Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fluff and Angst, Fix-It of Sorts, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, Translation Available

Language:

English

Series:

Part 1 of the coast is clear

Collections:

Fics that drag me back into obsessions, The best pairings to bask in, My heart is full, favorites, No thoughts just gay hockey, Hope's Fav HR Fics, Hollanov Hall of Fame, Best of Hollanov

Stats:

Published: 2026-01-01 Words: 8,252 Chapters: 1/1

the coast is not clear

Summary

“My flight is early tomorrow,” Rozanov says. He bites his lip. Shane’s eyes stick there too. “You look in hallway, yes?”

Shane sticks his head out. The hallway is empty.

Would it hurt? To go another round? Rozanov has to fly out early anyway, it’s hardly like they’ll be spending time befriending each other. What is one night, when they’ve already crossed the line with eyes wide open?

“Shit,” he says. “There’s a couple at the end of the hallway, arguing, you know? You better wait until they leave.”

OR

Shane lies, that first night, to keep Rozanov to himself a little longer. The changes spiral out from there.

Notes

Hello, here I am, frantically writing fic again even after spending almost a full year focused on my original work. Yes, I, too, have been sucked into the heated rivalry obsession and I have no regrets.

The idea for this fic started as a joke, namely, me watching episode 4 and going "they literally only needed to spend an hour alone together not having sex to realize their feelings." And then I wondered... what if that hour happened earlier?

This fic plays with both TV and book canon, with some direct quotes. All mistakes are my own!

Enjoy!

Edit: Huge thanks to gravollet for making cover art for this fic! For those that download to kindle to read, they left a comment explaining how to add a cover. Make sure to compliment how beautiful it is!

• Translation into 中文-普通话 國語 available: [授翻] 十步之遥 (the ten step plan) by winniethepooh_99

Shane drops his head back onto the pillow. Catching his breath should be simple, but every time he steals another glimpse of Rozanov, biceps flexing as he buttons his pants, he finds his lungs stilling. This was a mistake. A terrible, horrible, no good mistake. What is he thinking? Not just sleeping with another man, but the man who is slated to be his rival once their rookie season begins?

When Rozanov turns back towards Shane, he smirks. Shane remembers what his lips tasted like and looks away. He wants to taste them again. Rozanov is so warm, larger than life. He challenges Shane in a way that has him wanting nothing more than for the other man to stay.

“My flight is early tomorrow,” Rozanov says. He bites his lip. Shane’s eyes stick there too. He watches the bob of Rozanov’s throat. “You look in hallway, yes?”

Shane rolls to his feet. Loose-limbed and relaxed, he takes the long way to the door. It brings him brushing past Rozanov where he stands at the end of the bed. Despite what feels like bold provocation, Rozanov’s expression doesn’t twitch as Shane squeezes by. Not until he’s about to step out of reach.

Rozanov mutters something under his breath in Russian. Shane doesn’t know any Russian, but he has a feeling it’s filthy. Strong hands grab his hips and pull him close. He thinks Rozanov’s palms are burning a permanent mark into his skin. And then Shane doesn’t think at all.

Kissing has never felt like this before. Not behind his high school with giggling freshmen, not with his girlfriends. This is addicting, distracting, setting Shane ablaze. Instead of awkward fumbling, this is a competition. Just like on the ice, Shane rises to the occasion, biting back harder, pressing closer. He doesn’t want to ever stop. Rozanov groans into his mouth, pushing him away. “Fuck, Hollander. I think you are seducing me, but you are too stupid.”

“Fuck you,” Shane snaps. He steps back, almost stumbling before he pivots on his heel. Rozanov’s eyes land heavily on his shoulders. Shane swallows hard, adjusting himself and cracking open the door. He sticks his head out. The hallway is empty.

Would it hurt? To go another round? Rozanov has to fly out early anyway, it’s hardly like they’ll be spending time befriending each other. Shane will probably pass out soon, fatigue turning his limbs to stone. What is one night, when they’ve already crossed the line with eyes wide open?

Shane closes the door. He flips the deadbolt, catching sight of his dark-eyed expression in the metal. He looks hungry. He’s never seen himself look like this before. With a shake of his head, Shane breaks his own stare.

“Shit,” he says. The carpet of the hotel room is interesting. Blue and gold gilding, too fancy for anything but a penthouse suite. “There’s a couple at the end of the hallway, arguing, you know? You better wait until they leave.”

Shane looks up. Rozanov’s stare burns. His pants bulge too obviously at the front. Shane wants him.

“Mm. Yes,” Rozanov says, slow and sure. He stalks toward Shane, doesn’t stop until he’s trapped him between the door and his body. The position already feels familiar. Slumping backward, Shane tilts his head. Rozanov’s breath caresses his lips. “Should not risk. Maybe I stay longer, hm? Until we are sure they leave.”

“Only makes sense,” Shane lies. And lets Rozanov take him apart again.

After, tangled together on the bed, exhausted and sweaty, Shane can’t bring himself to regret it. Rozanov doesn’t move to get dressed again. Only drapes his arm over Shane’s back. “Is there game on? We watch and wait for hallway to clear?” His voice is still faintly hoarse, breathless. He’d taken Shane down like it was nothing.

Shane swallows. He wonders if Rozanov feels the lie in his mouth. If his tongue turns bitter, he doesn’t say so. Shane rolls onto his stomach, and Rozanov’s hand falls away. “No game on now,” Shane says slowly. Rozanov’s expression is unreadable. The line of his jaw, the tumble of a curl across his forehead, the sweat in the hollow of his throat. Shane’s eyes don’t know where to land. “Maybe instead… can you teach me some words in Russian?”

