Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fluff and Angst, Secret Relationship, Forced Proximity, Yearning, Sexual Tension, Explicit Sexual Content, Consent King Ilya Rozanov, Angst, Closeted Character, Hurt/Comfort, Homophobia, Outing, Mutual Pining, the constant struggle of whether to call your rival turned fuckbuddy by their first name, complicated family relationships, Sochi 2014 Winter Olympics

Language:

English

Series:

Part 2 of Home Ice Advantage

Stats:

Published: 2026-02-19 Updated: 2026-02-27 Words: 13,616 Chapters: 2/?

Odd-Man Rush

Summary

Odd-Man Rush: The situation that occurs when a team enters the attacking zone and outnumbers the opposing players in the zone.

Or,

Shane doesn’t know why he still feels so off-kilter. He should be the happiest he’s ever been—he won the Cup, he feels like he’s maybe starting to have a few friends on his team, and he’s finally starting to believe his parents when they tell him he won’t get traded again. He should be on top of the world, but sometimes he still feels like the lone defender on an odd-man rush, skating as fast as he can to prevent what feels like an inevitable outcome.

The problem is that he’s not quite sure which outcome it is that he’s trying to stop.

Notes

To anyone who's new here, welcome! This is the sequel to Home Ice Advantage, and will make no sense if you haven't read that one first.

For everyone else, welcome back! I have been absolutely blown away by the response to Home Ice Advantage. Thank you so, so much for all the kudos and kind words, and I hope that you'll enjoy this next instalment in the series. I've written ahead a bit this time so I should hopefully be able to update more regularly—the goal is to get a new chapter out every 4-5 days.

I promise there will be an Ilya POV in this one, but the first chapter picks up right from where we left off with Shane.

Chapter 1

Chapter Notes

Summer 2012

If he had ever allowed himself to think for more than a few seconds about what it might feel like to win the Cup, maybe Shane would have been more prepared for the aftermath. But as it is, the crash that follows the high is both unexpected and brutal.

He stays in Boston longer than he had last summer, the whole team wanting to be there for the assortment of events and celebrations that follow a victory. Even after all the official stuff is done, people seem reluctant to head home for the summer like they normally would, lingering like that will help to draw out the feeling of winning. Eventually it gets to a point where there's really nothing left to do but hang out at each other's houses and reminisce about the win, and that gets old quickly. Shane isn't the last to leave by any means, but by the time he gets on a plane home a good chunk of the team have finally retreated to spend the summer with their families.

The first few days are a much-needed break. Shane sleeps for hours longer than he normally would, and he actually follows Coach's orders to the team to take at least a few weeks off from working out to let their bodies recover. He goes for a few long runs around the lake when he's feeling restless, but other than that he relaxes, reads, and lets his parents cook him delicious food as he starts trying to gain back the weight he had lost through their grueling playoff run.

After that, though... after he's mostly physically recovered and the typical summer boredom starts to set in... that's when Shane starts spiralling.

At first it's anxiety. He would never have thought that winning the Cup once could make him want it even more, but he finds himself weirdly preoccupied with the absolute terror that fills him every time he thinks that it might never happen again. Statistically, most players never win the Cup. Winning it once is already a novelty, the almost-impossible accomplished. What if that's all Shane ever gets? What if he's already achieved the only major milestone of his career in his second season?

This is something Shane has always struggled with, playing hockey. He knows that if it were just up to him, it wouldn't be so bad. He could give it his all every year and worries about falling short would be something in his control. But Shane knows, especially now after having done it once, that one person alone is not enough to drag a team all the way through playoffs to a win. It depends so much on the team, the exact set of circumstances aligning so that everyone is playing their best and clicking with each other and that little bit of luck so that the puck actually hits the back of the net when it matters, and Shane doesn't know if he'll ever get that again.

It's not something he can control, and already it's driving him crazy.

His parents seem to pick up on his weird mood, and they mostly leave him alone to process how he feels about it all. Shane is grateful. Already, living with them for the summer is grating on his nerves the same way it had last summer, although he doesn't know why. His mom had apologised for the way she had reacted to his trade and he had forgiven her, so it feels like things should be back to normal, but they aren't. Shane puts it down to being more used to living on his own now and not having to justify every little decision he makes to others, and tries to keep his temper in check. He can't help but keep dreaming of a place of his own to retreat to in the summers, and he knows that if he doesn't take action on his plan this summer then it will be another year of this.

He brings it up over dinner one night about a week after arriving at the cottage. He's starting to get restless, his parents starting to ask questions about the rest of the team and what they're up to and Shane doesn't want to have to explain that even though he's happy in Boston and feels like maybe some of them are starting to be friends, he doesn't really keep in touch with anyone over the summer. So instead he drops the idea that's been swirling in his head for over a year now out into the open, unsure if it will be a total non-event or if it will cause an even bigger fight with his mother.

"I've been thinking of maybe getting my own place out here. For the summers. Buying a plot of land and having something built."

There's a tense moment of silence while Shane waits for a reaction. He doesn't look up from his food, twirling pasta in what he hopes is a casual way on his fork. He already knows that his mother won't like this.

"Why?" she eventually asks, exactly like Shane had known she would. Thankfully, he had already rehearsed his answer.

"I just... thought it might be nice, to have somewhere that's really my own. Somewhere permanent. I don't want to build something in Boston, since there's no guarantee I won't be traded again, even if it is years from now. But I figured... I'll always want to come here in the summers, right? So I could have a place here that's mine." It's true, every word of it, even if it's not the entire reason. But Shane knows he can't exactly tell his parents that he finds living with them to be almost suffocating, and he thinks this is the alternate explanation that will go over the best with his mom.

"I don't understand," his mom says. "Why wouldn't you just keep coming here in the summers? Do you not want us around?"

Shane closes his eyes for a brief moment, taking a deep breath. He had known that this would happen, and he also knows that he's an adult now and he doesn't really need his parents' permission to buy a house. But he's so aware of the tension that's been present between him and his mom for the last year, even after she had apologised, and he doesn't want to do anything to make it worse.

"It's not that," he says. "You know I love it here. That's why I want my place to be here, on the same lake if I can find somewhere. I'm sure I'd still be over here all the time."

"I think it's a great idea," his dad says, and Shane can't help but look at him in surprise. "I get why you maybe don't want to buy somewhere in Boston just yet, and it is important to have somewhere that's your own. Think about it Yuna, he could have way more space for his summer training than he does here. Build a proper home gym instead of having all his stuff take over your office all summer."

Shane holds his breath as his mom nods slowly. "I suppose that could be nice," she says. "But Shane, please don't feel like you have to. Even if it's a little cramped, we're happy to have you here all summer. You could never bother us."

"I don't feel like that," Shane says. If anything he's all too aware of how reluctant his mother is to let him go. "But... yeah, I had thought that it could be nice, getting to design something from scratch. I could have a gym, maybe even a small indoor rink. And I would probably still be over here to hang out all the time anyways, but if I had my own place then I could come whenever I wanted, and I wouldn't have to wait for you guys to have time off work or anything. I was wondering if maybe you guys could help me too? Like, to find some land and an architect and things?" This is his other card—he knows his mother can never resist a task to accomplish, especially because Shane has been trying to be more independent since the trade, handling things himself rather than letting his mother do it all for him.

"Oh, of course honey." Shane has to hold back a grin when his mother reacts exactly how he had thought she would. "I've seen a few plots up for sale already this year. Just yesterday I was saying to your father that the McKinnons must have finally decided to sell off their parents' land because there were a few signs up..."

