Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, David Hollander, Yuna Hollander, Rose Landry

Additional Tags:

Tuna Meltdown, Feelings Realization, Getting Together, Character Study, Identity Porn, The Dystopian Reality of Being Your Own Brand, Autistic Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander is the Triple Threat, Terrified and Thirsty and Totally Fucking Stupid over Ilya Rozanov, Good Friend Rose Landry, Scene: Ilya Rozanov Makes Tuna Melts in Episode: s01e04 Rose, Ilya Rozanov Makes Tuna Melts, Shane Hollander Needs a Hug, Shane Hollander Character Study, Shane Hollander Is Bad at Feelings, Shane Hollander is Trying, Shane Hollander is a Mess

Language:

English

Series:

Part 3 of Hockey dudes and the dudes in their lives

Stats:

Published: 2026-03-19 Completed: 2026-05-29 Words: 46,217 Chapters: 7/7

Name brand recognition

Summary

Shane doesn't quite remember when he became Hollander. Somewhere between mites and middle school, people started to refer to him by his last name. But he vividly remembers the moment he realized he was Shane Hollander now. Teenage hockey phenom, someone to look up to. A brand. What he didn't realize then was how being Shane Hollander would make his world seem smaller. There are so many things Shane Hollander can't do.

OR

Shane is a good son who visits his parents on weekends. Shane Hollander is a professional athlete with a clean reputation. Hollander is a little freak who wants to get railed until he forgets he even has a name. And never the twain shall meet. So why the fuck is Rozanov calling him Shane now?

Notes

Please note that this work is part of a series. It's not necessary to have read the other works before this, but there is some canon divergence that will likely make a lot more sense if you read part one.

Have fun!

Chapter 1

Chapter Notes

Shane doesn’t quite remember when he became Hollander. For the first few years of his life, he was just Shane. Darling, sometimes, or sweetheart, when his mother was feeling particularly helpless at his distressed screaming about how stiff his shirts were after washing or the way mochi made his teeth stick together. But not too often, because Shane had a name and it was only correct for people to use it. If his mother wanted to call him sweetheart, she should have put that on his birth certificate.

Hollander is on his birth certificate, so it’s fine. It’s technically also his name. In mites, he was still Shane to everyone including his coach. But somewhere along the way, that changed. By the time he was twelve, he was Hollander more often than not. Sometimes even in school, which he didn’t understand back then. Today, he thinks the other boys may have been making fun of him. They saw how serious he was about hockey and thought they could hurt him with it. Clearly, they didn’t know him very well.

What he will always remember is the first time he realizes he is going to be Shane Hollander. It happens a week after the draft, and Shane is still licking his wounds about coming second, his mind reeling at the way he reacted to Rozanov in the gym. He’s in the Asian supermarket because his mother decided that if he’s going to move out, he won’t do it without stocking them up and buying a few sacks of rice, first. His thoughts are circling again, trying to come up with a reason why his brain might be lying to him about wanting to kiss a guy - because he’s wrong, he’s misunderstanding himself, he must be - when a small finger pokes him in the back.

“Are you Shane Hollander?”

He whirls around so quickly that the little boy trying to get his attention jumps back. Dark eyes go wide and teary, and already, Shane can feel his throat close up. Shit. He’s fucking this up before he’s even really started. The thought makes him take a deep breath and put a smile on his face.

"Yes. Who’s asking?"

The boy looks about eight years old. He’s wearing a Metros jersey that’s a few years out of date and a few sizes too big on him. The player named on the back is with the Admirals now. His hair is sticking up every which way, although it looks like there may be gel in it, so maybe that’s on purpose. When Shane answers, his eyes sparkle.

“I’m Giang. You’re really Shane Hollander?”

The overhead light flickers and starts to hum. Shane clenches his jaw. “Um... yes?”

It shouldn’t be a question, he knows that much. The media training his mother had insisted he take starts in two days, but he doesn’t need it to be aware that he shouldn’t sound unsure of his own name. That’s just ridiculous. Rozanov has probably never had that problem.

“Wow!” the boy says. “That’s so cool, you’re gonna be in the MLH soon! Can I ask how you started playing hockey? I wanna play when I’m bigger, but my mom says it’s too expensive right now.”

Shane blinks. That’s... he’s never heard his mother talk about that. Is hockey expensive? Sure, there’s a lot of equipment and driving around and stuff. But if you have a job, can it be that bad? He has enough awareness, at least, not to say any of that out loud. There’s a chance he's misunderstanding something again. And the boy’s shoes do look scuffed to the degree that Shane’s mother would probably have forced new ones on him by now, no matter how much he hates breaking them in. 

“I started very young,” Shane says carefully. “But it only really started getting serious when I was twelve. And I practiced a lot. There’s a lot you can make up for with determination.”

Giang nods seriously. “Twelve. Okay. Then I still have time. That’s good.”

There’s a relief in his words that makes Shane’s stomach twist. He wants to correct him. Wants to offer up additional information. Say that it could only get serious because Shane was really good at hockey by that point, had years of experience skating even outside of the weekly hockey practices. It would probably be kinder in the long run to not give him hope. To not let this boy build up the same impossible dream Shane had, a dream that gets dashed for so many people.

But that’s something Shane would do. What would Shane Hollander do, this nebulous person who this boy looks up to so much that he’d approach a stranger in a grocery store? Something true, he knows that. Shane’s never been one for lying, not even to be kind. But beyond that... 

“I only managed to practice so much because it was fun for me,” he settles on saying. “It’s important to have fun.”

Giang nods excitedly and opens his mouth to ask the next question, but they’re interrupted by a woman rushing into the aisle. She looks a bit wild with her long dark hair escaping from the bun on her head and an obvious rip in her jacket. There’s a baby strapped to her chest, but it’s not sleeping and thus doesn’t stop her from chewing out her son in a language Shane doesn’t understand. He thinks it might be Vietnamese.

The boy’s response doesn’t sound particularly apologetic at first. Shane catches his name again, Shane Hollander. The look the woman throws his way bypasses unimpressed by a wide margin and lands somewhere in the vicinity of how dare you. She grips Giang’s arm so tightly Shane flinches in sympathy. 

The store is getting too loud around them. A few paces to the right, two middle aged women seem to be arguing over the price of frozen fish. Shane can hear the teenage cashier snapping her gum from meters away. And now, there’s an angry mother right in front of him, at least partially blaming him for her son’s little adventure. It’s not too much yet, but he needs to leave. Before it becomes too much.

“Giang,” the woman says. It seems she’s finished scolding her son. “Say sorry.”

Baleful eyes look up at Shane. “I’m sorry, Mr. Hollander. You’re busy, I‘ll leave you alone.”

“That’s quite alright,” Shane says before his brain can catch up to his mouth. “I’m always excited to talk about hockey.”

When he returns home with about sixty kilograms of rice, five liters of the good soy sauce and a healthy assortment of veggies they can’t get at their regular grocery store, his dad’s eyes go wide. “Wow, are we preparing for the apocalypse?”

“Mom said she wanted me to stock up as long as I was still here to lift this stuff.”

“Hey now!” His father hefts himself into a more upright position on the couch. “I’m not that frail. I’ll be able to carry things again.”

Shane makes a skeptical sound. “I don’t know about that. You put your back out trying to hug me. I think you’re old now.”

“I put my back out trying to spin you around,” his father corrects. “And I learned my lesson. I won’t be doing that again. Even though you’re still my son, and it’ll be difficult. I guess I need to accept you’re not little anymore.”

“I haven’t been little in a long time.”

“You’re still my little boy. I’d carry you around and tuck you into bed if I could. And if you’d let me. I miss being able to do that.” 

The lines around his eyes get deeper as he says it. Shane has to look away. He knows there’s a memory behind that smile, something from before he started school and learned how to say no all the time, from an easy day where he didn’t spend long hours screaming. Sometimes, he feels guilty that there weren’t more of those days. That he couldn’t stand to make that phase last longer for his parents, after they’d already decided having a second child wouldn’t be a good idea. That a sibling may be too much for him the same way the rest of the world was too much for him sometimes.

“Hey, Dad?” he asks, because if he doesn’t change the subject, he’s going to run away. His dad doesn’t like it when he does that. “Is it expensive to play hockey?”

His father chuckles. “Of course it’s expensive. We’ve gone shopping for equipment together, I know you’ve seen the prices.”

Shane sighs. “But I don’t know how much money normal people have. I don’t know how much money we have, I don’t... I guess I just realized that money doesn’t make much sense to me.”

“That’s why your mom set you up with a financial advisor,” his dad says. Then, he tilts his head. “Shane, where is this coming from? Are you worried? I promise your contract is a good one. You’ll be more than able to maintain your current standard of living, as long as you don’t buy too many cars. And even if you couldn’t, we’d still help you.”

The thought of cars, plural, is so jarring that Shane has to shake it off. He’s not going to buy multiple cars, that’s stupid. One will be more than enough. He’s still debating if he can get away with buying it used, but if he’s going to be Shane Hollander, that probably wouldn’t be too good for the brand. His mom keeps saying things about prestige and tidiness and respectability. 

“I don’t know,” he says. “I got recognized at the grocery store today. A young boy. He said he couldn’t play hockey because it was too expensive.”

“Ah. And was that okay? It didn’t get weird, or anything?”

“No, it just got me thinking. Are there really people who can’t play hockey because it costs too much money?”

“A lot of them, I expect.”