Rozanov’s eyes widen, just enough for Shane to notice. It feels satisfying to put the other man on the back foot, when the entire time since Shane found him smoking, Shane has been the one who felt unsteady, one breath from losing his balance on the ice.

“Just the swears,” Shane hurries out. Rozanov stares. “When I win the first Boston-Montreal game, I want to tell you to go fuck yourself.”

Rozanov rolls his eyes. He puts a hand on Shane’s shoulder and pushes him over on his back. Rozanov’s weight presses him into the mattress. “You think I will fuck myself? I think I will fuck you.”

Shane can’t help the snort. “Yeah, likely story.”

Teeth nip at his lip. “Fine, I teach you swears. You should know what I call you.” Shane’s back arches as Rozanov nips at the thin skin of his neck. “First lesson. Yabloko.”

Shane repeats the word. “What’s it mean?” He can’t remember hearing that one from Rozanov before, and he’s sure half the shit he says in Russian is vulgar.

“Asshole,” Rozanov says. There’s an expression on his face, a twitch of his lips that Shane wishes he knew how to read. “Like you.”

Shane thumps him on the chest. And then follows it up with a kiss.

Rozanov slips away when Shane sleeps. He leaves his number on a hotel notepad, an almost illegible scribble underneath the words, Boston wins, I fuck you.

Likely fucking story, Shane thinks to himself. But he types Rozanov’s number in anyway. He doesn’t save it as a contact, but sends a quick,

Asshole.

Rozanov’s response is immediate. No, Hollander. Yabloko.

~

“Are you speaking Russian?” Pike asks him. He’s been trying to befriend Shane with a determination that’s admirable, if a little overwhelming. Shane drops his gloves onto the shelf, the left on top of the right. Adjusted just so to slip into before their first game.

Shane wipes a sweaty palm against his thigh. “Just the insults,” Shane says. “Someone’s gotta give it back to Rozanov.”

Pike laughs. “Damn, man.” He claps Shane’s shoulder, tossing his own gloves into a pile at the bottom of his locker. “Thought the media machine was playing it up, but you two really do hate each other, huh?”

Shane adjusts the gloves again. The thumbs align. Better. “Yeah, he’s an asshole. Yabloko.”

Pike cracks up. “I’m going to remember that one. Yabloko.”

~

At the dot, Ilya stares Hollander down. The other man looks the same as he did a few months ago. The stupidly attractive freckles, the stiffness of his posture. For someone who stands like a statue, Hollander is annoyingly good at hockey.

Well, maybe not annoying. It’s been a long time since Ilya felt challenged on the ice. He’d thought the NHL would push him to play his best hockey, but he hadn’t expected to find his equal so early. And loathe as he is to admit it, Hollander is his equal.

Ilya is still going to beat him. “Shane Hollander,” he calls, as he takes his position.

“Rozanov.” The annoyance in the other man’s voice makes Ilya smile.

“Will you disappoint them, Hollander?”

Fire sparks behind Hollander’s eyes. “Not a chance, you urodlivyy yabloko.”

Ilya’s brain struggles to reboot from the oddity of being called an ugly apple with improper declension. Hollander looks so pleased with himself. He must have looked other Russian insults up, but didn’t bother to crosscheck any of the words Ilya taught him. What a fool.

He probably should have be focusing more on the puck than Hollander’s clumsy Russian, because he loses their first face-off. And their first game.

Ilya is only more determined to beat Hollander the next time.

Post-buzzer, as they shake hands on the ice, Ilya leans in close. “Dva tri odin,” he says under his breath. When he straightens up, Hollander looks a mix of perplexed and frustrated. “Figure it out.” Ilya has the absurd urge to bite his frown.

“Asshole,” Hollander snaps.

Ilya hopes that Hollander channels some of that irritation into translating the numbers.

~

Shane leans against the wall outside the stadium. He thumps his heel against the concrete, waiting for the internet to load on his phone. God knows how much this search is going to cost him. His signing bonus should cover it, at least.

His best approximation of the words Rozanov said gets him three numbers. 231. Shane feels like his face is melting. He kicks harder at the wall.

to unknown: Hotel name would be helpful you know. Am I just supposed to try every place near the stadium?

from unknown: would be funny

And then, the name of the hotel only a few blocks away. Convenient.

Shane walks there, hood pulled up, head down. In the lobby, he immediately cuts to the stairwell, careful not to look anyone in the eye. It feels ridiculous, poking his head around the door to check that the hallway is empty. Shane’s heart races. His palms sweat.

Empty.

He darts from the stairwell to the door labeled 231. He knocks.

Every second it takes for the door to unlatch feels like centuries. Rozanov smirks at him. The absolute asshole. “Wow, Hollander. You run here?”

“Fuck off,” Shane snaps. He pushes against the door, and Rozanov backs away with his hands up and that stupid smirk stuck on his face. “Are you trying to get us caught?

“We are fine. Team went to club,” Rozanov waves him off. He’s leering at Shane, his gaze a physical weight tracing up Shane’s legs, lingering on his crotch and his lips. Shane takes a half-step toward him before he catches sight of the second bed.

“Do you have a fucking roommate?” Shane shifts his weight toward the door.