Shane relaxes back into his seat as his mother gets going, turning his attention back to his pasta. He can't help the way his muscles relax a bit, some of the tension he's been carrying around with him draining out. He hates the feeling that he's walking on eggshells around his parents now, but it's one he still hasn't been able to shake, despite the fact that neither of them have said anything to him to cause it. Obviously the trade had been directly responsible for him winning the Cup, and even his mom can see that and therefore can't really wish that it hadn't happened anymore. They had both stayed in Boston for a week after the win, soaking things up right alongside Shane, cooking him meals and keeping his apartment clean so he didn't have to worry about anything but celebrating with his team. They hadn't asked too many questions either—about where he was going, what he was doing, who he was with. He had been grateful for their lack of hovering, if a little surprised, especially because half of the time he had said he was going to a party he had stopped off at Rozanov's house first. The man had been insatiable in the weeks after the win, and Shane had been almost just as bad.

Shane hasn't heard from him since he had left Boston. He's been purposely not thinking about it, and with difficulty he wrenches his attention back to his mother, who is in full planning mode now, trying to explain to her what he's been envisioning for his new place and how much he's willing to spend.

He still thinks about it, of course, and when he's finalised the land purchase and gotten the first designs from his architect back a few weeks later, he can't resist sending a picture to Rozanov. Only because he had said he would, and Rozanov had said he wanted to see. No other reason.

He refuses to acknowledge the way he jumps every time his phone buzzes for the next few days, but a reply never comes. It's fine.

Fall 2012

Shane is uncharacteristically nervous as he pushes through the doors of the rink for the first practice of training camp.

It almost feels like his first practice with Boston all over again. The fluttering in his stomach, the way his breaths are coming quicker than usual. He's not sure what's got him so worked up—he definitely doesn't remember feeling this way last year at the start of the season, and he had been far less comfortable with the team at that point.

Well, he knows part of what has him nervous. He hasn't heard from Rozanov in two long months—not a single word since the two of them had left Boston after their win. Shane hadn't reached out either, other than sending that picture of his new place that is now in the process of being built. He had never gotten a response, and he's not sure where that leaves them. They had been obsessed with each other after the Cup, and Shane had been sure that it was mutual, but over the course of the summer the doubts had started to creep in. What if that was it and Rozanov is bored of him now? What if they're back to being rivals, barely even friendly, now that Shane knows what it's like to have Rozanov inside of him, splitting him apart in more ways than one? He doesn't know if he could handle it, if it just all stopped with no explanation.

And Rozanov is his captain now. Shane doesn't know how that changes things.

He had gotten the email a few weeks ago, and even then he hadn't known what to feel about it. He hadn't mentioned it to either of his parents, figuring that they would find out during training camp like the rest of the world, because he didn't want to hear his mother ranting about how the honour should have gone to Shane instead. Shane knows that isn't true, knows that he isn't a leader in the way that Rozanov is, and he's fine with that. He had known it was coming, even—there had been no way that they would have chosen anyone else, with Nelson retiring. And maybe Shane had held out a tiny morsel of hope that he would one day have an "A" on his jersey, but he hadn't really been surprised when the call hadn't come this year. He knows he has a hard time connecting with the team, that even after a year and a half he still doesn't really know if any of them could actually be called his friends, and he knows that isn't normal. So he's not surprised.

It doesn't stop him from being jealous though. Even knowing that he doesn't deserve it, he knows that maybe in another life it could have been him, getting appointed as captain of a team in only his third year playing. Maybe it would have happened, if he had been a little better in Montreal, if he had bonded with the guys more and management hadn't decided to trade him away so early. Maybe that had been the plan, until they had seen how awkward and weird Shane had been and had decided to try their luck finding a suitable captain elsewhere.

Shane does his best to shove the thoughts out of his head as he throws his bag down on the bench and starts changing into his gear. He's the first one here, like always, so he has some time to get his brain back on board with hockey, which is what he should be worried about. They now have the almost impossible task ahead of them of defending their Cup win—Shane already knows that it will be even harder than winning it the first time had been.

People begin to trickle in slowly, greeting each with shouts and claps on the back and questions about everyone's summers. Gradually, the room fills up, the sound of overlapping voices fading into a low hum as Shane tapes his stick and listens in to the conversations around him. He's greeted too, of course, guys reaching out for fist bumps and asking perfunctory questions about his summer, but he knows that they're only doing it to be polite and he doesn't mind too much in the moment. It's not like he wants to participate in any of the conversations around him anyways—he hadn't done much of interest over the summer, not like the rest of these guys who had apparently been going on exotic vacations and partying it up instead of relaxing at their parents' cottages.

Now that he's been on the team a little longer, he can see the dynamics more clearly, the groups that slowly start to form. There's Marlow and St-Simon and Oregan over on one side, the younger guys that Rozanov usually hangs out with when he's not with Shane. In the middle of the room there's Carmichael and Hammersmith and some of the other veterans, looking a little diminished without Nelson's tall figure in their midst. There are a cluster of rookies and guys from the minors near the door, all obviously nervous and trying to hide it, not talking to each other but sticking close. Those are the guys who will be fighting for a spot on the opening night roster over the next few weeks of camp. Then finally there are the new guys on the opposite side of the room from Shane, the ones who had been traded over the summer from other teams. Holm, a defenseman from Philadelphia, and Erikson, a centre from Vancouver. Shane is fairly sure they're both European, since they seem to be blending in easily with some of the other Europeans who have been playing in Boston for years. Shane hears a rapid smattering of a different language—not one he recognises—and can't help but stare a little as Holm throws his head back and laughs at whatever is being said. Shane can't imagine being that at ease in his first practice after being traded. He forces himself to stop staring.

His people-watching is interrupted by the arrival of Rozanov, who announces himself in his typical fashion—loudly, and interspersed with swear words. The door bangs open dramatically, every head in the room turning to look, and suddenly the object of too many of Shane's thoughts this summer is standing there in the flesh, looking no different than he had a few months ago. His hair is maybe slightly shorter, his skin slightly darker from the sun. Shane doesn't know why he had expected anything else.

"Are you fuckers ready to win another fucking Cup?" he yells.

Everyone else starts yelling too, banging their sticks on the benches, and Shane even tries to join in a little. He can't deny that Rozanov walks in like he owns the room, like he is the leader of this team. He's already dressed, except for his skates—he must have gotten here even before Shane, maybe for a meeting with the coaches or something—and the "C" looks right at home on the front of his jersey.

Rozanov takes his time making his way around the room, stopping to chat with everyone like he always does. He lingers for a little longer with the new guys and the rookies, and again when Marlow envelops him in a playful headlock, but eventually he makes his way over to his stall to put his skates on.

The layout of the stalls in the locker room hasn't changed over the summer, so Rozanov's stall is still right next to Shane's. He makes sure he looks busy by the time Rozanov starts making his way over, digging in his bag for a new roll of stick tape even though he had finished taping ages ago. He's not quite sure what to expect—he doesn't think he would be surprised by anything, from a casual greeting to complete silence.

"Hollander," is what Rozanov says, plunking himself down on the bench and reaching for his skates.

Shane waits, and when nothing else is forthcoming, he replies the way he always does. "Rozanov." Distantly, in the back of Shane's mind, he hears his own voice gasping "Ilya", an echo of a memory. He shoves it down.

The tape on his stick suddenly looks wrong. Shane rips it all off and starts again, hands moving automatically through the familiar motions. It keeps him focused and prevents him from sneaking any glances towards the side until Rozanov stands and leads the way out onto the ice for practice.