Shane closes his eyes. A lot of them. That’s a much bigger number than just some, which was what he expected. Because sometimes, things are tough. He knows that. Unexpected things come up that people have to take money out of their savings for. But no hockey at all? The thought is disorienting.

He’s always known he was lucky. Lucky that he was born into this family, that his parents are so understanding and love him so much. That his mom made herself forget about bad grades when Shane worried too much about hockey to revise for exams - and that his dad never really cared about grades at all. But he didn’t know he was lucky about this, too. He isn’t just Shane Hollander because his parents gave him that name, but also because they could afford to send him to hockey in the first place.

The realization shakes him to his core. Without hockey, he has no idea who he would be. It stands to reason, then, that he might be a completely different person if his parents had less money. That’s... uncomfortable.

Later that evening, when his mother has already gone to bed in preparation for a long day of brand deal negotiations tomorrow, Shane looks at his father, takes a deep breath and asks: “Hey, Dad? You wanna tuck me in one more time?”

They’re both crying by the end of it, and Shane keeps crying a good while longer. It was far too tender for his taste, too much touching and too many long looks. Too much attention to bear on a regular basis. But he’s glad he asked. So many things are going to change soon. This, though, this will stay the same. His parents have always been a constant in his life, steady and calm. If something goes wrong for Shane Hollander, Shane can always go home. He‘s safe here.

Chapter End Notes

Eeek, I'm so excited! As you can tell, I managed to get stuck on the names in the tuna melt scene. And so I've decided to have fun with the names. You can't stop me. But you could spur me on by telling me what you think.

Next up: Hollander invites a guy into his hotel room and gets to his knees almost immediately. Not Shane, though. Shane would never.

Chapter 2

Chapter Notes

The day doesn’t start right. Not late enough to feel like a day off, not early enough to squeeze in a proper workout in the morning. Shane is bulking before training camp starts in about two weeks, and he’s supposed to be working out every day. He’s also supposed to be eating enormous amounts of food. But he’s going to be spending the entire day in front of cameras today, so he only makes himself four eggs for breakfast.

The car ride is unreasonably stressful. As long as his mother is still preoccupied with getting the car onto the main roads, Shane tries to think of how to best introduce himself. This will be the last big thing before training camp, and he doesn’t want to do it wrong. If he does, it’ll just make him all the more anxious before meeting his teammates.

Usually, Shane just introduces himself as Shane. Not just because it’s his name, but also because introducing himself by his full name has always made him feel a bit pompous. Sadly, that’s exactly what his mom wants him to do. She wants him to go up to people, stick his hand out, look them in the eye and say: “Hello, I’m Shane Hollander.” Like he’s some sort of celebrity that needs the full name treatment.

“You are a celebrity,” his mother has said, any time in the last months when Shane has brought it up. “I know you’re still a bit uncomfortable with it, but your name is your brand now. You’re Shane Hollander. That’s nothing to be self-conscious about, it’s something to be proud of! So be confident!”

That’s easier said than done. But maybe Shane can practise here. He probably won’t see most of these people again. Not soon, anyway. So he can introduce himself as Shane Hollander a bunch and feel silly about it, and it’ll be no harm done. 

Only one person present might make fun of him for this - and ironically, Shane is almost sure that won’t happen. Because Ilya Rozanov seems to have a thing for full-naming him. At least sometimes. For emphasis, and to remind Shane of all the things that are on the line. In a slightly taunting way, yes, but not mockingly.

Not that there aren’t other reasons to be wary of Rozanov today. Chief among them the fact that Shane still vividly remembers how he felt the last time he spent any time with the guy. Like there was an electric current running through him. At least in the meantime, Shane has managed to puzzle out the fact that he didn’t actually want to kiss Rozanov. He didn’t want him, he wanted to be him. Easy mistake to make after having just lost out on the first draft pick. 

“I’m interested to see what they’re planning to do with the rivalry angle today,” Shane’s mother says as soon as they’re on the highway. “I would have appreciated a bit more warning on that, but I don’t know what their runway looks like. Maybe Rozanov only agreed a few days ago. Are you gonna be okay with that?”

“Yeah, it’s fine.”

“Are you sure?”

And there they go again. Shane has to fight the second-guessing until his mom has found a parking spot, at which point she tells him to be quiet in the middle of a sentence. He clenches his jaw and tells himself she’s doing this because she cares. Because she’s maybe a bit scared, too, knowing that he’s moving into his new flat for good tomorrow and she will no longer be there if he needs any immediate help.

The greetings go well, possibly because Rozanov isn’t there yet. Shane introduces himself as Shane Hollander and doesn’t catch a single raised eyebrow. Just a whole lot of nice-to-meet-yous and way more handshakes in an hour than belong in an entire day. It’s fine. It’s good practice for training camp.

Shane gets dressed in the stuff they’ve laid out for him and meets Rozanov at the worst possible time: When the makeup artist is in the middle of putting some color on his lips with a little paint brush. Thankfully, Rozanov is happy to greet Shane with a grunt before throwing himself into the chair next to his and starting to bother the people bustling around them about his hair. His curls, it seems, require a plan. For what, Shane doesn’t know. He doesn’t ask.

The moment he laces up the brand new skates CCM wants him to do this shoot in, Shane knows they’re going to be a problem. Because they’re new, and they’re stiff as anything, and if Shane isn’t moving, he can smell the chemical odor they’re still emitting. Of course they’re right for wanting him to do this in gleaming new skates, but Shane would’ve much preferred his old ones. They’re the right brand, even.

While Rozanov is still getting ready, Shane makes a few loops at the far end of the rink where no cameras are set up. Where he’s just Shane and not Shane Hollander, because Shane Hollander would never want to tug on his own ears to distract himself from how wrong his skates feel. His brand spanking new skates that a brand is paying him a bunch of money to get filmed in. Shane Hollander knows his place, and he’s grateful. Shane just needs a bit of time to make sure he can stick the landing on that one.

He didn’t completely escape the chirping about the makeup, as it turns out. While they’re blocking the shot for the face-off, which one of the camera people has explained will be at the center of the campaign, Rozanov looks Shane directly in the eye and tells him he looks pretty.

“You’re wearing makeup too,” Shane says automatically.

“Yes, but I don’t look pretty.”

Ah, goddamn it. Shane should’ve said something else. Something more biting, probably. Something that would have meant no I’m not without sounding like a little kid. Next time, Shane is just going to tell him to fuck off.

The worst thing about this is that it’s true. Rozanov isn’t pretty. He’s attractive, yes - Shane has eyes, it’s not weird to think that, not even about another guy - but not in the way that people usually mean when they call Shane pretty. Because of course Rozanov couldn’t just be happy with the first draft pick, he also had to have a square jawline and broader shoulders and a general air of dismissive nonchalance. He is masculine in a way that Shane can only hope to catch up to. And he clearly knows it.

But no further taunts are forthcoming. Which is a bit inconvenient, honestly. Because it leaves Shane and Rozanov to repeatedly skate in for the face-off and look each other directly in the eyes without any sort of distraction. By the third time, Shane is getting hot under the collar. Fuck, he really hopes the flush won’t show on his face. He’s never been good at eye contact, but it’s not usually like this. Uncomfortable, yes. But generally, Shane wants to get away. Right now, he just wants to keep looking. To try to make out what color Rozanov’s eyes are. Are they green? Are they hazel? Is it a trick of the fuck-off big lights and they’re actually just blue?

Something is wrong with his mouth. First, it’s dry. And then, all of a sudden, Shane has to swallow because there’s just so much saliva. Which… ew. But also, what the fuck? Is he sick? Is there something wrong with him? Usually, he only needs to swallow excess saliva before he throws up. (Three times. It’s always three times before he vomits.) But he’s not sick to his stomach right now. He didn’t eat anything wrong, he didn’t hurt himself, and there’s no bad smell. There’s just Rozanov, skating towards him with a stormy expression and dark eyes.

The laughing is weird, but it’s Rozanov’s fault. Rozanov started it and Rozanov keeps doing it and as long as the camera people only look annoyed with Rozanov, Shane is fine with it. If it moves them along in the list of shots, so be it. 

At least, that’s what he thinks until Rozanov is leaning back against the boards, looking up at Shane, and telling him that it was his idea for the two of them to shoot this commercial together. Like it’s nothing. Like it wasn’t the first opportunity Rozanov had for a big sponsorship and instead of sunning himself in the limelight of it, he told them to get Shane on board, too.

Before Shane can ask what the hell that means, he is called away for his individual shots. That should be a good thing. Shane gets to skate. The orders are clear: Shots on goal, hard stops with ice showers, all kinds of looking intense. Nothing he hasn’t done before. But this time, Shane can’t even be distracted by the way the wrong parts of his new skates press into his feet, because his mind is still racing, trying to make sense of what Rozanov just said. Was he lying, maybe?

The distraction sticks to him, stretches his attention like taffy. One part on his mother, who’s trying to talk to him about a sponsorship deal, the other on Rozanov, who is much more serious on the ice now that he doesn’t have to look at Shane. Shane wonders why that is.

“Shane! Are you listening to me?”

No, Shane wants to say. But he doesn’t have a good reason. Shane can always be honest with his mom, but they’re not here as Shane and Mom. They’re here as Shane Hollander and Yuna Hollander. Professionals who are expected to behave as professionals, no matter their relationship with each other. So Shane doesn’t say it, tries to reintegrate himself into the conversation.

“Sneakers, I heard.”