Rozanov rolls his eyes. “Da, yes, Hollander. I have roommate and he wants to watch us fuck.” When Shane doesn’t respond, Rozanov takes two big steps. The distance between them shrinks to nothing. “Ah, I understand. You are stupid. No roommate. I get lucky, get room alone. Are you done?”

“Fuck you,” Shane says. But he lets Rozanov’s gravity pull him in.

~

Hollander is so skittish. He is like a rabbit, or some other prey animal, overly aware of threats in every corner. Ilya mostly finds it annoying, but it’s a little hot too, when he gets himself worked up.

Ilya kisses him, kisses him, kisses him. Hollander responds so well, pushing into him, clinging. He follows each of Ilya’s steps, until Ilya feels the mattress hit the back of his knees. He falls, controlled, and pulls Hollander down on top of him.

After, Ilya catches his breath. They have made a mess of the sheets, but there is another clean bed. Convenient. He’d traded his right to a single room for two months to secure one this trip. They’ll have to figure something else out, a third location that doesn’t get either of them caught.

If they keep fucking that is. Ilya would not be opposed. For all his clumsiness and hesitation, Hollander is a quick learner with good hands and a decent mouth. Ilya certainly hadn’t taken to sucking dick that fast or well. Hollander is some kind of prodigy in this too, and it would be irresponsible not to track his progress.

Besides, Ilya hasn’t fucked him yet. Hollander would take it beautifully, he thinks.

Hollander pulls on his underwear first, and Ilya mourns the loss of such a vision. When he is bundled up in the ridiculous hoodie again, he pauses and stares at the door. For a moment, Ilya wishes he could stay. Hollander is boring, and uptight, and worse at hockey than him. But last time, it wasn’t bad, teaching him Russian. No one else has asked, since he moved here.

In this country, Ilya is alone. Sure, he’s growing friendly with his teammates. Marlow in particular likes chirping him. But that is surface level, maybe drinks and locker room conversation. If nothing else, Hollander knows more true things about him as a person than anyone in this country besides Svetlana. Less than ten people in the world know that Ilya Rozanov likes men as well as women. That is not nothing.

But Ilya cannot ask him to stay. Because that is not what this is. Hollander wants to fuck him and beat him at hockey, not be his friend. God, Ilya is pathetic. He needs a cigarette. As soon as Hollander is gone–

“Would you check the hallway? To make sure no one is there?” Hollander asks. He fidgets with the hem of his sweatshirt.

Ilya sighs and rolls off the bed. He doesn’t put on any clothes, enjoying the way Hollander can’t figure out where to land his eyes. When he cracks the door and sticks his head through, Ilya makes sure the rest of his body stays inside.

To his surprise, the hallway is not clear. A few of the guys on the second shift are waiting outside a door three rooms up. When they see Ilya’s head poke out, they cheer. “Rozanov! Come out with us to the bar, Bensy says–”

“No, no,” Ilya waves them off. He can practically feel Hollander stressing behind him. “Only checking on loud assholes in hallway. Good night, loud assholes.”

Slamming and locking the door cuts them off mid-jeer. Like he’d thought, Hollander remains rooted to the spot, looking like a deer caught in the headlights. Another prey animal, of course. “Hallway is not clear,” Ilya tells him.

“Fuck,” Hollander says. “Coming here was a mistake. We’re going to get caught, and then our careers will be over, no one is going to play–” When he is anxious, he rambles. This is another thing Ilya has noticed, and found mostly annoying except for when it is endearing.

“Shh, Hollander,” Ilya says. He bullies the other man into sitting down on the edge of the dirty bed. “We are fine. We shower, maybe go another round, watch game, and then you leave. Nobody knows.” Ilya grabs hold of his hair, tilting his head back. The arch of Hollander’s neck is obscene. Ilya can see when he swallows.

“Nobody knows,” Hollander echoes.

“Now take off clothes again. Other bed is clean.”

~

Ilya makes sure to book hotel rooms away from the team when he travels to Montreal for their other games. Hollander does the same in Boston.

And if each time they check the hallway for witnesses at the end of the night, there’s inevitably a reason to stay a little longer, go another round, teach another pseudo-swear that Hollander memorizes with a little wrinkle between his eyebrows—

Well. Ilya is lonely, in America. And Hollander makes him feel a little less lonely, sometimes.

~

In Vegas, Hollander wins the Rookie of the Year award. Ilya swallows down his instinctive jealousy and irritation just long enough to feel happy for him. He is not a bad person.

When his father’s name flashes across the screen, Ilya makes his excuses and finds a spot on the roof. Predictably, his father is furious he didn’t win the award. Never mind that Ilya scored over 50 goals in his rookie season. Despite his distaste, Grigori Rozanov knows plenty about American hockey when he’s deciding Ilya hasn’t worked hard enough.

Ilya tucks his phone away. He presses his forehead to the cool metal of the railing, fingers itching for a cigarette. He saw a text from Jane before he locked the screen, and Ilya is out of the brain power it would take to respond, to make English work. Instead, he lights a cigarette and holds the smoke deep in his lungs.

His father is getting old. But not old enough to have eased up. In fact, he appears more often to remember all of Ilya’s faults and none of his accomplishments. Though perhaps that is not that different from when he was a child. Perhaps Ilya jumps at shadows, borrowing trouble where there is none.

Maybe, in Russia, he will see that everything is fine and he is worrying for nothing. Maybe.

Behind him, the door thuds closed. Ilya half-turns, cigarette hanging loose between his fingers. And yes, of course it is Hollander.