On the hockey side of things, Shane isn't really expecting anything to change this season, and he's quickly proven correct. Coach still has him on the first line on Rozanov's left wing, Marlow on the right. Shane purposely doesn't stare at the shiny new "A" on Marlow's jersey, a reminder that Shane is the only one on his line now without a letter. The same way he pushes down the tiny bit of hope that had still been lingering that maybe this year he would be back at centre. He knows that Coach would probably be stupid to change something that's obviously been working so well, but Shane can't shake his discomfort with playing wing. It feels unnatural, and it baffles him that even though he's still scoring goals, no one else has noticed that he isn't as good a winger as he is a centre.

The first practice is short, everyone getting their hockey legs back after a summer spent recovering from a longer than usual playoff run. There's lots of friendly chirping as they scrimmage, the third and fourth lines getting shuffled around to find a spot for the trades and prospects. Shane puts his head down and tries to focus on his own game. He hadn't trained as hard as he normally does in the summers, not wanting to aggravate any of the small injuries he had picked up during their Cup run, and he knows that he'll have to make up for it in these next few weeks of camp if he wants to be as ready as he usually is for the start of the season. The others also seem dialled in, maybe feeling the pressure to repeat the same way that Shane does, and even though it's only the first practice and obviously they have a lot of work to do, Shane leaves the ice in good spirits.

It's only afterwards, back in the locker room with everyone making plans to go out for drinks together, that the insecurity settles back in. He wonders if Rozanov wants him to not go, to stay away now that whatever it is they had last year is obviously over. Shane supposes he could go and hang out with the veterans again, like he had often when he had first joined the team, but he had never really had much to contribute to their conversations about their families and kids, and he had gotten used to Rozanov acting as a sort of social buffer last season. Shane internally curses himself for his stupidity—he had known that coming to rely on Rozanov would be a mistake.

Still, it's the first practice of the season, and he can't bring himself to just go home, not when it seems like everyone else is eager to go out. He knows he needs to do better, needs to try and actually make friends, so he fakes a smile and nods when Marlow asks him if he's coming. The same smile stays frozen on his face when St-Simon makes a joke about Shane picking up, reminding everyone of the blonde he had gone home with after camp last year. Internally, he cringes, and pointedly doesn't look at whether Rozanov has a reaction to that.

His apartment is close enough to the practice rink that he had walked here earlier, so he catches a ride with Carmichael to the bar the team have chosen for tonight. The newly traded guys apparently don't have cars with them either—whether because theirs haven't made it to Boston yet or because they just hadn't brought them to practice, Shane isn't sure—so it ends up being four of them in the car as they pull out of the parking lot.

"So Hollander," Erikson says. Shane can't help but glance back from where he's sitting in the passenger seat to look at the new guys in the back. They look so at ease, so comfortable even in a car with complete strangers, and Shane can't help but envy that. "Hell of a run you and Rozanov made during playoffs last year."

Shane shrugs and smiles, turning back to the front and exchanging a glance with Carmichael. "Yeah," he agrees. "It really was." He knows the hockey media had spent all summer waxing poetic about it, the sheer amount of goals scored by the Hollander-Rozanov-Marlow line unheard of in recent memory. Shane still finds it hard to believe that he had been a part of something like that.

"Shame about the Conn Smythe though," Erikson goes on.

Shane shifts a little uncomfortably. No one has actually said anything to him about the fact that he hadn't won the Conn Smythe. Of course he had secretly hoped for it during their run, but he hadn't been surprised when it had been Rozanov instead, and as far as he could tell none of his teammates had been surprised either. He had so obviously deserved it.

Shane says so. He doesn't want these new guys, or Carmichael for that matter, to think he has anything against Rozanov. Regardless of whatever fucked up thing is going on between the two of them, Shane knows that he doesn't want it impacting their game or anything with the team. "Rozanov deserved it," he says. "He was instrumental, on the ice and off. I think everyone who was here last year would agree." He knows that it's a little backhanded, a way to tell them to shut up about things they know nothing about, reminding them that he had been here to win the Cup and they had not, but unfortunately it doesn't seem to deter them.

"Still," Holm chimes in now. "You can't deny that it would have been you, on any other team. It must have been tough, stepping aside and letting him be the star."

"Stepping aside?" Shane can't help but echo. He has no idea what they're talking about. He hardly thinks he's stepped aside for Rozanov—if anything, training together, seeing him play every day, has only made Shane work harder since being traded to Boston, and his stats reflect that.

Erikson shrugs. "You can't deny that's what it looks like," he says. "From the outside at least. There you two were, set up to be these huge rivals, equals basically, on some of the oldest teams in hockey. And now he's got a Conn Smythe, he's still playing centre on the first line, he's got a letter on his jersey." He leaves the rest unsaid, but of course Shane hears it anyways. You don't have any of those things. He's better than you, in every way, and somehow it happened despite your absolute best efforts. Without you being able to do a single thing to stop it.

Thankfully, at that point Carmichael decides to interject, coming to Shane's defence. "That's definitely not how the team sees it," he says, and his words aren't directed at Shane, his eyes instead fixed on the mirror so he can see the two new guys in the back seat. "We'd never have made it all the way to the Cup if it weren't for the both of them."

"Wasn't implying otherwise," Erikson shrugs again. "Just saying how it looks from the outside. Obviously I wasn't there, I don't know. But even if it is different, with the team, it must still be hard, right? To answer questions, when to everyone else it looks like he's won?"

The question is directed at Shane, who feels a cold weight settle in his stomach. Does it look to everyone else like Rozanov has won? Logically, Shane knows that their rivalry was never really based on anything, that there's nothing to win. But is that how it seems to the rest of the world?

Somehow, Shane manages to force words out of his mouth. They're automatic, the kind of thing he'd say to the media while barely registering the question. He's suddenly thinking back through every time he's said these words in the last year, trying to remember the questions that had prompted this response. Had the implication been there all along, that he's somehow lesser? "I don't really think about stuff like that. I'm pretty focused on hockey."

Thankfully, from there the conversation takes a turn, with Carmichael asking them about their own playoff runs last year with Philadelphia and Vancouver, both of which had been comparatively short to Boston's. Shane allows himself to zone out a little until they pull into the parking lot of the bar and the topic veers back to Boston's victory. He smiles a little at Carmichael's recounting of the victory party, which he can tell has already been exaggerated and embellished considerably over the course of the summer, and when they get inside Shane makes sure to choose a seat far away from either of the new guys.

Of course, that leaves him sitting with Marlow and Rozanov and their crew, but he supposes beggars can't be choosers.

He doesn't plan on staying long tonight anyways. Not when last year had left him so uncomfortable with his teammates' ribbing that he had taken a girl home. He's reasonably confident he wouldn't do that again, not with everything that's happened since, but he doesn't intend to stay long enough for people to get drunk enough to start trying to set him up.

Marlow, as always, is an easy conversation partner, and Shane genuinely does have a good time nursing a ginger ale and talking with him and Oregan about their chances for this season. Some of the guys from last year are still out with injuries sustained in the playoffs, so the start of the season will be a rough one, but his teammates are just as confident as Shane that they still have what it takes to go all the way again.

When most of the group gets up to dance, Shane decides that's his cue to leave. It hadn't been an awful night, so he grabs his jacket and gives his excuses, happy to quit while he's ahead. As he makes his way over to the door, however, pulling up a rideshare app on his phone, Rozanov materialises at his shoulder.

"Leaving already, Hollander?" he asks.

Shane swallows. He hadn't failed to notice that Rozanov has barely looked at him all night, even though they had been mostly sitting with the same people. Somehow Rozanov always seemed to be involved in a different conversation across the table from the one Shane had been having, never interjecting like he usually would.