Honestly, being sponsored by Reebok seems surreal. And the fact that his mom is so hung up on the sneakers… Shane has a whole range of Reebok branded t-shirts, baseball caps and socks ready for the season. No one is going to see the shoes he wears off the ice. If anything, this whole thing with CCM feels like more of a conflict of interest than if he was exclusively wearing Adidas branded sneakers or something. Reebok also produces hockey gear. But his mother has probably looked into that. So Shane keeps his mouth shut.

“Remember, a whole lot of kids are going to be looking up to you,” his mother says, as if Shane wasn’t already painfully aware. “Kids that don’t see themselves here a lot.”

Outwardly, Shane scoffs. Inwardly, his stomach churns. He never wanted to be a role model, he just wanted to play hockey. Why can’t he just play hockey? People don’t need to look up to him. As a matter of fact, he’d much prefer it if people didn’t look at him at all. He’d be happy to play with some sort of modified cage so no one ever sees his face.

Way too late, Shane realizes that talking with his mother when he did may have been a mistake. As in: The idea crashes into him as soon as he hears the door to the showers open when he’s already standing in the warm spray. He hears the sound of Rozanov’s flip flops on the floor, and his stomach sinks. This isn’t good. Whatever was happening out there, Shane knows he needs to get as far away from this guy as possible.

A need Rozanov doesn’t seem to share, since he chooses the showerhead one over from Shane’s. A klaxon goes off in Shane’s head as he sees naked skin out of the corner of his eye, becomes aware of another body much too close. His heartbeat speeds up. What the fuck is Rozanov doing? There are plenty of other showers available for him that are much further away, and he has to get so close to Shane? Does shower room etiquette not exist in Russia or something?

Before Shane even realizes what he’s doing, he’s looking at Rozanov. Despite ample moisture in their surroundings, his mouth immediately dries up. Fuck. He can see why CCM would want to film a commercial with the guy. Sure, he’s got a handsome face. But the rest of him… 

Genetics can be so unfair, Shane thinks. They’re roughly the same age. The same height, even. Shane has been working his ass off in the gym ahead of the season, trying to bulk as much as he can without jeopardizing his health. And next to Ilya Rozanov, he looks puny. He looks like a teenager, and Rozanov looks like a man.

Shane looks away. His eyes immediately stray back. Warm water hits his face as he watches Rozanov lather his body unselfconsciously. He’s not hiding, not turning away, directly facing the showerhead. But he’s not perfunctory in the way Shane would expect. He’s shared showers with people like this before, except those are always very quick about things. Rozanov is calm. His movements are measured, almost languid. 

Shane’s throat is tight. He turns away again, hoping it’ll stick this time. The water feels hotter now, even though he hasn’t touched the faucet. He tries not to think about it and fails. Again, his eyes are drawn to Rozanov like magnets. Rozanov is already looking back. And he’s looking at something else, too, letting his eyes glide down Shane’s body and back up again, raising his eyebrows. For just a second, Shane feels caught in his gaze, can just stand there with his heart slamming in his chest. Then, he looks down.

Fuck. His dick is definitely beginning to take an interest in proceedings. Shane isn’t fully hard yet, but he’s definitely not soft either. The chub is unmistakeable. A yawning chasm opens in his chest.

“Fuck off,” he says and turns away. Even to his own ears, it sounds weak. Shane has always been soft-spoken, but this is not an instance in which he should be. If Shane Hollander catches a guy staring at his dick in the showers, the reaction needs to be immediate and decisive. 

Shane’s eyes burn, but that’s probably just because he turned his face into the spray of the shower. No other reason. He tries to take a breath, then a deeper one. That still works. Good. Now he just needs an excuse. It shouldn’t matter that he’s hard, right? Dicks get hard all the time, there’s nothing special about that. Some guys get hard from the adrenaline expended in practice, and that’s not weird. What would be weird would be to point it out in the shower when you’re already way closer than you need to be.

That’s good, right? Denial never works. No matter how true it is. And anyways, Rozanov can see him. If this goes wrong, he can tell people Shane Hollander got a boner while they were in the communal showers and then acted super weird about it. A claim like that, directed in the wrong place, and Shane’s career would be over before it’s even really begun. So he needs to deflect. Be cool about it. Nothing to see here. And he needs to do it before this painful silence drags on for too long.

He turns around to do exactly that. Give Rozanov a piece of his mind, a stern talking-to about shower etiquette and keeping your eyes to yourself. Who knows, maybe things are different in Russia? It could be that he just doesn’t know how things work here, although Shane doubts it. It’s got to be the same everywhere, right? Can’t have your boys thinking you’re trying to perv on them in the showers. No matter what you’re actually doing. Misunderstandings can be just as damaging as actual missteps.

Shane firmly keeps his eyes up, so he meets Rozanov’s gaze as soon as he’s turned far enough. He’s already looking at Shane. Worse: He’s not looking away. The eye contact is steady in a way Shane wishes he himself could manage. Just when he’s gathered his wits enough to say something, he notices the way Rozanov’s shoulder flexes. It’s a lost cause after that. Automatically, Shane’s eyes follow Rozanov’s arm down to where - oh.

Down to where Rozanov is touching himself. It’s like all air has been sucked out of the room. Shane can still feel the water hitting his skin, but he doesn’t hear it anymore. He can’t smell the generic scent of the body wash from the dispensers. His entire world has suddenly narrowed down to Rozanov’s hand on himself.

Fuck. Within just a few strokes, Rozanov is fully hard. Obviously and shamelessly. When Shane’s eyes dart to his face, to make absolutely sure he’s not catastrophically misunderstanding anything here, Rozanov is still looking at him. Just... looking. With his hand on his cock. 

Shane feels himself twitch and start to fill out further. Distantly, he’s aware that he should be fleeing right now. Turning around and shouting and leaving. Shane Hollander can’t be caught anywhere near this situation. But Shane is rooted to the spot, eyes still glued to the movement of Rozanov’s hand on himself. The way he tightens his grip the longer Shane looks. The way he adds a little twist just under the head. The contrast of his golden fingers against the ruddy flush of his cock.

The question of what the hell Rozanov thinks he’s doing gets stuck in Shane’s throat when he looks up to see him take a step closer and nod at Shane with a pointed look. Pointed in a particular direction. Shane twitches again. Oh. Oh, fuck. He wants them to jerk off together.

Every instinct in Shane’s body screams no. Every fiber of his being vibrates in excitement. This is simultaneously the best and worst thing to ever happen to him. He wants. He wants so much. And he knows he can’t. Not with a guy, and certainly not with Ilya fucking Rozanov. This is such a horrible idea. He’s never wanted anything as much as this. He wants Rozanov to take a step closer. And then another step and another one, until he’s close enough to-

“Not here,” Shane says. It’s not what he should say. Not nearly negative enough. But his ears are burning and his dick is so hard it hurts and he just can’t right now. 

Rozanov accepts it without a word of contradiction. Takes his hand off his cock, turns his face back into the stream of water. It should be a relief, but it feels like a loss. Shane leaves without looking back.

In the locker room, he dresses in a trance. Tries to think, as hard as he can, of the right words to make this go away. To make it seem like Shane Hollander wants nothing to do with a situation like this without coming across like a total asshole. Stays behind to say those words. And immediately crumples when Rozanov sees through him.

But it’s fine. It’s just an agreement to meet up. In a private hotel room, where they can talk more freely than they could in an echo-y locker room. That’s better, right? Numbly, Shane eats the dinner delivered by room service. The fish is dry and the green beans are overcooked. It’s not the salmon because, according to the menu, the salmon has garlic on it. Eating garlic would be bad etiquette before meeting the guy who beat you in the MHL draft in a private room to talk about how you totally don’t appreciate how he tried to initiate mutual masturbation in a communal shower.

Shane makes a list. Looks at his own handwriting telling him all the reasons why he can’t do this. I’m not into guys. Rozanov is an asshole. Rozanov could tell someone. Shane Hollander needs to be spotless or he won’t have a chance. If some of those reasons feel more real than others, Shane resolutely ignores that. He crumbles the list and wishes he could burn it. Tucks it into a zipper compartment in his suitcase because it has his name on it and he can’t risk housekeeping reading it. He’ll throw it out at home.

Shane sits in the dark for way too long before he realizes how weird that’s going to look as soon as he opens the door. But in the light, he’s more aware of things. Can see all the little lines on his hands where he’s parked them on the armrests of his chair. 

“Those are Shane Hollander’s hands,” he reminds himself. “Shane Hollander’s hands can’t touch Ilya Rozanov except to fight. Keep it on the ice.”

But then, Rozanov knocks. And he looks so good in his leather jacket, and he doesn’t really want to sit, and he’s leaning in slowly enough that Shane could be a mile away by the time their lips actually meet and fuck. Shane never had a chance. He melts at the first touch. One press of Rozanov’s mouth on his and he’s on fire.

It’s second nature to open his mouth and tilt his head back. Shane doesn’t even think about it, just automatically cedes space for Rozanov to step closer and press in tighter. His thoughts, previously racing each other on the one track in his mind, slow to a stop. There’s just the dry press of lips on his, the warm huff of someone else’s breath on his cupid’s bow, and the firm hand cradling the back of his head. 

When Rozanov retreats to check in, Shane feels the loss so keenly that he’s not even embarrassed to lean in further for the second kiss. All he wants is those lips back on his. He wants. There’s a current of desire running through him. Where it originated, he has no idea. But it’s there now, and it’s screaming at him. It’s thrumming in every part of him, deep in his stomach and far out in his fingertips. When Rozanov gives a low hum that almost sounds like a groan, it amplifies into an almost terrifying dizziness.