He cleans up nice, in a tuxedo. Ilya directs his gaze back to the city, so that he doesn’t do something stupid.

Hollander pushes. Pushes, pushes, pushes. Like he cannot even register the warning signs that Ilya throws up, the glaring neon lights that say stop pressing about the award, stop asking about Russia, stop—

Maybe Ilya is harsher than he should’ve been. This thing is not Hollander’s fault, not any more than Ilya is to blame for the way his family makes him feel.

He tosses the cigarette down and grinds it under his heel. With two fingers, he grabs Hollander’s chin, tilting his head side to side. He expects Hollander to shove him away. The roof is dark, private. They are alone, but still–

Instead, Hollander lets Ilya kiss him. Lets Ilya press him against the wall and bite his lip and mess up his perfect fucking hair. And Ilya feels the scrunch of his expensive tuxedo under Hollander’s fingers, the scrape of nails against the back of his neck.

“We should,” Hollander pants. The crown of his head thumps against the wall. “Somewhere. My room–”

“Yes,” Ilya says. His flight is too early for this, for this distraction and this risk. But he wants a taste of Hollander before he spends two months in Russia dreaming of his flight back to Boston. “You first, tell me number.”

Inside the hotel room, Ilya falls to his knees. Hollander tries to undo his own pant buttons, but Ilya slaps his hand away. He unwraps Hollander like a present, just for him.

“Rozanov, fuck.”

“Hmm, next time,” Ilya says, mouthing at Hollander’s dick through his underwear. “This time, I give you reward. Big night for you, yes?”

“Fuck,” Hollander says. He runs out of words so quickly. Especially when Ilya sucks his cock.

Slumped together, sweaty and tangled in the sheets, Ilya does not ask Hollander to check the hallway. He knows when he has to leave, knows when to sneak back to his hotel room for his suitcase to make the flight. And there is still time.

Hollander is warm, and good company when he is not pretending to be a hockey robot.

“How do you say, ‘see you next season’ in Russian?” Hollander asks, rolling his head enough that it almost rests in the crook of Ilya’s arm.

Ilya hums. He considers teaching Hollander something obscene, for that long term comedic value he has been building all year. Instead, he says, “Do sleduyushchego sezona.”

Hollander repeats it carefully, and then again when he checks the hallway and gives Ilya the all clear, hours later.

On the plane, thinking of the way Hollander’s lips curved around the Russian syllables, Ilya wonders if he is in trouble. If he has started the process of ruining his career before it has even really started.

~

Rozanov texts him, sometimes. Well, maybe Shane can be honest in his own head if nowhere else. Rozanov texts him a lot, and Shane texts back. Most of it is trash talk, about Shane, about the Metros, about other teams playing worse hockey than the two of them are capable of. Shane tried not to respond too much, at first. Every time Lily flashed across his screen, his pulse picked up and he felt the world’s eyes peeking over his shoulder.

But Rozanov just didn’t stop. He was stubborn and persistent and fucking funny. The summer after their rookie season, Shane kept putting his phone on silent when he visited his parents because he felt like if he smiled at his phone they would know.

Shane gets used to it, desensitized to the buzz of a text. He remains careful, tilting his screen away from a nosey Hayden, keeping the brightness low. Because sometimes, Rozanov texts him shit like this, thirty minutes before puck drop:

Lily: How many times can you come in one hour?

What a fucking bastard. Halfway through their second season, and Rozanov just doesn’t quit. Shane wishes he didn’t find it so attractive.

At least, after the game, Shane can shut him up. Or maybe get shut up.

He paces the ground floor of the apartment. It’s mostly empty space still, because Shane bought the building on a whim and then failed at figuring out what to do with it. His parents thought he lost it, buying an out of the way building at 20 years old that he didn’t even plan to live in. Shane talked fast around investments and real estate, trying to avoid answering their questions in a way that screamed I bought a building to fuck my rival in secret actually.

With all the drama of the paperwork, Shane has barely set up anything but a bedroom. He tries not to think of it as christening a new home. This isn’t his home, and this thing with Rozanov means nothing.

Rozanov looks around the building, poking at the fresh plaster like it might still be wet. Shane finds himself shifting on his feet, wondering if he can hurry the other man along without getting made fun of.

“Eager for something, Hollander?” Rozanov bends down to untie his shoes. Shane has never seen someone take so long undoing the laces. When he straightens up, Shane has to swallow. Rozanov looks hungry. “Nothing to say? Cat on your tongue?”

Shane scoffs, turning toward the stairs up to the loft. If he doesn’t look at Rozanov, maybe he can stop making a fool of himself. “No, yabloko. And it’s cat got your tongue.”

Then Rozanov is behind him, hands on his waist and teeth nipping at his ear. “No, I plan to use tongue for something else tonight.”

Rozanov laughs when Shane shows him the furnished bedroom. And laughs again, when Shane pulls out a strip of condoms. Maybe that should irritate him, force him into bringing his walls back up and locking Rozanov out, but instead… Instead it loosens some of the knots in Shane’s spine, softens him when the gentle prodding of Ilya’s fingers makes him flinch.

“Easy, easy,” Rozanov says. His hand in Shane’s hair sends tingles down his spine. “I go nice and slow for you, okay? Don’t be scared.”

“I’m not fucking scared,” Shane insists. It’s only half of a lie. Because he’s scared, but then Rozanov keeps pulling him back. Checking in, like Shane is a virgin, which he isn’t, but it’s still… nice. And then Rozanov fucks him, really fucks him. And nice is a word that loses all meaning.

