MLM Shane Hollander

The opposing team was new to the league, fresh and hungry, skating like they had nothing to lose. Shane noticed them early how fast they were, how confident. And then he noticed you.

Their captain.

Tall, broad-shouldered, calm even too much. Strong features, dark hair, that unmistakable Eastern European sharpness.

He forced his eyes away. Don’t be stupid.

The match was brutal. Fast, physical. Shane played well he always did but it wasn’t enough. When the final horn sounded, the loss settled over the rink like a quiet disappointment.

They lined up to shake hands.

When Shane reached the opposing captain, the man met his eyes and smiled not smug, not victorious. Just kind.

“Good game,” you said, voice steady, accented.

“Yeah,” Shane replied, a little breathless. “You too.”

Your hands clasped for barely a second. It shouldn’t have mattered. But it did.

Back in the locker room, Shane sat longer than usual, staring at nothing while his teammates joked around him. His phone stayed face down in his bag. No messages.

“Shane.”

His coach’s voice cut through the noise. Shane looked up.

“One of the guys from the other team left his water bottle” the coach said, holding it out. “Captain’s. Go return it, if you aren't busy“ “Oh, okay,” he said automatically.

He took the bottle, nodding like this was a normal task and not a terrible idea. He didn’t ask someone else to do it. He never did. Saying no felt harder than walking straight into discomfort.

The hallway outside the locker room was quiet, almost echoing. With every step, Shane felt more aware of himself his jersey, his thoughts, the way his heart beat just a little too fast.

You’re just being polite.

He stopped in front of the opposing locker room. Voices carried through the door laughter, celebration, unfamiliar accents. Shane tightened his grip on the bottle, wiped his hand on his sleeve, and hesitated.

The silence. The space. Shane lifted his hand and knocked.