Rozanov retreats again, fingers deftly sneaking under the hem of Shane’s t-shirt, and Shane realizes with sudden clarity that it’s already too late. If Rozanov wants to tell someone, telling them what has already happened will be damning enough for whatever nebulous consequences Shane is afraid of right now. Enough to ruin Shane Hollander. Enough to ruin Ilya Rozanov, too. So maybe he can allow himself to have this, just this once.

It should be terrifying for other reasons, too. Shane has never wanted anything this much. Has never been turned on by anything the way he’s turned on right now, after just a few kisses and whatever the fuck happened in the showers. Consequently, Shane has never been this vulnerable. Not like this, open and wanting with someone when he’s so desperately out of control. He’s very much Shane right now, showing his soft belly to someone who snarls at competition and smirks like a predator. As much as he doesn’t want to involve Shane Hollander in this, the distance he creates between Shane and others would probably make this easier.

So Shane wants, and it’s as okay as it's ever going to be, and he’s mysteriously not terrified, and so his hands are on Rozanov’s belt buckle before he’s even fully formed an intention to put them there. He has to let go again to allow Rozanov to strip him of his t-shirt, but he gets right back to it, opening the buckle and the button and just sliding his hand in until it touches smooth, hot skin.

Rozanov is hard, too. From nothing but a little kissing. But he’s allergic to embarrassment, and so all Shane can see in his dark eyes is a mixture of desire and smugness. Surprisingly little smugness, actually, considering how quickly Shane folded.

“Fuck, Hollander,” he groans as Shane tries his best to mold his hand around Rozanov’s cock despite the still-closed zipper. Shane’s heart skips a beat. Hollander. That’s good, actually. Comfortable middle ground. Rozanov doesn’t see him as Shane at all because Rozanov doesn’t know Shane. He should’ve thought of that earlier.

There’s a thumb in Shane’s mouth now, and he sucks on it without thinking about it. Gets to watch Rozanov’s pupils dilate from a distance of just centimeters. Gets to feel his cock twitch against his fingers even in the tight confines of his pants. Shane almost moans. Closes his eyes against the onslaught of images that threatens to pull him under. Wishes he could - well, why can’t he?

His knees hit the ground and he tugs and suddenly, there’s a cock right in front of him. Fully hard and red at the tip and pretty, actually, if that’s a thing a cock can be. The first careful, kittenish licks tell Shane very clearly that he wants more. 

After that, things go quickly. The weight is nice on his tongue. Shane’s jaw, clenched more often than not, protests being opened so wide, but deigns to cooperate. The suction is easy, but the movement is not. How far is too far? Even as gone as Shane is, he knows better than to risk choking himself. Not that it matters. He’s barely figured out a rhythm before Rozanov pulls him off again. Because it was too good, apparently.

When they eventually get to the bed, Shane has lost his momentum. Sure, Rozanov suggested he continue blowing him - but does he mean now? Does he want something else? It doesn’t help when Rozanov asks what Shane wants, because Shane wants everything all at once. Not only is that not something he wants to say in present company, but it’s also something he doesn’t want to think about. Because it’s fucking terrifying.

Rozanov is good at smoothing things over, though. He touches Shane like it’s nothing. Kisses his chest like an afterthought, but keeps his mouth well out of reach. Maybe that’s on purpose. But by the time Shane has enough of leaning closer and just tips Rozanov onto his back, he has more important goals than kissing him.

Wrapping his lips around a cock is already easier the second time around. He knows the taste now, knows how wide to open his mouth, knows how deep he can go without causing issues for himself. He can get right down to business.

“Da, like that, Hollander.” Shane squeezes his eyes closed at the praise. Sucks just a little harder, in case that makes it better. Is rewarded with the very clear flex of a strong thigh under his fingertips. Like Rozanov has to stop himself from thrusting. Fuck.

Somewhere in the static in his brain, Shane is amazed. Isn’t Rozanov supposed to be an asshole? That’s... people say things, about men that are assholes. Who try to dominate others and mock them like Rozanov does on the ice. But he’s not like that here. He’s in control, yes. He’s got his cock in Shane’s mouth and his hands on both sides of Shane’s head. But he’s just holding him. He’s not taking anything Shane’s not giving. 

For a split second, when Rozanov’s hands tighten in Shane’s hair, he worries that he’s been wrong. But no. Rozanov just pulls him off before he comes, pearly white all across his own hand and way-too-impressive abs. Pulls him in for a kiss so lax and open-mouthed Shane wonders if there are other new kinds of kissing out there he’s never experienced before.

Then, he starts chirping again. “There’s the asshole,” Shane thinks. Wonders if he should have seen this coming when Rozanov turns away to wipe his hand like he’s just going to leave. Turns on his back and scoffs. Feels ridiculous with his cock still sticking straight up into the air. But he’s not going to demand Rozanov stay. Not just because he’s  not an asshole, but also because that feels like a step too far. Shane Hollander, as much as he can’t do any of the other things he’s already done, definitely cannot beg another guy to get him off. That wouldn’t just be gay, it would also be pathetic. Shane Hollander is the opposite of pathetic.

Shane, on the other hand, immediately opens his legs for Rozanov to slot between them once he’s given up on his little act. He smiles up at Rozanov like an idiot when he announces he's going to return the favor. And he grips Rozanov’s arms like a lifeline when he kisses his way down Shane’s body.

The feeling of Rozanov’s hot mouth around his cock is overwhelming. It’s nothing like the blowjobs Shane has had before, from his high school girlfriend or the one other girl who pursued him at a party until he ran out of good excuses. Rozanov is firm and decisive and fast, but most importantly, he holds Shane down with his large hands, and when he groans around Shane’s dick, his voice is deep and velvety. 

Immediately and humiliatingly, Shane knows he’s going to come. He tries to warn Rozanov, but he just redoubles his efforts, moving his head faster and sucking harder until Shane comes down his throat, bucking hips only barely held down by Rozanov’s grip on him. Fuck.

Thankfully, Rozanov isn’t mad at him. He only gets mad when Shane tries to make sure he won’t tell anyone. Which - fair enough. But is it so bad to ask? This way, neither one of them has to wonder. That’s good for Rozanov too. Right? Rozanov, who’s been with at least one other guy and thus knows it has to stay under wraps. Even though he isn’t afraid, apparently. Same secret. Well, bully for him. Shane just wanted to hear him say he wouldn’t tell.

As soon as Rozanov pulls the door closed behind himself, Shane melts against the headboard.

“Holy shit.”

The words feel enormous in the empty room. Loud in the silence that Rozanov left behind. Not nearly loud enough to be proportional to what just happened. Holy shit. When Shane entered his mom’s car this morning, he had no idea any of this would happen. How could he? This isn’t something he ever thought he would do. Certainly not with Rozanov. That was such a bad idea. Shane’s heart is pounding with all the ways this could have gone wrong.

One thing is clear: This can’t happen again. He liked it too much. Shane still remembers the public speakers who came to his school to tell the kids about how difficult it was to get out of their drug addiction. They all said that it felt really good the first time, and that they thought it was harmless. That allowing themselves to do it again and again is what allowed addiction to take hold. So Shane needs to be careful. He can’t do this. Shane Hollander cannot be gay. So Shane can't hook up with guys.

It happened. It was good. Those are facts. It absolutely fucking cannot happen ever again. That’s also a fact. He’ll just take this and fold it up and pack it away in a little box. He’ll never look at it again. He needs to be Shane Hollander now. Shane Hollander has no room for distractions.

Chapter End Notes

Well, well, well... If it isn't baby's first (real) sex scene! I'm ridiculously nervous about this. I'm aware that it's basically nothing compared to the rest of this fandom, but it's still the most explicit thing I've ever written and I feel awkward. Hopefully, that doesn't shine through too much.

I struggled with this quite a bit. Partially because of that, but also because this is so close to the source material and I'm worried it'll just read like I'm repeating stuff. But I promise there's a point to all this. I need the buildup for the tuna meltdown!

Next up: Shane learns what it means to be Shane Hollander to the Montreal Metros and to the fans. He also learns how to be Hollander to Ilya Rozanov.

Chapter 3

Chapter Notes

If you saw the chapter count increase - no, you didn't.

And to think I thought I could fit their "first time" in Montreal into this chapter too. I was so young and naive last week.

Shane’s reputation precedes him. He’s heard the commentators make quips about him not being sociable, but he hadn’t considered what meaning those little digs could take on for his future team mates. These people who have never met him before, but who have seen him play and seen him drafted second over-all.

First greetings are always tense, but it doesn’t help when Shane’s carefully-rehearsed introductions are met with surprise. Like they expected Shane to avoid everyone from the word go.

“Well, aren’t you a little sunshine?” Gilbert Comeau says, eyes gleaming with delight at Shane’s outstretched hand. “I thought you were supposed to be like one of those silent monks. Get it?”

There isn’t really a way to misinterpret the way he squints at Shane. Or the way he grins, like a boy proud of a joke that made his parents laugh. The only saving grace is the fact that he’s not trying to play to a room. They’re early, and the only other people in the locker room are two older guys talking amongst themselves in the corner. Shane thinks one of them may be the captain, but he didn’t get close enough to see before Comeau clapped both hands on his shoulders from behind.

He forces a chuckle. “I don’t think monks get to play hockey.”