Shane gets the whole sex thing now.

Rozanov flops across his back when he finishes. He’s a warm, heavy, Russian blanket. The pressure of him settles Shane back into his own skin, into comfortable soreness instead of jitters. Rozanov stays draped on top of him for a long time. They don’t speak.

Shane is halfway to dozing when Rozanov shifts. He groans, abruptly feeling sticky and uncomfortable instead of gooey, stretching, lassitude. “Shh, I get cloth,” Rozanov says, slapping lightly at his ass.

Shane lets himself be moved out of the wet spot and wiped down. Rozanov is focused, expressionless as he drags the cloth over Shane’s skin. He’s not sure how he does it, not when Shane has to keep reminding himself to stop smiling like an idiot.

There’s a moment, after Rozanov tosses the dirty cloth onto the floor like some kind of slob, where Shane thinks he might leave. After all, Shane bought a building for them to fuck in. No one else was here to hear him cry out, to hear Rozanov’s encouragement. There is no hallway to check, no witnesses to act as an excuse for the moment to drag out. Rozanov could leave, and Shane would have no reason to make him stay.

For some reason that Shane is too well-fucked to really look at, the idea makes his stomach hurt.

Ilya drops onto the mattress beside him, the king sized bed large enough to avoid the wet spot comfortably. It does mean that they need to be pressed against each other. Shane doesn’t complain, and doesn’t mention how the skin contact makes something in him unwind further.

“You have killed me, Hollander. I need nap before I can brave Canadian winter,” Rozanov drawls.

“Shut up,” Shane says. He thumps his fist against Rozanov’s chest, barely more than a tap, and then leaves it there. Rozanov says nothing. They don’t look at each other.

“Did you like it?” Rozanov asks. They’ve been quiet long enough that Shane has started to doze again. The question makes his face burn, and he’s sure Rozanov can feel it where Shane rests against his chest.

“Are you serious?”

“Am very serious. Did you like taking it up the ass, Hollander?” Rozanov’s voice is teasing, but his fingers trace up and down Shane’s spine so lightly that he almost can’t feel it. It tricks honesty out of him.

“Yes, I fucking liked it. Now stop being a dick and go to sleep.”

Rozanov laughs, and Shane feels it radiate through his skull. “But you say you liked my dick. Now you want–”

“I’m going to smother you with a pillow.”

“You do have many to choose from.”

~

When Shane wakes up the next morning, Rozanov is gone. He didn’t leave a note, but he did put the washcloth in a hamper and laid out fresh sheets next to the bed. Shane bites his lip to hide his smile, and then remembers there’s no one to see and lets it grow. Rozanov might be an asshole, a real yabloko, but at least he’s not a bad guy.

~

In the months leading up to the Olympics, Shane notices that Rozanov is… frazzled. Maybe he wouldn’t have noticed, Shane doesn’t think it’s obvious or anything but… its been almost three years of this now. Three years of fucking, of long hours spent talking shit and laying quietly, of Shane watching every one of Rozanov’s games under the excuse of their rivalry.

The disquiet that everyone else brushes off looks like an obvious cry for help to Shane. So maybe he pushes.

Legs overlapping, pressed together under the blanket in Shane’s loft, he asks, “Excited for the Olympics next month?”

Because they are laying so close, Shane feels Rozanov’s entire body stiffen. “Da, yes. Of course.”

“You don’t sound excited.”

Rozanov scoffs. “Is only entire country expecting me to take home gold, why would I not be excited?”

Shane winces. He taps a slow rhythm against Rozanov’s chest, like he can give them both a metronome to breathe to.

“I’ve seen lots of things on the news, talking about the Russian anti-gay laws. Does your family–”

Rozanov untangles them, motions sharp. He sits up against Shane’s headboard and fishes around for his pants with a dangling foot. When Shane sees the pack of cigarettes, he sits up too. “Hey, I thought you quit! And you’re not smoking in my apartment–”

“Mr. Landlord can go fuck himself. You want to talk about my family hating me because I suck dick, and I can’t have cigarette?” Rozanov’s jaw clenches. Shane regrets bringing it up.

“Listen, I’m sorry,” Shane raises his hands, beseeching. “Does your family really–”

“My brother is cop, my father was cop. Very traditional. It would not be good if they knew. Are you happy?” Rozanov’s voice is clipped. He flips the top of the pack open and closed. Shane wonders where his lighter is. He’d light a cigarette for Rozanov right now if it would get that expression off his face.

“I’m sorry,” Shane says again. “I just don’t want this to cause you any problems–” He gestures at the space between them.

Rozanov’s eyes are open, wide and vulnerable for the space of a heartbeat. Like Shane has reached inside him and cracked something vital. And then it’s like he’s looking at a stranger. “There is no this, Hollander. We fuck and I beat you at hockey. Do not pretend any of this matters.”

Shane rears back, the words hitting like a slap. Rozanov stands, pulling on his clothes quickly, as if he’s late for something even though Shane knows his flight isn’t until the morning. Rozanov just got here. Shane thought they would fuck and lay in bed for awhile, before ordering take out and watching something on the couch Shane had shipped in. Not do whatever this is.

Shane’s palms sweat. His heart races. It feels like an ending to something that Shane wasn’t fully aware had even started. There is no this. And Rozanov is right, of course he is, but then why does Shane’s chest ache like this? Why does he feel like he is staring down a slope picking up speed before he even realized he leaned forward?