"Yeah," he says instead, trying and failing to keep his voice casual. "You know me." Even he can hear the little tremble in it, and he mentally curses himself. He doesn't think this would be so difficult if he just knew why Rozanov had seemingly lost interest out of nowhere. The night of the Cup win had been possibly the best sex of Shane's life, and they had continued hooking up for weeks afterwards. He's not sure what had changed over the summer, for Rozanov to not return his texts and to ignore him all day at practice.

"I can drive you home," Rozanov says, swiping the phone out of Shane's hand. Shane is so surprised that he doesn't even try to stop him.

"What? You aren't staying?"

Rozanov shrugs, nonchalant as ever. "No," he says. "Not tonight. Better things to do."

Shane freezes then, hopefully imperceptible since he hadn't really been moving to begin with, hesitating just inside the door to the bar. Surely Rozanov doesn't mean...

He doesn't seem to notice Shane's confusion. Confident as ever, Rozanov leads the way out into the night, not even sparing a glance behind them at where their teammates are all still drinking and dancing. "What about the team?" Shane can't help but ask.

Rozanov just shrugs. "They will assume I left with a woman," he says. "Is what they always assume."

That doesn't answer Shane's actual question, which is why on earth Rozanov has suddenly done a one-eighty after ignoring Shane all day, but that's too pathetic for him to voice aloud. So instead he just follows Rozanov quietly to his car, a garish yellow thing that's probably more expensive than the house Shane grew up in, and climbs into the passenger seat without a word.

He just has time to wonder whether the entire drive will be spent in this same, awkward silence when Rozanov taps impatiently on the dash.

"Is going to be a little difficult for me to drive you home without your address Hollander."

"Oh." Shane rattles it off automatically. Even though Rozanov had said inside that he would drive Shane home, he had still sort of expected to be taken to Rozanov's place instead. Shane wonders if this means they aren't going to fuck tonight after all. They've only ever done that at Rozanov's, and in a few random hotel rooms when they had been on the road and after the Cup. As far as Shane can remember, none of his teammates have ever been to his apartment—he's not one to host, and he briefly wonders if he'll regret sharing the address with Rozanov. But it's too late to take it back now.

The drive is quiet, but Rozanov at least doesn't seem to be feeling any of the tension that has crept into Shane's body. He hums along quietly to the radio, barely even glancing over at Shane, like this is totally normal and he hasn't just spent all day and all summer ignoring him.

Shane can feel Rozanov's eyes heavy on his back as they ascend the stairs to his apartment. He fumbles a little with the key, almost expecting to turn around and have Rozanov be gone. He hadn't actually said anything when they had pulled up in front of Shane's building and Shane had directed him to the visitor's parking spot, hadn't indicated the real reason he's here. Shane's not stupid—based on past experiences, he knows where this is going, but he still has a hard time believing it.

He hovers uncertainly once they make it inside, after he's toed off his shoes and walked down the hall to the living room out of habit. He would usually make himself a snack at this point, maybe spend the rest of the evening watching tape on the couch, but he doesn't know the script from here. Doesn't know if he's supposed to just act like nothing has changed or if they're going to talk, if Rozanov will tell him what he had done wrong.

As always, Rozanov is the one to take charge. Before Shane can decide whether it would be too weird to just go sit on the couch like usual, there are hands on his waist, pushing him up against the nearest wall, and a mouth on his neck.

Embarrassingly, Shane sinks into it immediately. Any pride he may have had, any righteous anger at being ignored all summer, it all drops away as Rozanov's body presses up against his deliciously. He can't stop the high-pitched moan he lets out, nor the way he unconsciously grinds up against Rozanov's thigh, already half-hard through his jeans.

They don't last long against the wall. Now that he knows he can still have this, Shane is impatient, and Rozanov seems to be feeling the same way. He manhandles Shane over towards the couch, and before Shane can collapse onto it, he feels hands on his waist again, turning him around, pushing him down by the back of his neck. He finds himself bent over the arm of the couch in no time, feet still planted on the floor as Rozanov shimmies his jeans and briefs down his legs. Shane has to suppress a shiver at the cool air on his suddenly bare skin. He doesn't know what's happening here, and he can admit to himself that he feels vulnerable like this, letting Rozanov put him where he wants without even a word spoken aloud, but he also can't deny that he finds it mind-numbingly hot. It's never been like this between them before, there's always been an undertone of softness to everything, but Rozanov's hand is firm and steady on the back of his neck and it's doing things to Shane.

He tries to rub off against the arm of the couch, to get at least a little friction on his dick as Rozanov palms at his chest and his ass, but as soon as he moves there are hands on his hips again, pulling him upwards and away from the fabric. "No," Rozanov says, voice deeper than Shane has ever heard it. "None of that. You will come from me fucking you, nothing else."

God. Shane feels close from the words alone, and Rozanov has barely even started. He can't seem to speak, so he just nods and braces himself a little better against the arm of the couch, head pressed up against the cushions.

Rozanov is quick and efficient with the prep. There's a brief pause when he has to venture further into Shane's apartment to find lube and condoms, and he leaves Shane with a light smack on the back of his thigh and an admonishment not to move. Shane doesn't, even though he feels a little stupid waiting with his bare ass in the air while Rozanov wanders through his bedroom. He doesn't have to wait long, though, and when Rozanov returns he wastes no time slicking up his fingers and opening Shane up.

By the time Rozanov finally pushes into Shane, hand back on his neck and pressing him lightly but firmly into the couch, he feels like he's going to combust. Rozanov, at least, seems similarly worked up, bottoming out with a gasp and what Shane assumes is a litany of Russian curse words.

In the unfamiliar language, however, almost lost in Rozanov's moan, are the two words that have been playing on loop in Shane's head for months now, ever since the last time.

"Fuck, Shane."

Shane can't help his gasp, or the way his hips stutter backwards without any conscious thought on his part. Rozanov stills for a moment, maybe coming to his senses, but that's the last thing Shane wants.

"Ilya, fuck, move," he says. That earns him another groan and Ilya finally, finally starts fucking him properly.

It's over far too soon, Ilya gasping into Shane's neck as both of them shake through their orgasms. Shane can't help but think of the couch cushions and how he'll have to buy some really good cleaner to get rid of the mess, but he can't bring himself to care enough to stop it. Afterwards, when Ilya collapses on top of him, pressing his stomach against the wet spot, he can't bring himself to care much about that either.

There's no sound aside from their quiet panting until Ilya finally pushes himself up with a groan. Shane manages to twist around before collapsing on the couch, watching with drooping eyes as Ilya disposes of the condom and grabs a few tissues to clean himself up.

As always, once he comes down from the high Shane feels abruptly self-conscious of his nudity. As Rozanov starts pulling his clothes back on, Shane reluctantly forces himself upright and does the same. He remembers the way they had cuddled in that hotel room after the Cup, holding each other as they had fallen asleep. He knows he's not wrong in thinking something has changed, that this Ilya who is getting dressed and obviously heading out immediately is a different Ilya than the one he had been hooking up with at the end of last season. It's not so different from how things had been before though—before the trade, before everything had changed. So Shane forces down his confusion and tries to keep his expression casual.

"You want a drink or anything before you head out?"

Rozanov raises an eyebrow at Shane. "You have good Russian vodka in this apartment?" His voice is laced with sarcasm. When Shane rolls his eyes and shakes his head, Rozanov just laughs. "Did not think so. Is fine Hollander. Thank you."

Shane realises belatedly that he doesn't really have anything to drink other than sports drinks and ginger ale, so it's probably a good thing that Rozanov had turned him down. Still, he can't help the stab of disappointment.