“No. And they don’t get Reebok money either, do they?” Comeau taps Shane’s chest, right where the logo sits on his sweatshirt. “Got your first sponsorship before you even stepped on MLH ice. Shane Hollander, hockey’s next superstar.”

Both the bitter tone and the jazz hands make Shane’s jaw clench. This is going badly. Is it just this one guy? Or is everyone- 

The locker room door swings open so wide it slams against the wall. In comes a whole group of guys, already chatting amongst each other animatedly. That doesn’t stop when they see him, but the energy is rapidly redirected.

“Shane Hollander, my man!” shouts Jean-Jacques Boiziau. With relief, Shane notes his exuberance and outstretched hand. He grabs it quickly. Boizeau is one of the guys at the top of his tiered list of who to make friends with. He’s new too, just traded in from Toronto, barely twenty-one. That should make for an easier in than the established guys who are both older and already friends with each other. Plus, Boiziau is the only other guy on the team who isn’t white. Shane’s mom said he was a good friend to have.

“Shane Hollander in the flesh! Tabarnak, man, excited to play with you. I’ve seen your tapes, and you’re wicked fast. Call me JJ!”

They’re still shaking hands, but Shane’s smile is genuine now. His heart, previously in the pit of his stomach, is once again beating excitedly. Thank fuck. So it’s not everyone. That’s a relief. Shane can deal with it when people don’t like him, and he’s dealt with jealousy before. As long as some of the guys like him...

 JJ makes quick work of introducing Shane to the other guys with him. One is their goalie, a hulking man with hair shorn close to his head who will only answer to the name “Mitty.” The other one is left winger Chester Stern, whom Shane would have recognized even without an introduction based on the gnarly scar cleaving his eyebrow in two. He’d been watching when Stern took a stick to the face. After that, it was a fight to convince his mother he wouldn’t be playing with a cage to prevent that kind of thing.

“I know boys think those kinds of scars are rugged,” she said. “But the sponsors wouldn’t like that. They prefer players who photograph well.”

Shane had rolled his eyes. “They won’t even consider sponsoring me if I play like I’m terrified to break a nail. And Stern is gonna heal, anyway. Head wounds just always bleed more. No cage, Mom.”

So there was no cage. It’s good that his mother didn’t know then what Stern looks like now, or she wouldn’t have given up that easily.

The captain comes ambling out of his corner of the locker room and shakes Shane’s hand, tells him he’s excited to see if the Shane Hollander will live up to the hype. Shane gulps. But then, the conversation derails into other famous rookies who went on to play really well, so he finally gets some room to breathe.

Other players filter in bit by bit as Shane tapes the stick the equipment manager gave him and tries to ignore how stiff his new pads feel. The labels are still on them, because Shane was stupid enough to forget his tiny scissors in his apartment. They’re probably lying on his couch table, laughing at him.

The first practice is... fine. Shane always takes some time to warm up to new playing constellations because he needs to learn how to read people first, but there are bag skates and a little shooting competition that he can make it up with. Which is okay. Things on the ice have never been a problem for Shane. Things off the ice, though…

No matter how many times his mom told him this would be the case, Shane does not fit right in. He never has and he never will be. It doesn’t matter that he lives and breathes hockey and should thus be right at home on a professional hockey team. Because, much as Yuna Hollander would like it to be otherwise, the other people on the team are still people. And people tend to have more diverse sets of interests than Shane does.

It’s fine. Shane expected this. He knew not to hope to suddenly be surrounded by people who understood him, who shared his opinions and priorities. If anything, it’s a bit of a shock that his mother did. But maybe that’s because she's his mother. When her hopes for him get too high, she can sometimes maneuver herself into a bit of a blind spot. Like that one time in middle school when she made friends with another hockey mom and thought that meant that Shane would have a friend now. Back then, Shane still didn’t know better than to hope. So he did. Timothy Greene set him right so brutally that Shane refused to go to school for the rest of the week. His mom still doesn’t know what happened, and she never will.

What Shane didn’t expect is how irritated people would be when he doesn’t comply. He plays along the first few times, comes out with the team to some bar where everything is way too loud and the food is way too greasy, and nurses a single can of ginger ale the entire night. It’s pretty obvious that he’s not doing it right, but he’s at least trying. But after the first few times, Shane only comes out if it’s their captain who invites him. 

“I have a telephone conference early next morning,” he says when Comeau asks him to come along to some sort of club one Thursday, a mere week before his first MLH game. 

Subsequently, he watches his teammate’s unfortunate face turn into something even uglier. “Another sponsorship, pretty boy? You really need to stop letting your mommy whore you out like that.”

There’s so much wrong with that sentence that Shane just rolls his eyes and turns around to stow his pads away. One of those words, in particular, makes Shane’s stomach churn. Pretty. Rozanov called him pretty. At the time, Shane thought it was a chirp. Now, he’s not so sure. It wasn’t like this. Now, when his teammates call him pretty, they’re clearly mocking him. Rozanov had sounded like he was just stating a fact. Whatever that means.

“Hollander, you really need to take this seriously at some point. When’s the last time you got laid? Guy as weird as you, you won’t have a chance without our expert wingmanning,” Drapeau shouts from the other side of the locker room. 

Shane lets the resulting chuckles wash over him and takes a deep breath before he turns around. “You seriously want me to waste energy on sex right now? Our power play is still a mess. That’s where my energy should go. Stop worrying about what I do with my dick and start asking yourself how to stop tripping over your own skates.”

The words send a titter around the room. He can see them hit Drapeau, the way his self-assured smile slides and falls, transforming into a snarl. Shane doesn’t stick around for the consequences. So he only hears Mitty’s reaction. The goalie chuckles to himself. “Typical Hollander.”

Because here, Shane is Hollander again. The guys tried out a few nicknames, but none of them stuck. Not just because there isn’t really anything good you can make out of his last name, but also because Shane flat-out refuses to respond to anything else. Only a few of the guys call him pretty boy, but even those aren’t stupid enough to do that on the ice. That’s not going to look good in front of the camera.

And even if the guys don’t necessarily like him, they’re getting to know him. Typical Hollander is something Shane hears frequently these days. Like when he refuses alcohol. Or when he says he doesn’t want to go home with one of the girls his teammates have lured to their table. Or when he brings a veggie tray and marinated chicken breasts to the team cookout.

It’s a bit strange to be called Hollander now when he refuses things and follows the rules. Only a few months ago, he was called Hollander as he was sucking someone’s cock and liking it enough to get dizzy with it. Even stranger, it doesn’t feel like a contradiction. Because Hollander isn’t Shane. He’s this strange being outside of Shane who keeps people at arm’s length. 

The next day, Hayden Pike corners Shane after practice to thank him for shutting Drapeau down so cleanly. Shane can only stare at him.

“You’re welcome?”

It sounds like a question, but how could it not? Pike is a weird one. Outgoing and enthusiastic. The exact kind of person Shane would expect to quickly integrate into a new team. But here they are, about to play their first game, and Pike is still almost as much of an outsider as Shane is. Because as much as he obviously wants to belong, he doesn’t go along with everything they do. Pike drinks, but never enough that he can’t get home on his own. He flirts, but the guys keep teasing him about never hooking up. And he seems to be quite put off by the way some of the guys talk about women in the locker room. Which... same.

What Shane doesn’t understand is why Pike seems to think this makes them friends. Because he’s pretty sure that’s what’s happening here. Pike already thinks they’re buddies of some sort, and Shane doesn’t think it works that way. They don’t call each other by their first names. Shane visited Pike’s flat one time, because he asked, but they only hung out the once. They don’t know each other. Still, Pike obviously means well. So Shane plays along. Can’t look a gift horse in the mouth, as his father would say.

Over time, Shane becomes more comfortable with Pike. They hang out more often. Shane even invites him over to his flat, on his own initiative, to show that he’s also interested in being friendly. Pike is the only person who not only will follow Shane’s rather strict diet when they eat together, but will remember it when scouting restaurants and make sure they have at least one option for Shane. It’s nice. They’re not friends, but they’re more than acquaintances. They’re cool with each other. Buddies. It’s the closest Shane has ever been to friendship.

Which is why he doesn’t immediately clam up when Pike turns to him one day and asks: “Hey, we’re playing Boston tomorrow. Do you think Coach will make you face off against Rozanov like in that ad?”

It’s harmless. Pike doesn’t mean anything by it. And Shane has obsessed over this very question for a week at this point, so it’s easy to shrug and say yes.

“Is he as much of an asshole in person as he is in his interviews?”

Why, you want something? Rozanov’s voice filters through from the past. Shane nods. “He’s certainly got an ego. But he’s got the skills to back it up. That’s more what I’m worried about right now.”

Pike grins at him and knocks their shoulders together. “That’s a press answer. Give me something real. What was he like when you guys shot the commercial?”

“A bit of an asshole,” Shane admits. What else is he going to say? He gives amazing head? He swallows? When he kisses you, he cages you in with his hands on the wall on both sides of your head, and it’s one of the hottest things I’ve ever experienced? Yeah, nope.

Pike is satisfied with that answer, though. All Shane ever needs to say about Rozanov is that he’s an asshole, and people are happy. It feels wrong, but at least it’s easy. He dulls it down for the press a bit, gives more sanitized answers that he workshopped with his mom. But they still boil down to the same thing: Rozanov is an asshole, and I’ll give him the fight he’s asking for.