“Rozanov, wait–”

But Rozanov doesn’t wait. He’s gone before Shane even gets his socks on.

Shane drops back onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling. He doesn’t find answers in the rafters.

He hesitates for an acceptable amount of time before he reaches for his phone.

Sorry. I hope the Olympics go okay for you.

Rozanov never responds.

~

From the second that Ilya lands in Sochi, he finds his skin crawling off. Hearing so much Russian is nice, a mid-year treat, but the eyes on him are so expectant, so avaricious.

And he cannot stop thinking about a stupid Canadian hockey player, asking if Ilya’s family would do anything other than spit on him if they knew he was bisexual. As if. Ilya would be lucky to be spit on, and not put in jail over spreading propaganda for existing. Alexei would enjoy that, if it wouldn’t bring such shame to the family.

Hollander looked so earnest, when he asked. So surprised when Ilya had no reassurances for him, no platitudes that actually things were not that bad, and would he like to meet Ilya’s family?

Stupid Hollander.

Now, if Ilya could just stop thinking about the look on his face when he said There is no this, then he would be fine. If he could stop thinking of the way Hollander flinched, grew small, his shoulders hunching like he was not a big man who could lift Ilya if he wanted to–

Ilya did not lie. There cannot be a this with Hollander, not if Ilya wants to maintain his citizenship, not if both of them want to continue to play professional hockey, not if Ilya wants to stop himself from being very, very stupid.

How did they let this happen? Where did they step wrong? When did the lines blur between a casual hook up into something where they cuddled and watched tv and texted and Ilya liked those things almost as much as he liked the sex?

There is no moment he can pinpoint. Maybe they were fucked from the very beginning. That locker room shower at the CCM campaign, or maybe even when Shane fucking Hollander told him to find a smoking area.

In the weeks since Ilya left, he has read Hollander’s text no less than a dozen times. Stared at it and formulated a million responses in his head.

I cannot see you again.

I wish you were here.

I do not want to go back to Russia.

I wish this could be different.

In a different life, I would tell the whole world that I get to have you when they cannot.

Absolutely pathetic texts.

Things are not better once the Games start. Ilya’s team is a disaster—their goalie is injured, their practice time was limited, and these are not problems he can fix. The team does not click, does not work well together, and they get knocked out of medal contention by fucking Latvia.

Ilya is a failure. He can feel the disappointment of his entire country, the way he fucked it up for all of them. His father reminds him personally of how poorly he has done. Even though he can hardly remember the team Ilya played, Grigori Rozanov still knows that Ilya has lost this for their country.

And then Hollander fucking texts him again. Having a good time?

Is he serious? He has seen Russia’s team, had been the one to bring up the fact that Ilya can never be himself in his home country, and he wants to know if Ilya is having a good time?

Ilya ignores that it feels nice to have a new message from Hollander, something new to stare at so long it makes his head hurt.

Ridiculous.

Ilya watches the figure skating qualifiers from the back of the stadium, tucked against a pillar. He wishes he could fly back to Boston now, end this farce of a Games early. Instead, he watches men throw themselves around on skates, and watches Shane Hollander watch the same thing.

Of course the idiot comes to find him.

“Hey,” Hollander says. He leans against a pillar opposite Ilya, the space between them a yawning gap. If Ilya expected Hollander to look wary, cautious, angry, any of those things, he would have been wrong. Hollander looks soft. He wears his fluffy Team Canada jacket, a hat pulled down over his ears, and he looks touchable.

Like something Ilya can have.

“I just wanted… to see if you were okay?” Hollander’s voice lifts at the end, a question. Ilya can’t bear to look at him anymore. He fixes his eyes on the ice, on the next group of skaters doing warm ups.

“Not here,” Ilya says.

He can picture Hollander’s scowl, the way his nose scrunches just slightly when he’s frustrated. “I’m not– I’m just checking on you. You didn’t answer my text.”

Ilya shoots him a cool stare. Hollander is fidgeting, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Ilya knows how to make him still, and knows it is something he should never do again. “How do you think I am doing? No, I did not answer your boring text.”

Hollander winces. “It was a tough game–”

Ilya cuts him off. “The team was bad. I do not want to talk about this here.”

“It wasn’t your fault–”

“Please go.” Ilya’s shoulders cave in, and he wants nothing more than to huddle into himself. And maybe, more damningly, to huddle into Hollander. He is pathetic. This has gone too far. He doesn’t know how to take it back.

“Rozanov–”

“Please,” Ilya says again. He swallows hard. He tucks his hands more firmly under his armpits, where only he can feel them tremble.

“Fine.” After a long pause, Ilya dares to look in his direction again. Hollander doesn’t look angry or frustrated, and he nods in Ilya’s direction without putting up a fight.

Ilya wishes he would put up a fight.

~

After Sochi, Ilya plays the best hockey of his life and does not think about Shane Hollander.

One of these things is true.

It feels like there is a fire burning him up inside, a drive so furious that it makes his fingers buzz, attracts the puck to him like he is a hockey magnet. Ilya can see every move of the game before it happens, knows where to put his body to distract the other team, knows how to tilt his stick to find the back of the goal every time. Ilya plays the best hockey of his life, and he ends the season hoisting the Stanley Cup over his head. When he shouts with the feeling of it, the whole of the Boston crowd screams back. It loosens the knots that have been squeezing his insides since the moment the buzzer rang in Sochi.

The Stanley Cup is not an Olympic medal. But maybe, just maybe, Ilya cares about this one more.