"I guess I'll see you at practice tomorrow?" he says instead, feeling like he should say something with Rozanov still hovering in the doorway.

Of course, a grin tugs at Rozanov's mouth. "Yes Hollander," he says slowly. "Generally team captain goes to practice. Did you drink too much at the bar earlier?"

"Fuck off."

"Working on it," Rozanov winks. "See you at practice, Hollander."

Shane moves as soon as the door clicks shut, heading for the kitchen. He makes himself a snack and cleans up the mess on the couch, frowning a little when it leaves a stain. But in his mind, he stays frozen in that moment for a long time, even as he goes through the motions of getting ready for bed on autopilot. Turning over their words even as he lies in the dark that night, wondering if he's imagining things or if there truly was something different about the whole thing. Something off.

It's in the early hours of the morning when he finally manages to put his finger on the part that's bothering him the most, the realisation that has solidified for Shane that something is different between them now compared to last season. It comes after hours of tossing and turning, sleep refusing to find him, even though he knows he needs the rest in order to perform well at practice tomorrow.

They hadn't even kissed. Not once, the whole evening.

When Shane finally does fall asleep, it's restless, the sick feeling in his stomach never quite leaving him. He can't help but replay fragments of the night in his mind, transposed with flashes of memory from last year, Rozanov's soft lips pressing into his, stretching around his dick, gasping Shane's name in his ear.

He plays like shit at practice the next day. By whatever small grace the world has to offer him, his new captain says nothing, just watches with a slight frown on his face.

Chapter End Notes

🫣 please don't hate me

Chapter 2

Chapter Notes

You would probably all hate me if you knew just how much of this and the next chapter were already written when I posted Chapter 1, and how much time I've spent this week debating whether to do Shane or Ilya POV of these events first instead of writing the rest. Finally got there though... we're sticking with Shane for now, but in the next chapter we'll have our first glimpse at what's going on with Ilya during all of this.

As always thank you so much for your wonderful comments! I get such a kick out of how perceptive you all are, and I love reading your thoughts on what you think will happen next.

Compared to the fairytale run that Boston had experienced last year, the start of the new hockey season is rough.

A few guys are still out with injuries sustained in the playoffs or surgeries put off until after the Cup, and even among the healthy players there are issues right from the start. Erikson is slotting in well as the third-line centre, but Holm isn't really clicking with any of the other defensemen, and Coach keeps changing up the pairings to try and find a place to slot him in. The new fourth line is entirely made up of rookies and guys from the minors getting their first chance to play regularly in the NHL, and as a result they make stupid defensive mistakes borne out of nerves and see their ice time dwindle away. It leads to bruised egos and snapping at each other in the locker room, especially since the top lines are playing more minutes as a result, making everyone exhausted and irritable.

All in all, it's a terrible start to the season, Shane reflects a few weeks in. Maybe he should have been expecting it, but he really hadn't seen any reason why they wouldn't be winning just as much this year. Sure, there are some guys who had left, some new players, but it's mostly the same group. It's frustrating that no one can seem to put a finger on what's missing and get them back to the way they had been playing just a few months ago.

Shane mostly watches tape about it. He scrutinises every aspect of their game from last season, comparing it to how they've played in their first games of this season. It doesn't really help, because it's not his place to tell his teammates how they should be playing differently, but it reassures him a little that his own game hasn't changed too much. He has more assists than goals this year, but his points are stacking up at almost the same pace as last year, since his line is still scoring almost as much as they usually do. It's the rest of the team who can't keep up, or who allow stupid turnovers and more goals against than Shane, Rozanov, and Marlow can reasonably make up for.

He doesn't know what Rozanov thinks about it. They aren't really watching much hockey together like they had last year. During the first two road trips of the season, Rozanov had only shown up to Shane's hotel room twice, and both times it had only been to fuck. Shane tries not to think about it. Missing Rozanov, missing the way they had hung out last year to watch games and bounce ideas around, only leads to bad places in Shane's mind, which leads to him having terrible games. And he can't afford even a single terrible game this season—not when his line is the only line keeping them remotely in playoff contention through the first few weeks of the season.

"I know it's not all on me," he says to his mom, wedging his phone between his shoulder and his ear as he chops vegetables. He's been meal-prepping more this year, finding himself too exhausted to cook every night but still wanting to eat well enough to fuel him for the extra work he's been putting in. "But you can't deny that my line is the only thing keeping us up right now."

"I'm not," his mother says. "That's obvious enough from the numbers. But that doesn't mean that it's entirely your responsibility. That's too much pressure to put on yourself, honey."

Shane shrugs, even though he knows she can't see him. "Doesn't matter," he says. "It is what it is. I know it's early, but if it weren't for me and Rozanov we'd be at the bottom of the standings right now. I know things will get better when some of the injured guys come back later in the season, but we've got to stay in contention somehow until then."

His mother sighs, probably because she knows that Shane is right. There's a moment of silence, then, before she says what's no doubt been on both of their minds for this whole conversation. "This has nothing to do with it being a contract year for you?"

Shane had known this was coming, and he had already thought through the pros and cons of lying about it. Ultimately, he doesn't think he can pull it off, even though it's the last thing he wants to talk about. He sighs. "I mean, probably a bit," he says truthfully. "It's not like I haven't been thinking about it. But it's not the main thing right now."

It is a big thing, though. It's been top of mind since the start of the season, and it doesn't help that the media is all over it, asking questions at every opportunity. Shane's entry-level contract that he had signed with Montreal had been for three years, so that means he's a restricted free agent at the end of this season. He doesn't really have much of a choice on whether to re-sign with Boston, since they'll still have his rights, but there are other things he could negotiate. Salary, of course—that's what the reporters are interested in. How is Boston going to afford both Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander? Privately, Shane isn't worried about that. They've proven themselves, sure, but neither of them are going to be breaking records with their salary on only their second contracts. And Boston is in a good spot in terms of cap space right now. Shane could see it being an issue a few years down the line, if both him and Rozanov keep improving at the rate they have been, but he has a pretty good idea of what the team could offer and he doesn't think either him or Rozanov care enough to push for more.

No, what Shane is mostly thinking about is the extra control it could give him over his life. He could negotiate term, for one—entry-level contracts are three years by default, but as an RFA he could sign for shorter or longer. He isn't sure yet which would be better, but he likes the idea of having a choice. And of course, he's thinking of a no-move clause.

He hadn't had any trade protection with Montreal, which is how they had been able to get rid of him so soon into his first season with them. But with a no-move clause, or even a partial one, Shane could wrest some of that control over his own life back. He would be able to veto any trades, or at least limit the possibilities to certain teams or certain years, and maybe stop flinching every time Farah's name comes up on his phone. He knows it's a long shot—very few players manage to successfully negotiate clauses like that, and it's extremely rare for a player as young as Shane. But he thinks if he continues playing well this season it's at least worth a try, and when he had talked to Farah over the summer about it she had agreed. Since Shane is willing to compromise on both salary and term, she thought it could be in Boston's best interests to keep him happy this way. It's not like it would be a secret to anyone why this matters to Shane.

"I know there's no way you won't be thinking about it anyways," his mother is saying. "But please just remember that you've already gotten them a Cup. There's no way they won't re-sign you, and I would guess that they'll be reasonable with the terms. They want you to stay, Shane."

"I know," Shane says. And he does. That doesn't stop him from having a hard time believing it though. He's already caught himself spiralling a few times this season, imagining what would happen if they just don't want to re-sign him at all. It would be almost unprecedented, for a player of Shane's calibre, but then again his trade had been unprecedented too. Shane knows someone would take him if that were the case, but he imagines having to start all over again with a new team, a new city, knowing absolutely no one this time. Rozanov is annoying at best and infuriating at worst, but at least he had been a familiar face in Boston. Shane wouldn't have that anywhere else.

