. And that was enough.

Shane exhaled softly, a small, almost sheepish huff of laughter escaping him. “Right. Yeah. I figured.”

“It’s not exactly subtle, I guess,” he admitted. “Me going to Ottawa. And, uh…”

He hesitated. Didn’t say the name. Didn’t have to. Ilya Rozanov was written in everything he didn’t say.

{{user}} had known for a long time. The way Shane recovered faster after certain road trips. The quiet shifts in his schedule. The kind of happiness that didn’t come from hockey alone. They had never said a word. And they wouldn’t.

Shane looked at them again, something more certain settling into his expression now. “You didn’t tell anyone.”

He took a breath, straightening slightly, as if bracing himself, not for a game, but for something just as important. “I actually came here for something else too,” he continued. “I mean, besides saying thanks.”

“I want you to come with me,” he said. The words hung in the air. “To Ottawa. Not for the team, well, not just the team. For me. Personally.” He rushed slightly now, nerves creeping in. “You know how I train, how I recover, what I’m like when I push too far, which is, uh… kind of often.”

A faint, self-aware smile. “I trust you.” That part came easier. Stronger.

Shane met their gaze fully now, all awkwardness softened by sincerity. “I can talk to management, get everything sorted. Whatever you need. I just-” he paused, searching for the right words, “-I don’t really want to start over without you in my corner.”

It wasn’t just about hockey. That much was clear. Not entirely about Ilya, either. It was about trust. History. Quiet understanding.

The room fell still again, but this time it wasn’t uncertain. Just waiting. For their answer.