So yes, after Sochi, Ilya plays the best hockey of his fucking life.

And every moment he is not on the ice, he is thinking of Shane fucking Hollander.

When Ilya lands in Boston after the Games, he looks at the long weekend before practice begins and thinks what if I take short trip to Montreal?

Ilya scores a hat trick against that ancient artifact Hunter and his Admirals, and thinks did Hollander like that backhand slapshot?

Ilya trails kisses over Svetlana’s shoulder, lets her ride him until she’s exhausted, and thinks has Hollander found someone else to fuck him?

Ilya hoists the Stanley Cup over his head, and watches his teammates’ families spill onto the ice, and sees the way they kiss their wives and girlfriends, and thinks would Hollander let me kiss him here? Would he be too jealous of the Cup to kiss me back? Would my team and the city of Boston and the entire NHL be jealous that he is mine?

Ilya doesn’t text him. How can he, when this thing has grown over three years to be something he cannot control, a this that means more than it should, even when Ilya threw it back in Hollander’s face?

Over the rest of the season, they play hard on the ice. As hard as they ever do, forever at their best when they are pitted against each other, like some fucked up mating display. But Ilya does not tease him, does not let their eyes lock for longer than an accidental second. He cannot.

And then the NHL tells them they are announcing the Most Sportsmanlike award. Someone’s idea of a joke for ratings. Ilya says yes, because he has to. Ilya doesn’t need to check to know that Hollander has done the same.

Here is the conversation he has been avoiding, here is the moment he cannot dodge or hide or run from. Ilya thinks about what he will say, what he will do, the entire ride to the airport, the entire flight. Maybe he should be thinking of his speech when he wins the MVP award. But he is not. He is thinking of Shane fucking Hollander, an uptight Canadian idiot with a weak backhand and a mouth that makes Ilya want to keep him forever.

Ilya has not figured out what he is going to do by the time the plane lands. He has not figured it out by the time he is dressed in his tuxedo. He has not figured it out by the time he is in the bathroom backstage, dragging out the remaining seconds before he needs to face Hollander.

When Ilya cannot delay it any longer, he leaves the bathroom. And there is Hollander. The tuxedo perfectly tailored, clinging to him in a way clothes only do to hockey players. His hair is smooth, glossy. At the sight of Ilya, his warm brown eyes narrow in something bordering fury.

Ah.

Ilya has no decision to make after all. There is nothing he can do to defend himself against this, no way around this mess they have created. He must walk through it, into it, to have any hope of surviving it. All he can do is hope Hollander will be brave enough to walk beside him

~

Ilya finds him in the bathroom backstage. He locks the door, straightens the cuffs of his tuxedo, and finally looks Shane Hollander in the eyes.

Those fucking freckles. They are gorgeous as ever, and Ilya wants nothing more than to bite Hollander’s cheeks. Even when Hollander looks righteously pissed off.

“I see you’re acknowledging me now,” Hollander snips.

It’s in Ilya’s head to snap something back, an innuendo, an order for Hollander to drop to his knees right here. But Ilya knows him well enough to see the hurt around the corner of his mouth is genuine, to understand that teasing him like that got them into this mess in the first place.

“Yes,” Ilya says instead. The words are rocks, choking off his air. “I am sorry. I have been… bad friend.” Friend is not the word he wants to use, not the word that encompasses the mess inside his chest for this man. But it is the best one he has.

And Hollander softens. Ilya watches his shoulders slump, some of the rigidity in his posture fade. In a moment like this, Hollander responds well to a firm grip on the back of his neck, a slow drawn out kiss, and Ilya could have him as putty in his hands. The temptation is overwhelming. Courageously, he resists.

Hollander sighs. “And I’m sorry I pushed. I didn’t have the right–”

“Nyet,” Ilya shakes his head. He steps closer, unable to resist the magnetism drawing them together. “You are maybe only one who has the right.” Trying to keep from locking down his expression, trying to keep that offering open, Ilya looks and looks and looks at him. Willing Hollander to understand.

Hollander’s lips part. A quiet intake of air. “But– you said–” Hollander swallows. “There is no this.”

Ilya hadn’t missed the way Hollander flinched from his words that first time. But now, he is the one to flinch. Brave. He can be brave, because at this point he has no choice. “I lied.”

Hollander kisses him. Tugs at his curls, bites at his lips, like he is trying to crawl underneath Ilya’s skin. Ilya lets him, lets the kiss quell the wrongness that’s been eating him alive for six months. He feels Hollander grow hard against his leg, pressing his hips forward in a sneaky little grind.

Ilya wants him. Wants to bend him over the bathroom sink, kiss him until his lips go numb, lick every inch of his skin. With a groan, he detaches. “Easy, easy.” He cups his hands around Hollander’s face. Partially, to stop him from reigniting the kiss, but also so that Ilya can rub his thumb over the thin skin underneath Hollander’s eye. So soft, so fragile. “We have made a mess,” Ilya tells him.

Hollander scoffs. “That’s one way to put it.” But he makes no move to pull away, pressing his face eagerly into Ilya’s hands like a dog looking for pets.

Ilya closes his eyes, finds his center for the words he needs to say. Wraps the English around his tongue. “We have two options. Option one. We stop this.” Hollander stiffens, a block of rigid tension cupped in his hands. Ilya looks at him steadily and pretends his heart isn’t racing. “I cannot keep doing this and pretending it is nothing. It is not nothing.” There’s a light tremble running up Ilya’s hand. He’s not sure who is responsible for it. “I think we are hurting each other.”