He doesn't stay on the phone long after that, because now he's thinking about everything again, and he knows that his mom can probably tell that he's distracted. He doesn't want her to think it's because of her—not when they've only just gotten back to a place where they can talk about hockey without arguing. So he says his goodbyes and finishes portioning out his meal prep in the heavy silence of his apartment. His thoughts feel loud enough to fill the entire space.

He wonders if Rozanov has any of the same worries. Probably not—they had just given him the "C". If there's anyone who's practically guaranteed to stay with Boston for the rest of their career and get anything he asks for, it's Rozanov. The thought crosses Shane's mind that he should ask about it at some point, casually bring it up and see what he thinks, but he dismisses it impatiently. They haven't had a real conversation in months, and it's not like it would change anything. It would probably only make things worse, putting words to the gulf that has apparently grown between them. Shane hadn't really thought about it until Erikson and Holm had brought it up in the car on the first day of training camp, and he can only hope that Rozanov hasn't thought about it either.

He shoves containers in the fridge and moves to the couch, forcibly pushing all thoughts of his new captain out of his mind. He has tape to watch before practice this afternoon.

Two months into the season, things are finally starting to look up for the team. The lines are clicking, a few of the injured guys are back, and the rookies aren't so terrified of shooting the puck anymore. Then, Hammersmith goes down on a hard check and doesn't get back up.

The locker room is tense after the game, everyone waiting for news. Shane hadn't been on the ice when Hammersmith had gone down, but he had seen the way he had been limping down the tunnel afterwards, so he's not hopeful.

Nothing is forthcoming that night, but the update is in the group chat the next morning. A torn MCL. Nothing too serious, but he'll be out for a month at least, just as they were finally starting to get some momentum in their climb up the standings.

Shane hates the way he's tense with anticipation the whole morning. The way he waits with bated breath for his teammates to get their gear on and get out onto the ice for practice. He feels like a terrible person for even daring to hope when a teammate is injured, for thinking about himself at all. But that doesn't erase the fact that Hammersmith is their second line centre, and he'll be out for weeks. They could just move Erikson up a line and shuffle things around with the bottom six to make it work, but Shane knows that's a temporary solution, and not a great one. Unless they want to call someone up from the minors, there's no one else who plays centre.

As usual when it comes to hockey, Shane isn't wrong. As they huddle up before the start of practice, Coach calls out the lines.

"St-Simon, you're with Rozanov and Marlow. Hollander, you'll centre the second line until Hammersmith is back. Martin, you'll move up to play wing on the second line to replace St-Simon, and Deschamps you're in tomorrow night in Martin's spot. Everyone else stays put. Now let's get to work—this isn't going to be the thing that slows us down."

Shane feels like he's floating as they run drills with the new line combinations. He can't even bring himself to get in his head about it when they scrimmage and he finds himself leaning down over the face-off dot against Rozanov. He just grins, happy to be playing his favourite position again, and maybe Rozanov gets it at least a little bit because he grins back. It doesn't stop him from winning the face-off, Shane being a little out of practice, but it doesn't bother him as much as it might have any other time. Shane has the puck back on the end of his stick in no time anyways, and he feels right at home tearing down the middle of the ice with it. He had worried, sometimes, that playing left wing all the time now would make him forget the carefully honed instincts he had developed as a centre, but he finds quickly that it had been an irrational fear. He's just as comfortable here as he had always been.

He feels the happiest he has in a while after practice that day, and he struggles not to show it, to act normal in the locker room and when he goes out with the guys afterwards. He knows this is only temporary, that making it known how much he would rather it be permanent will only cause friction with the team. But that doesn't stop the thought that maybe, if he plays well enough, Coach will see how much better he is at centre. That it could be permanent, if he puts in the work.

His mood only improves when, at the bar after practice, Shane excuses himself to go to the washroom. The door has barely swung shut behind him when Rozanov is pushing it open again, glancing around once to make sure they're alone before locking the door and pushing Shane up against the wall. He barely has time to let out a startled breath before Rozanov's lips are on his.

They make out for what feels like ages, slow and unhurried in a way that feels almost luxurious. Shane wraps his arms around Rozanov as tightly as he can, like it's the only thing keeping him there, and he doesn't care that it's objectively not true given that Rozanov had sought him out again. His fingers tangle in Rozanov's hair and he feels a hand on the back of his own head, moving him slightly to slot their lips closer together. Shane thinks he could die right now and be perfectly happy, until he feels Rozanov rut up against him and reality crashes back in.

He tears himself away reluctantly, forces himself to meet Rozanov's gaze. His pupils are blown wide with arousal, and Shane momentarily forgets what he was going to say, getting lost in it a little bit. He remembers himself when Rozanov's hips press insistently into his own.

"Not here," he says, hating how breathless his voice sounds. There had definitely been more he had wanted to say, like maybe something about why the hell Rozanov was doing this now when they've barely even looked at each other for months, but the words can't quite make it out of the jumbled mess inside his brain. At least he had managed the important part.

To Shane's surprise, Rozanov doesn't object. "Okay," he says. "Then let's go. Tell team you're leaving, I will meet you by my car."

Shane does. Then when Rozanov emerges a few minutes later, he climbs into the passenger seat without a word and lets himself be driven the familiar route to Rozanov's house.

They have sex twice that night—once in bed, face-to-face like it hasn't been since the night they won the Cup. Then again in the shower when Shane bends down to grab the soap and Rozanov seemingly can't resist groping him again, fumbling in the vanity drawer for a condom and getting the entire floor wet in the process. Afterwards, Shane is almost afraid to collapse in bed, but his legs still feel too wobbly to move. Luckily Rozanov doesn't kick him out, spooning up behind him instead, and Shane falls asleep listening to the soft huff of his breath on the back of his own neck.

He slips out in the morning before Rozanov wakes, not willing to push his luck. The high lasts all the way until the game that night—Shane's first game playing centre in over a year.

It's his worst of the season. He's on the ice for four goals against, and doesn't even manage a shot on goal.

Despite Shane's absolute best efforts, his month playing centre is an absolute disaster.

He knows, on an objective level, that none of it is his fault. Trent, one of his wingers, is a much slower skater than Shane, which means Shane has to hold himself back to avoid ending up all alone with the puck. It removes one of his biggest advantages as a player, and it's one of the reasons why Coach had moved him up to the first line to begin with—both Rozanov and Marlow are much closer to Shane's speed. His other winger, Martin, isn't used to the heavy minutes that the second line plays, and doesn't seem interested in trying to improve his conditioning. It leads to a lot of sloppy turnovers in the third period, and Shane spends more of his time playing defence than he does trying to score. Nothing is as disastrous as that first night, when he had been continually caught off guard trying to set up plays only to find that neither of his wingers were keeping up, but the only solution is to back off on the offence and focus on not making things worse. Shane's stats take a hit, and he's so frustrated with it all that he takes to screaming into a pillow every time he watches back tape and sees all the missed opportunities he couldn't take.

He knows it's not his fault. His mother tells him that, Coach Smith tells him that, Marlow tells him that. Even Rozanov makes a few muttered comments under his breath when he and Shane are alone that show that he doesn't think it's Shane's fault either. Shane puts in extra hours at the rink, trying to work out a way to still be useful to the team, to find some of the joy that had filled him at the prospect of playing his favourite position again. But it doesn't change the fact that the whole situation is terrible. He hates himself a little, but he's also relieved when Hammersmith is cleared to play again after four and a half weeks and Shane moves back to Rozanov's left wing.