The night before the game, Shane lays awake, making up all kinds of scenarios. Imagining things that might happen when he meets Rozanov again. In the end, it’s anticlimactic. Both of them are on the second line, so they get switched in without much ceremony. One second, Shane is warming the bench. The next, Rozanov is stealing the puck out from under him. Shane hasn’t felt this alive in a while. But it’s not stressful. Rozanov isn’t teasing him, isn’t hinting at things that would be too dangerous to say on the ice. But his smirk is sharp and his eyes are glinting. He’s having as much fun as Shane is.

They get one goal each, but Shane also gets two assists. The last of which helps JJ score his first goal of the season just two minutes before the final buzzer. That puts the Montreal Metros ahead 5:4. Shane spends the entire time in the locker room fighting off attempts at sweaty hugs, but he doesn’t even mind. He feels like he’s floating. When the captain asks him to join in on their team celebrations that evening, he says yes without thinking about it. 

They make him take three shots. One for the goal, and one for each assist. It’s fine. Shane has had that amount of alcohol before, alone in his flat, just to make sure that he knows an amount of alcohol below his limit that he can for sure consume. It’s enough to give him a significant flush, but also enough to make him not care about that. It’s not enough to allow him to enjoy kissing the girl they push in his direction, though. He tries, but it just... it feels mechanical. He doesn’t get lost in it like he did with Rozanov. That realization sobers him up quite a bit.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I don’t think this is a good idea.”

That’s when he realizes she’s swaying on her feet, and all of a sudden, he has a purpose he can distract himself with. Together, they search for her friends. As soon as they see him awkwardly hovering behind her with his hands stretched out to catch her just in case, they get up in his face. It takes some talking to convince them he means well, and that he hasn’t touched her. Much, anyways. They readily accept his offer to pay for their cab so they can get her home safe. Shane leaves in the next one.

The next morning involves a lot of confusing high-fives and even more irritating punches to the shoulder. Shane is puzzled, but knows that asking probably isn’t a good idea. So he doesn’t get an explanation until Pike approaches him with a frown.

“You really slept with that girl?” he asks.

Shane flinches back. “What? No! She was so drunk she couldn’t walk straight!”

“I mean, that’s what they said. But they also said…”

“They said I raped her?”

“That is not the word they used.” Despite his severe tone, Pike looks relieved.

“It would be the right word.” Fuck. So the guys knew, and they steered her right towards Shane? The paranoid part of his brain screams about how that might have been a setup. But it’s slowly dawning on Shane that they probably thought they were helping him. That a girl needed to be drunk to get over his awkwardness. 

For just a second, it feels like there’s a hole in the pit of his stomach and his soul is being sucked out of it like people out of the breached hull of an airplane. And then, he remembers: It’s not true. Ilya Rozanov had every opportunity to experience the full force of Shane’s awkwardness, and he still wanted him enough to jerk off at him in the showers. Shane isn’t undesirable. He’s just… peculiar. He needs to find a girl with peculiar taste and a certain amount of patience for his bullshit. It’ll be fine.

Pike, meanwhile, is scrubbing his hands across his face. “I don’t disagree with you. But they said you left with her, and I didn’t see you for the rest of the night. So I just thought I’d ask…”

Shane doesn’t want to find out what exactly Pike thought he’d ask. But he has a good explanation, so he gives it. Tells him about finding her friends, and putting the group in a taxi. Using the opportunity to get home. Alone.

By the end of it, Pike is smiling. “Oh, thank God. You had me worried there for a second. I’ll probably feel bad about this later, but I have never been more grateful someone didn’t have sex. Phew!”

Phew. He says phew, like he’s some kind of cartoon character. Shane can’t stop the hysterical laughter that bursts out of him. But he’s in good company, at least. Pike laughs right along with him.

Things get easier after that. Looser. Shane still doesn’t feel comfortable around the team, but he feels comfortable enough around Pike. Comfortable enough to invite him over again, and to agree to have a film night when Pike insists. Because apparently, it’s absolutely appalling that he hasn’t seen a single one of the Fast and Furious movies. There are so many of them, but Pike only makes him watch the first three. 

The ease he’s developed with Pike also makes things more relaxed with JJ, for some reason that Shane doesn’t want to examine too closely, in case that ruins it. JJ is the one who insists Shane’s cultural horizons have to be broadened beyond car movies. So they watch Interview with the Vampire and Van Helsing and Hellboy and Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, because at some point, JJ started googling what other people thought were classics. It’s a lot harder, Shane discovers that evening, to suffer through a movie with his buddies when even they don’t want to watch it. After that, they stick to movies at least one of them has seen before.

Shane’s first season is shaping up well. He’s collecting goals at a pace even he hadn’t been expecting. Roughly the pace, he notes, it would take to meet Rozanov’s outrageously confident 50 goal target. Maybe it wasn’t so outrageous, after all. Rozanov might even meet it. But right now, Shane Hollander is first in the scoring race.

It’s still weird to hear people casually talk about himself like that. Shane will just be on his way to practice, sitting at a red light, and someone on the radio will start talking about him. Except it’s not really him. Because they’re talking about the scoring race, and the rivalry it’s tied up in. They’re talking about how much Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov hate each other. Like it’s a fact.

So they’re definitely not talking about Shane, because Shane fucking loves playing Rozanov. He’s never as sharp as he is when they play the Raiders. He never plays as physically, either. It really worries his mother, so he stops talking to her on the nights before they play Boston. Can’t risk the mindset. He needs to be collected, and ready to give his all. The same way Rozanov clearly is. When they play against each other, the scoring race doesn’t matter. The rink doesn’t matter. Hell, the very existence of the MLH may as well be the next speck of dust to make an elephant sneeze somewhere all the way over in India. 

Nothing matters, just the two of them on the ice. It’s magical. Magnetic, an equal push and pull of matched opponents. It’s the entire reason Shane plays hockey. This. This is what he wanted. The pinnacle of the game, the very best it can be, when he’s facing Rozanov across the field. Even when he loses, because he knows he played his best. 

On the ice, Shane and Shane Hollander merge into Hollander, noted hockey weirdo whose little idiosyncrasies come together to form a person who plays the best hockey possible. He’s not polished and press-ready. Far too focused to give good soundbites and certainly not mentally present enough to look good on camera. But he’s good. And he’s not a private person, so he doesn’t need to have any opinions on anything that isn’t hockey. He doesn’t need to worry about his mom, or if some girl likes him, or if having given Ilya Rozanov a blowjob once makes him gay. Nothing off the ice exists.

Maybe that’s why it feels like a good idea to follow Rozanov’s invitation to come up to his room. Because it’s spoken on the ice, where Shane is Hollander and thus, invincible. Up in the corridor, doubts creep in quickly. Questions on why exactly Scott Hunter thought it was necessary to tell Shane he was in the next room over. 

Seeing Rozanov leaning against the wall and grinning at Shane’s antics quiets his indignation like nothing else ever has. Shane sees the curve of his mouth, his bare feet, the glint of his necklace in the dim light of the room and he needs. He needs so much that he completely forgets to think about holding back and going about this in a way that at least allows him to look like he sometimes has dignity. 

He stumbles across the room as soon as he’s toed out of his shoes, licks into Rozanov’s mouth and sinks his hands into soft curls. When Rozanov withdraws from the kiss, he follows like he’s never once worried about being too much. That’s not a thing here. Not when they’re like this. Not when the very next thing Rozanov says is: “Get on your knees.”

It should be scary, how fast Shane complies. But he doesn’t have the brainspace to think about it. All his senses are full of Rozanov. The rasp of his zipper in the quiet of the room. The warm curve of his peck under Shane’s hand. The heft of him on Shane’s tongue. The clean musk of his skin where springy pubic hair meets the tip of Shane’s nose. How could Shane form a single thought while this deliciously occupied?

Soon, he has ample opportunity to overthink. Rozanov asks: “Do you want to?”

And Shane asks himself: What would that mean for me? Because while he does want to, he wants so much he finds himself clenching his ass around the phantom sensation of what could be, he knows this is different. More. Far riskier than anything else they’ve done. Could he stay Hollander for something that intimate?

Saying no is easier than he thought it would be. As soon as Rozanov understands it’s a genuine no, he completely backs off and starts planning for the future. And when he notices that the planning freaks Shane out, he rolls his eyes and goes down on Shane with just as much gusto as the last time. Except this time, Shane lasts longer, so he gets to experience more of it. It’s just as life-ruining as he’s imagined it might be.

They make plans. Plans that scare the hell out of Shane, but that he nonetheless agrees to, because he wants this, and damn it all to hell if he’s not going to let himself have it. If Rozanov wants him, then why shouldn’t they do this? Except then, their plans are thrown overboard by a rogue snow storm. And Rozanov doesn’t reply to Shane’s text message.

And, well. That puts things into perspective, doesn’t it? Maybe Rozanov wants him, but he doesn’t want him enough to text him back the same evening Shane was going to let him into his body. Which is fine, clearly, Rozanov can do whatever he wants. But does he want Shane enough for how big a risk Shane would be taking with this? The answer might be no.

So the next time Rozanov asks if they can hook up, Shane blows him off. Even if it’s difficult. And the next time, and the next time, too. That’s around the time it starts to be fun.

Chapter End Notes

Hayden Pike: Me and Shane are friends because neither one of us is into casual hookups. Our mutual disdain of those, which we have never talked about, has served as a bonding experience and we shall forever remain in each other's lives.
Shane Hollander: We don't even call each other by our first names. We definitely aren't friends, even though I don't even know what it would take for me to notice we ARE. There must be a sign. Except for how Pike always makes sure there's a dish I can eat in every restaurant we visit. He just does that 'cause he's weird.