“Rozanov–”

“Hush,” Ilya says. He presses a finger over Hollander’s lips. “Option two. You come up to my room, after awards. And we have conversation. We make plans. We figure out how to make this work.” Unable to resist, Ilya slips his finger inside Hollander’s mouth and strokes his tongue. Because he is predictable, Hollander sucks automatically. “Maybe you suck my dick, my prize for winning MVP.”

Hollander’s mouth drops open and Ilya’s finger slides free. “You are such a–”

Ilya knocks their foreheads together. “It is your choice, Shane.” The name feels clunky, awkward on his tongue. But it is the sweetest thing Ilya has ever tasted. “Two options. I will understand either way.”

Hollander’s face flushes, red creeping up his neck. The sexy fluster lasts only moments before Ilya sees the real panic take over. He can practically hear the steam coming out of Hollander’s ear as he works himself up. “I don’t– why do I have to decide?” Hollander swallows hard. “What do you want… Ilya?”

It’s a very good thing that Russians don’t blush. He wants to demand Hollander say his name again, wants to make him scream it, moan it. Instead, Ilya says very calmly, “I have already decided what I want. Is why I gave you options.”

If Hollan– If Shane walks away, Ilya will not be angry. Heartbroken, likely unable to recover from this for the rest of his life, yes, but he will not be angry. They got into this mess together, but Ilya is more than aware of what they both risk. Their careers, their friends, their families. If they get caught… Ilya could never go home again.

Ilya will understand if Shane calls it quits right here, in this backstage bathroom. It is what they should do.

But all of Ilya’s thinking and planning over the past six months—on the plane, at the hotel, in the bathroom before he walked out to present the award—all it did was cement the fact that he could not be the one to walk away. He is stuck on Shane Hollander, for better or for worse, and there is no rational thinking that will make this problem go away.

He doesn’t ever want this problem to ever go away.

Ilya wonders if his expression is as split open as Shane’s is, right now.

“I don’t know what to do,” Shane whispers.

Ilya runs a hand through his hair, and kisses him. He kisses Shane like it might be the last time he ever does this, long and slow and deep. Ilya doesn’t stop to breathe, doesn’t stop to think, only moves their lips together in a dance only they can do. Here is what splits his chest open, here is what makes the darkness always hovering a step behind him go away. Here is a chance at home that he has not had since he was a child, safe in his mother’s arms.

Ilya kisses him. And then Ilya steps away.

“Will text you room number. Whatever you choose, is okay.” Ilya smirks, like everything is fine. “Even if I do not have you, I will have MVP award.”

Shane snorts. He still looks a breath from flying apart. Ilya turns his back and unlocks the door, before he hurts his own feelings more than he already has.

~

Shane’s head spins. Spins and spins, the award ceremony nothing but a blur. He’s sitting with Hayden and the scattered other Metro players invited. They ragged him a bit about the selfie with Ilya. Shane doesn’t remember what they said, but he must’ve responded sufficiently well and boring enough that they leave him alone.

Thank god. Shane isn’t sure he could hold a conversation right now if his life depended on it.

I am sorry.

You are maybe only one who has the right.

I cannot keep doing this and pretending it is nothing. It is not nothing.

I think we are hurting each other.

I have already decided what I want.

It is your choice, Shane.

Shane.

Shane.

“–Shane? You listening buddy? They’re about to announce MVP.” Hayden knocks their shoulders together. “If fucking Rozanov gets it, I’m going to lose it.”

Dimly, Shane knows he should roll his eyes. Everyone at this ceremony knows Ilya Rozanov is going to be the MVP of the season. After Sochi, he played the best hockey Shane had ever seen from him. Hell, some of the best hockey Shane has ever seen period, not that he would tell Ilya that. He deserves the award.

And up on that stage, holding the Hart trophy, Ilya is a fucking image. Curls turned golden under the lights, that broad, unrestrained smile that Shane doesn’t get enough of. He’s beautiful, brilliant. And if Ilya meant what he implied, Ilya could be his.

The very idea of it stops the air in Shane’s lungs, kicks his heart into high gear, makes his palms sweat. This entire thing has been idiotic, from start to finish. Shane is three years into what he plans to be a long and illustrious career. He hasn’t even won his first cup yet. This thing with Ilya is already one mistake from fucking that all up, and Shane is thinking about digging the hole deeper?

He can’t. He shouldn’t.

But could Shane really walk away?

Never touch Ilya again off the ice. Never kiss him. Never lay with his head on his chest watching tv. Never watch the way he sleeps, the softness that creeps across his face. Never taste his dick again, or feel it pounding him into the mattress.

Could Shane accept that?

This mess is his fault, he’s pretty sure. Maybe they could’ve kept things as nothing more than a hook-up, kept things casual, if Shane hadn’t lied that first time. Shane has never been a frequent liar, partially because of how bad he is at it and partially because it makes his skin crawl. Lying to keep Ilya there that first night, had that been where everything started to spin out of control?

Was Shane lost then, with Ilya teaching him Russian so patiently, just barely touching under the bedsheets?

Maybe. Or maybe they would have ended up here no matter what. With Shane weighing the only two things that have ever really held his interest. Debating on whether the joy of one is worth risking the other.

Watching Ilya on that stage, winking at the crowd, looking so purely, genuinely pleased… Shane already knows his answer.

~

Shane knocks on the door.

Ilya answers.

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