He knows that his parents at least can tell he's upset about the whole thing, but thankfully they follow his lead and don't talk about it.

While Shane had been wasting time on the second line, the rest of the team had mostly kept things together. They aren't leading the league like they had been last season, but as December turns to January and Boston is covered in a blanket of snow, they're solidly third place in their division and still climbing. They aren't a lock for the playoffs by any means, but it's far better than the precarious situation they had been in for the first few months of the season, so Shane can't complain even though his own scoring is down. He has no chance of catching up to Rozanov by the end of the season with over a month of wasted time, but he tries not to think about it too much. He knows that it won't matter if they win the Cup again.

"So Hollander," St-Simon says to him one night after a game. They're at their usual club to celebrate a narrow win against a strong Admirals team—Shane has been forcing himself to go out with the guys more often this year. He still feels awkward and out of place a lot of times, especially when Rozanov isn't around to act as a buffer, but he knows that's only all the more reason to do it. Rozanov's moods seem to swing unpredictably this year, and Shane can't rely solely on him to have connections with his teammates. "Any thoughts about the All-Star break?"

Shane frowns, noting how some of the other faces at the table perk up at the mention of it. "What about it?" he asks.

"A lot of us are going south," St-Simon says. "Staying at the same resort. Partners welcome too, of course. We do it every year, so I wanted to extend the invitation. I know you might still get in on the fan vote, but you know, just in case you don't. Then it's no big deal, you can have a real vacation with us."

"Oh." Shane's stomach has suddenly dropped, and he has a hard time finding words. "I—sure. Yeah, that sounds great. I mean, I guess I have to wait and see about the vote, but... yeah. Thanks for the invite." Fuck. Had he just agreed to go? The last thing Shane wants to do is go to what will no doubt be a week-long party, but he's barely conscious of what he's saying.

"I bet you're excited that you might not have to go this year, eh?" Trent asks. "Pretty insane of them, sending you your first two years in the league. Roz too, I guess. At least most guys usually get to have a few years of vacations before they start getting sent."

It's true, but Shane's never thought of it like that. It's an honour to be chosen for the All-Star game—to be recognised as one of the best players in the league. He hadn't thought that was an odd way to think of it until now, with all the eyes of the table on him and seeming to expect him to be happy about not going. Is he not going? Is there something he doesn't know yet?

He forces a laugh and a shrug, hoping it comes off as casual. "I guess," he says. "Never really thought about it. Not much for vacations, usually."

"Well you should come with us," Carmichael says, slapping Shane on the shoulder. He forces himself not to flinch. "If you can. It would be fun."

"Yeah, I'll think about it," Shane says.

He barely hears the conversation move on to their plans for the weekend away, the restaurant that someone's wife's friend swears by that they're going to try while they're nearby. He's too busy spiralling. He had thought that it was a given that he would be going to the All-Star game. He's gone the last two years, and he hadn't seen why this year would be any different. His first year, he had been Montreal's pick, the obvious selection, right before the trade and everything that had come with it. In retrospect, Shane had wondered why they had sent him when they were evidently already thinking about getting rid of him, but he had put it down to public pressure—he had been the highest scorer on the team by far that year, it wouldn't have made sense to choose anyone else. Last year, he hadn't been selected by Boston to go, since each team can only send one player and they had obviously chosen Rozanov. But Shane had been the first one in on the fan vote, and there had never really been any doubt that he would go.

He had thought this year would be the same. He knows his scoring numbers are down because of his stint on the second line, but surely he isn't playing so poorly that the fans won't want to see him there? Everyone had been nodding, so maybe Shane is the delusional one for thinking he had a shot at winning the vote again in the first place.

A voice in his head points out that it's also East vs. West this year, meaning that if he were to go he would be on the same team as Rozanov, not playing against him like last year. Maybe no one cares enough to vote for him because they see that every game now. Shane and Rozanov playing together is nothing new, not interesting in the way their rivalry used to be. Shane himself is less interesting now, not putting up the same kinds of numbers. He remembers Erikson and Holm saying during training camp that from the outside it looked like Rozanov had won. Shane had mostly brushed it off then, had reassured himself that there was nothing to really win, but now he can't help but wonder. Is it true? Is Shane no longer interesting or good enough to be sent to the All-Star game on his own?

Like the universe can read his mind, the crowd suddenly shifts and Shane can see the object of his thoughts right there. Rozanov is dancing, his white shirt changing colours with each strobe of the lights, hands on the waist of some pretty blonde. Shane watches as his mouth comes up to her ear, whispering something that makes the girl's mouth fall open in surprise as she grinds back against him. He starts kissing her neck, working his way down towards her shoulder the exact same way he's done to Shane a thousand times.

He snaps his gaze away, staring at the grain of the table in front of him, at the ring of condensation that's formed from his glass of ginger ale. He forces himself to tune back into the guys' conversation, to participate as much as he can. He doesn't look back at the dance floor for a full ten minutes, and by the time he does, Rozanov is gone.

After two long weeks of agonising about it, Shane does make it into the All-Star game. Instead of getting the most votes like last year though, he just barely scrapes in, which shows that his teammates hadn't been completely wrong to think it might not happen. Shane doesn't care right now—he's just relieved to be going at all. He knows that this means he'll have to work even harder over the next year to get himself back up to the level where he's basically a lock. He's not planning on only being an All-Star for the first three years of his career. But for now, he lets out a breath of relief and pretends to be a little sad to miss the Caribbean vacation that the rest of the team is planning.

Rozanov doesn't say anything to Shane about it. They haven't talked much at all recently—they haven't even fucked. Shane has been avoiding him since he went home with that girl from the club. The group chat had been blowing up about it the next morning, since some pictures of the two of them dancing had ended up online. Shane isn't sure why it bothers him so much. It's not like he hadn't known that Rozanov hooks up with other people—that's sort of his whole thing.

He figures that the All-Star game tends to be a place where things happen, with the two of them. Maybe they'll talk about it—or at least fuck about it—at some point during that weekend, while the rest of the team is away. The game is being held in Boston this year, which is nice at least. The league has booked them rooms at the official hotel anyways, but Shane likes that he has the option of going home.

He spends the first night of the weekend in the hotel bar because his mother had told him to. She had made the point that he needs to act like one of these guys if he wants to be seen as one of them, and also that he needs to make this weekend memorable for the fans. Apparently that means showing up in all the social media posts of his teammates so he doesn't seem like the buzzkill that he is, and also possibly scoring the game-winning goal. Shane had dryly commented that his mother could consider it done, but she hadn't seemed to get the humour. Shane isn't sure which task feels more insurmountable—appearing sociable or single-handedly winning a hockey game against some of the best players in the league.

He hadn't pushed though, because that conversation had started with his mother ranting about Rozanov again, and he didn't want to remind her of that. She had pointed out that Boston could have selected Shane as their official representative instead—Rozanov is far more popular, with his bad boy image, and would definitely have won the fan vote by an overwhelming margin. It had never occurred to Shane, that the team could have guaranteed themselves two players at the All-Star game and had chosen not to. Now that it has, the only conclusion he can reach is that he hasn't been playing well enough for the team to justify it to the fans, and that obviously he needs to do better. He knows his mom won't hear that though, so he keeps his mouth shut and lets her advise him on how to make sure he stays popular enough to keep ending up here every year, since Shane knows now that they would never choose him over their captain.

So now he's here, tucked in the back of the hotel bar and wondering how late is late enough for his presence to have been noted so that he can go to bed. He probably won't even make it home at this point—all of the introductions and fake camaraderie with guys he barely knows has been exhausting, so he'd be happy enough to disappear upstairs to the room that's been reserved for him.