Next up: Hollander gets railed so hard he nearly has a religious experience and is a bit too Shane about it. He learns from his mistakes, though.

Chapter 4

Chapter Notes

For the next few months, it goes like this: Whenever they’re in the same place, Rozanov will ask Shane to hook up, and Shane will say no. But never immediately. There’s always at least one back and forth between Rozanov’s question and Shane’s answer. Shane just can’t help himself. 

Sometimes, when he’s feeling particularly brave, he draws it out longer. Makes a conversation out of it - because as long as he hasn’t said no yet, Rozanov will talk to him. Flirt with him, maybe? Shane isn’t sure if it counts. But it feels like flirting, all fluttery in his stomach and restless in his feet. Like it should feel when he tries to flirt with the women the Metros point his way. Except it never does, and Shane studiously ignores all of the things that might mean. He just hasn’t met the right woman yet. Hayden wasn’t interested in hooking up until he met Jackie, and they’ve been inseparable ever since. It’ll be fine. Shane just needs to be patient.

Patient like Rozanov is, against all odds. Or maybe he’s just persistent. No matter how many times Shane says no, he just keeps asking. Every new opportunity they hypothetically get, Rozanov asks. Each time Montreal plays Boston, no matter where, Shane will have a text from Lily light up his phone. He waits for them now. Gets antsy when Rozanov takes longer than usual. Even though he already knows he’ll say no, because that’s what he always does. 

His mom called him out on it once, for repeatedly checking his phone at the dinner table. Whatever excuse Shane managed to come up with on the fly wasn’t believable. Shane doesn’t remember what he said, but he remembers his mother’s face. She was worried. Not that she said it, because Shane put on his best Shane Hollander face and told her he had to call his coach. Which was also a lie.

It stays off the ice. Or, at least, no one else on the ice would be able to tell. Shane is almost sure that he’s just imagining the way Rozanov looks at him during face-offs, the way his physicality is different with Shane than it is with other players. Despite his reputation, Rozanov doesn’t take unnecessary risks. He can play dirty, yes, but he never goes out of his way to do it. Only for Shane. Sometimes, Shane thinks Rozanov fabricates opportunities to check him. Usually late at night, when he wishes he wasn’t alone. Because if that is happening, then Shane can imagine Rozanov wants to touch him. And God, does Shane want to be touched.

He makes a profile on grindr. Generic, faceless. Hesitates for a moment and retouches the one picture of his torso to remove a few moles and the scar on his shoulder, just in case. Looks at it and is proud of his abs for just a moment before Jasper (23) says, unsolicited, that he wants to come all over them. Shane blinks at his screen. Ew. What an opening to a conversation.

And just like that, grindr is a failure. Shane sticks it out for another hour. He looks at profiles, but doesn’t send any messages because he doesn’t even know what to say. What is he looking for? Is he what these men are looking for, no matter what he looks like? Does it matter how impressive his abs are when he’s still almost a virgin? The men who contact him are very direct about what they want. All of it sounds scary and vaguely icky. Shane doesn’t know these people.

In the end, it’s the dick pics that tip the scales. He receives two. The first one is such a surprise that Shane drops his phone. It hits his chest with a dull thud and Shane is left staring up at his hands, which are still hovering in the air like awkward claws. When he finally unfreezes enough to move, the picture itself is... unremarkable. Badly-lit and angled in a way that makes Shane suspect is supposed to make the penis look bigger. It’s the fact that Shane didn’t ask for it that makes disgust swirl in his stomach and pull down the corners of his mouth. Gross. 

The second picture, sent from another guy who also didn’t ask, is what shows Shane that this is just something that happens on the app. As soon as the realization hits him, he knows he wants nothing to do with this. So he deletes his profile, and then the app. It was risky anyway. Not a good way to find someone to hook up with. And why does he need to find someone in the first place? Rozanov clearly wants to fuck him. He already knows, and has proven that he’s both good at it and won’t tell anyone.

It feels different, the next time Rozanov asks. Spins a tale of what may be, if Shane just let himself have it. You know you want my cock, he says, infuriatingly correct. You know you like sucking it. Have you imagined it in other hole?

The question makes Shane blue screen for an alarming amount of time. Because he hasn’t. He very deliberately hasn’t imagined it. Has expended a not insignificant amount of energy on not thinking about it, distracting himself whenever he feels himself getting too close to it. And as soon as Rozanov asks, his senses are full of it. A warm presence at his back, broad and firm. One large hand on his shoulder, pressing him into the pillows, and the other at his waist, drawing him back against-

Fuck off. 

Took a long time. Writing with one hand?

What?

Jerking off, Hollander. You should tell me about this, so I can join ;)

I’m not jerking off.

Might be good idea to get edge off before tonight. 

What the hell? Why would I need to jerk off before a game?

You need to jerk off before I fuck you.

That’s not happening tonight.

Ok. Next time?

Shane’s fingers hover over the screen, eyes glued to the little pixels that make up the question mark. I don’t know, he finally writes and then fights the immediate urge to delete the message by turning his phone all the way off. Because it’s not a no. It’s very obviously not a no, and Shane has always said no before. There’s no way Rozanov doesn't notice. But when Shane powers his phone up before he leaves for the stadium, there is no reply.

Rozanov checks him into the boards particularly viciously that night. From the angle alone, it’s inexcusable, but the ref seems a lot more irritated by how Rozanov doesn’t move back immediately. Just for a moment, he stays the exact way they landed, with Shane’s torso pressed against the glass and Rozanov boxing him in from behind. Hot breath gusting over the sweat on the back of Shane’s neck and making him shiver. Rozanov gets a two minute penalty and Coach is concerned enough by the fact that Shane didn’t just deck Rozanov that he does some concussion checks.

Later that night, Shane imagines. First in the shower, like he usually does, because he prefers the easy clean-up. Then, when that proves insufficient, in bed. With the dildo he told Rozanov about. It’s weird, in the way that it always is because Shane is alone with nothing to distract himself. His thoughts spiral even now, particularly about a new frustration: He can’t get into the position that he wants. So he stays on his back and fucks himself open. First slowly - and then faster, because he can’t really imagine Rozanov taking it slow. The orgasm, when it finally comes, feels incomplete. 

So, okay. Maybe, just maybe, Shane wants Rozanov to fuck him. For real. It’s not a good idea, but out of a whole bunch of potentially catastrophic options, this is not the worst. Looming above any other experiment that Shane could indulge in will always be the fear of discovery. Of someone telling. Possibly even extorting Shane, because that’s something that can happen now. Shane has money, and people know that. 

Could it be that Rozanov is among his better options, even? Same secret, as he’d said. He’s an asshole, but he won’t tell. And he’s hot. Now that Shane has allowed himself to think about it, he can’t stop.

They start chatting about other stuff. When Rozanov fucks off to Mother Russia for the summer, he says goodbye. They talk about the weather. Once, Rozanov sends him a picture of some sort of soviet mural where one of the workers depicted reminds him of Shane. 

This is wrong, he writes. Hollander is for playing hockey, not for harvesting. Will ruin your hands, softest in the league. Shane doesn't respond. Then, a few days later, after Rozanov has returned to the US: So soft around my cock. You think you will touch it again?

Shane googles the time difference, just to make sure. It’s one a.m. in Boston, so Rozanov is probably drunk. And obviously horny. He doesn’t let himself think about his answer, just sends it.

You know, I just might.

The barrage of smiley faces he receives in response makes him feel incredibly off-kilter. There’s something wrong about this. Rozanov isn’t that effusive, and certainly not about an answer this non-committal. Normally, Shane would just brush it off and think Rozanov was messing with him. But outside of the season? In the middle of the night? That doesn’t seem right. Not that he can say that. He doesn’t need to know Rozanov particularly well to be aware he wouldn’t appreciate a mental health check-in.

Drink some water and go to bed, he writes instead, and gets called boring for his efforts. What a surprise.

The Metros want to keep Shane Hollander once his entry-level contract runs out. They say this definitively and early, which means that Shane can’t whip himself into a frenzy imagining scenarios in which he gets traded and has to move farther away from his parents. It also means that Yuna Hollander has an excellent position from which to negotiate his next contract, for a long term and with a truly eye-watering salary. More than Shane would’ve ever dared ask for.

“They want to build their future team around you,” she says when Shane mentions this. “As they should. Matthews’ contract ends in two years, and he’s already thirty-five. He may want to retire, and then they’ll need a new captain.”

All of these things are fact, as soon as they leave her mouth. Clear and concise as always, backed by a certainty that could melt glaciers. Shane looks at her and thinks: I’m glad she’s on my side. Wonders what would happen if he asked her to be a bit more of a mom about this. And then, he goes to his dad to get some reassurance that it’s okay for him to be paid that much money when there are people in the world who are starving. His dad starts to say something about creating value, then snorts, rolls his eyes at himself and buries his head in his hands.

“Look, let’s not kid ourselves. It’s unfair that you get paid more than doctors and teachers. But you can’t help that you are.”  He raises his head again, blue eyes piercing. “And you don’t need to keep all that money. Talk to your financial advisor about donating some of it. Help redistribute.”

Shane likes that idea, but he can tell immediately that his financial advisor, Craig, doesn’t. He flat-out refuses to even consider donating more than ten percent of Shane’s annual salary, an amount which he declares already ridiculous.