Unfortunately, it's not to be. He knows as soon as Scott Hunter claps him on the back with a friendly greeting and tugs him over to where a large group of players have congregated by the door. Shane had just been returning from the washroom, promising himself that he would stay another hour before calling it a night, but the party appears to be moving on.

"Come on, Hollander," Hunter says, smiling at him with genuine friendliness. Shane has always been a little tongue-tied around Scott Hunter—partially because he had looked up to him so much when he was younger, and partially because he seems to be one of the few people who doesn't think Shane is weird and antisocial. He always makes a point to seek Shane out at events like these, and Shane doesn't feel like he needs to force the small talk with him, even though they rarely speak for more than a few minutes.

"Where are we going?" Shane asks, confused but also resigned. If they're going out, like he's sure they are, he definitely should go. There will be people around to notice his absence, no doubt photos and videos leaked online. Shane can practically hear his mother's voice in his head, telling him that it won't kill him to live a little.

"Just down the street," Hunter says. "There's this club that Vaughny knows, apparently him and the owner are close, and they're having an exclusive party tonight. VIP's only. Apparently the cast of that new X-Squad movie is in town and they're all over there. There's a restaurant upstairs too if you don't want to dance."

Well, that doesn't sound like the worse thing in the world. Shane hasn't seen Rozanov all night—his usual partner in crime at things like this—and at least tagging along with Scott is better than staying here alone. He figures there will probably be at least some guys who elect to sit in the restaurant portion—Shane can hang out with them for an hour and then come back to the hotel and get some sleep.

He nods reluctantly to Scott, who grins and pulls him along. The winter air is cold on his skin, but at least Shane isn't in a t-shirt like some of the guys, having opted for a soft sweater earlier. It seems like no one had bothered to stop long enough to grab coats from their rooms, but Shane soon sees why. The place they're going really is close, barely a block away, and as soon as they pour through the doors Shane feels a blast of warm air.

Shane doesn't really know any of the guys in the group well, despite the fact that he could probably recite all of their stats from the last few years by heart. For the most part they're much older than Shane, and he hopes that might make them a little more boring. Unfortunately, no one heads for the curved staircase right away, and Shane is left to tag along behind Hunter as they approach the bar. However, he's barely taken a few steps when he realises the figure perched on one of the stools in front of him is familiar—too familiar.

Of course, it probably shouldn't surprise Shane that Rozanov had made it to what's apparently the hottest party in town before anyone else had.

He hates the feeling of relief that he feels, but suddenly dealing with Rozanov feels far preferable to getting dragged into dancing with the other players. Shane orders himself a beer because everyone is right there listening and he doesn't want to be weird, then makes his way over to Rozanov.

"Hey," he says, only realising too late that Rozanov isn't alone. Instead, he's talking to someone in rapid Russian, a beautiful woman with curly hair and a sleek black dress. "Oh, sorry. I didn't mean to interrupt."

Rozanov looks like he's about to tell Shane to fuck off, but before he can the woman is standing and reaching past him to shake Shane's hand. "Oh, don't apologise. I've been wanting to meet you for ages. I'm Svetlana."

"Shane Hollander," he says on instinct, cringing a little because in retrospect she obviously knows who he is. "I mean—sorry."

Svetlana laughs, her eyes sliding over to Rozanov for a moment, who seems to be intently focused on the wood grain of the bartop. "You are cute," she says. "I'm a big fan. That goal against Pittsburgh last week?" She fans herself dramatically. "I've been asking Ilya to introduce me for ages."

Shane tries to stop his eyebrows from flying up towards his hairline. He had assumed that she was someone that Rozanov had picked up tonight, but they obviously know each other somehow. He pushes down the stab of discomfort at the thought.

Rozanov says something to her in Russian, sounding angry, but Svetlana pays him no mind.

"Uh, well," Shane says, still looking at Rozanov. He has no idea what to make of this situation. "I—thanks. You—you're a friend of Rozanov's, then?"

"Oh yes, Ilya and I go way back. We went to school together, back in Russia."

"Oh, that's nice," Shane says. He can't help the instinct to make small talk, even though Rozanov looks like he wants to murder someone. Probably Shane. "And what brings you to Boston?"

He barely hears Svetlana's answer—something about her father playing hockey for Boston back in the day? Because as she talks, Rozanov's hand is creeping around her waist, the grip confident and possessive. Like he's done this a million times before and he knows he won't be refused. He leans his chin on Svetlana's shoulder, and suddenly it clicks for Shane.

They're together. Obviously. And that's why Rozanov looks like he wants to die right now—who would want their occasional secret hookup talking to their girlfriend? Or... whatever Rozanov and Svetlana are. Now that Shane's noticed, he can see the ease they have with each other, they way their smallest interactions are obviously comfortable and familiar. Maybe they aren't exclusive—as much as his public image would disagree, Shane really hadn't thought that Rozanov would be the type to cheat—but they're obviously something. Now that he's thinking about it, Shane even recognises her. She had been on the ice last year when they had won the Cup, the only one standing beside Rozanov. Shane had felt bad then, that his family hadn't bothered making the trip, but he had been weirdly grateful that Rozanov at least had somebody.

He doesn't feel grateful now. He feels like he's going to be sick.

He's probably rude, but he takes the first escape in the conversation that he can, probably much to Rozanov's relief. He pretends someone is calling for him and pushes his way through the crowd until he's sure that they can't see him anymore, then just takes a moment to lean against the wall and breathe. He doesn't think Rozanov had said a single word to him that entire time. Fuck, is this going to make things even worse between them now? Can things get any more fucked up than they already are?

Shane worries for a moment if Rozanov had been so mad because he thought Shane was trying to hit on Svetlana or something. But no—they haven't explicitly talked about it in a while, but Shane thinks he's been pretty clear. Rozanov knows he wouldn't be interested in that. He must have just been angry because he didn't want Svetlana finding out about the two of them. Or maybe he didn't want Shane finding out about him and Svetlana? Shane's only had a few sips of beer tonight, but the alcohol is suddenly sitting terribly in his stomach. He almost wishes he were drunk, so he could blame his difficulty thinking on that.

He has no idea where Scott Hunter and the other players he had arrived with have gotten to now, but the music is too loud and the way Shane's shirt has started sticking to his back is already driving him crazy. He doesn't think too long about it as he makes a beeline for the staircase leading upstairs to the restaurant portion that Scott had talked about. He definitely doesn't look back towards the bar to see what Rozanov and Svetlana are doing now, if they're even still there.

Upstairs, it's blessedly quiet. The wall is lined with booths, another bar running along the opposite side, but only a few seats are occupied. Shane doesn't see anyone he knows, so he collapses into the first empty booth he sees and puts his head in his hands, taking slow and steady breaths. God, he doesn't know what's wrong with him. Maybe he should just go home, connections be damned. He doesn't know what he's really supposed to accomplish by gritting his teeth through this evening anyways.

He sits up a little straighter, feeling better for the thought. He still has half a beer in his hand, and he feels bad leaving it, so he'll sit here in the quiet and finish his drink, and then he'll walk the block back to the hotel and maybe watch some tape before bed. That's how he's actually going to make it back here again next year—by working on his game, by focusing on what he does on the ice. Not any of this other stuff that doesn't come naturally to him and never will.

He turns slightly in the seat, putting the beer down on the table, and it's only then that he realises that this booth isn't as unoccupied as he had previously thought.

Rose Landry is staring at him with a single raised eyebrow. "Are you here to help me finish these fries?" she asks.