“Look,” Craig says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I get that this looks like more money than you could ever know what to do with. Because it is a lot of money, and you’re still quite young. But you’ve got to understand two things. One: Money only keeps you safe if you keep the money. Once people know you have this amount of money, you need to change things. Move to a better area, and into a building with a doorman, that kind of stuff. Just because you don’t want the money doesn’t mean that other people won’t. And you won’t like the things they do to try to take it from you.”

He looks at Shane emphatically and waits for him to nod before he continues. “Two: Unless you’re very lucky, you will never earn more money than right now. You could get injured at any point. This is different from other careers. The best time to think about retirement is right now. You need to invest.”

Shane, who already lives in a good part of town in a building that has a doorman, and who has been investing money in index funds for the last three years on Craig’s advice, briefly wonders what the hell is happening. Is Craig becoming forgetful? He’s always been very good at remembering the topics they’ve talked about. Or is this just a difference in opinion? Should he maybe change financial advisors if his guy doesn’t support him doing charity? That feels like a bit of an overreaction.

Whatever his face is doing, clearly Craig can tell that Shane didn’t like what he just heard. So he changes tack. “The advice I’ve been giving you for the last three years was good for the last three years. But you understand that your situation has changed, right? Last year, it was smart to live in a rental flat and buy index funds. But you have more money now, and that changes the situation. We’ve got to think about getting you on the property ladder. And we should maybe revisit your risk appetite, just to be sure we’re investing the right way. Because there are more lucrative options-”

“No risk,” Shane says. The index funds already make him nervous enough. He only checks on his accounts once a month, to make sure Craig isn’t taking anything. “If I’m going to give away my money, it’ll be to people to need it, and not to venture capitalists.”

“With investments, you get the money back.”

Shane blinks at him. “Sorry, let me rephrase that. The only way I invest outside of index funds is if it’s in real estate or for a guaranteed return on investment. I’m not interested in getting someone’s start-up off the ground.”

“Alright! Well, then let’s talk real estate.”

So Shane really only has himself to blame when he goes home with a couple real estate portfolios and fancy hot-foiled business cards with names that glint in the light if you tilt them just right. Curiously, all of Craig’s real estate contacts seem to be attractive young women. Older than Shane, maybe, by a few years. But much younger than Craig, who was balding when Shane met him and has miraculously grown a full head of hair over the summer. 

His mom thinks it’s an excellent idea for Shane Hollander to be investing in real estate. It’s sensible, she says. Respectable. Safe for him and good for his image. 

“You should get an apartment for yourself to live in first,” she tells him when he’s leafing through one of the portfolio catalogues, stops on the pictures for a small cabin on Chats Lake. 

Shane doesn’t point out that he already has an apartment to live in. If he has the money, what does it matter if he pays rent for one more year if he can also get outside of the city to his own little refuge? But she’s probably right. There are factors to this he hasn’t seen yet. His mom has more experience in these things, and he should listen to her.

This is how he comes to own his first apartment. It involves more paperwork than he expected, but his nice real estate agent, Lindsay, is very helpful. He doesn’t have to ask his parents for help even once. Although he is tempted when, upon handing him the keys, Lindsay suggests they go to dinner together. It feels wrong to say no after she helped him so much. Thankfully, it suddenly becomes very easy when she tries to kiss him goodnight.

“No,” Shane says. “That’s not what this is. You did a good job, and I’m grateful for your help. But no.”

“Oh.” Lindsay’s eyes are wide, but Shane isn’t so sure that the emotion in them is surprise. There’s a sharp line between her eyebrows that makes his stomach clench. “I thought we were getting along well.”

“We were. But not this well.”

“Are you sure?” She leans in a little. Not enough for Shane to step back, but enough for him to clench his hands at his side to prevent himself from raising them in front of him to keep her at a distance. “It’s fine if you need some time to decide those things. I don’t mind being casual for a while, that can be fun.”

“I don’t do casual,” Shane says.

Only at home does he realize that that, maybe, was a bit of a lie. Except… can you even say you’re doing something if the last time you did it was a year ago? One year, that’s how much time has passed since All Stars.

The next week, Shane moves into his new apartment. One of the first thoughts he has, once all of his furniture is moved in and he’s lying in his big new bedroom for the first time, is that it would be cool if he could just call Rozanov and ask him to fuck him through his new mattress. His second thought is: That would be stupid. He owns this apartment. He’s already met some of his neighbors. And while the sound isolation seems to be fine, there could be no worse way to figure out it’s not as good as he thought it was.

It’s a nice idea, to not do it in a hotel room. But this… no, it needs to be further removed from him. Not even a week after the move, Shane asks Craig how much money it would be reasonable to spend on investment properties to rent out, and if there is a way to do it without his name immediately attached. Two days later, he has a new real estate agent. Still a woman, in case someone else thinks he’s flirting. But an older one this time. 

Her name is Murna, she’s in her fifties, and she listens attentively while Shane explains what he’s looking for. She also has a very interesting way of categorizing the properties she shows him. Some of them are bachelor pads, others are mistress apartments.

“You know, if you have a little cutie you wanna hide away,” she says and then proceeds to show him that both the shower and the bathtub comfortably fit two people. By entering the shower after him and closing the glass door behind herself with a bright grin on her face. Really, she’s far more inappropriate than Lindsay ever was. His mother would be horrified. Shane, bizarrely, feels safe.

He doesn’t buy that apartment, but he puts in a bid for the next one, which she advertises to him by making him close the front door on her while she screams bloody murder. Immediately, it’s quiet in the hallway. That only stops when he opens the door again and is treated to Murna’s off-key rendition of I Kissed a Girl. He would be a bit more concerned about how perceptive she is if he wasn’t having so much fun.

The thing about Murna is that she knows absolutely everything there is to know about real estate. Not just her portfolio, but also houses in general. Architecture, materials, maintenance. She has severe opinions on siding (“I’d sooner shoot myself than put that kinda bullshit in my portfolio.”) and open-plan kitchens. (“If you want your whole apartment to smell like bacon grease, be my fucking guest. I’ll take your money.”) She knows how frequently the gutters need to be cleaned, depending on the trees nearby. It’s amazing. Shane asks more questions than he’s ever asked about anything else, and he soaks up her answers like a sponge.

When he wins the bid for the next apartment with excellent soundproofing in an out-of-the-way building, Murna brings an unlabeled bottle of fermented fruit soda to the signing of the contract.

“You seem like the kinda guy who doesn’t drink alcohol,” she explains. “You better not be scared of whatever fucking amount of sugar is in a glass of this. I made it myself. It’s organic. You’re drinking it.”

Shane does drink it. And maybe snorts a little bit out of his nose when Murna says: “Well, congratulations on closing. Happy fucking! You wanna see some actual investment properties next? They’re much cheaper.”

That’s how Shane Hollander becomes a landlord. No one who rents from Shane knows this, but he lets it slip in the locker room that he’s bought a few apartments, and the story spreads from there. Matthews congratulates him on being sensible with money. Drapeau asks him why the hell he bought a second apartment before buying himself a proper car. Which is rich, coming from him. He drives a mustard yellow sports car, the kind of thing Shane looks at and asks himself if it’ll be Drapeau’s coffin one day. Especially considering his penchant for driving it drunk.

The next time the Metros play the Raiders, Rozanov’s text arrives when Shane is already in the locker room. How many times can you cum in 1 hour? Shane looks down at his phone, a thrill running down his back, and tries to keep control over his face. He furiously types out one answer after the next, accusing Rozanov of trying to mess with him, before finally just going with the truth. I don’t know. Maybe twice?

When Rozanov asks where they’re meeting, Shane says no out of habit. As soon as he does, he realizes: He doesn’t have to. He has a place now. The bedroom, bathroom and kitchen are finished, even if the rest of the place is still a bit of a construction zone. If Shane wants to, he can just invite Rozanov over. So he leaves the option open for himself. And then, the next text arrives.

Are you as hard as I am right now?

Well, fuck. Fuck Rozanov, honestly, that’s so fucking uncalled for. Because he wasn’t, but now he is. And it doesn’t really change for the entirety of the game. Just for that, he should shoot Rozanov down after they get off the ice, but he just can’t find it in him to deny himself any longer. He’s used every reasonable excuse to delay this, and he still wants it. So he gives Rozanov the address, tells him how to get to the back door, and prays that he won’t regret letting himself have this.

He’s worried it’ll be awkward after two years, but clearly, he should have known better. Awkward? Not where Ilya Rozanov is involved. The chirping is like second nature to them, playful even when the tone is aggressive. And while Shane is still wondering how to move on from the irrelevant small talk to much more relevant touching, Rozanov is already stepping closer to kiss him.

Shane knows better than to expect things. But he’s a weak man, so of course he does. There are a whole host of things he expected would happen if he did this with Rozanov. Almost none of them do.

Like, okay. He expected urgency. But not like this. Not like Rozanov will die of thirst if his mouth isn’t touching Shane every thirty seconds at least. Somehow, that translates to a lot of kissing. Kissing in the kitchen, kissing in the bedroom, kissing in the bed. In their clothes, at first. Then, when all of Shane’s clothes are folded at the foot of the bed and Rozanov’s are strewn all across the room, Rozanov draws him in again. But he notices Shane’s hesitation almost immediately.

“Not the right kind of stiff, Hollander. You okay?”

“Yeah, I just...” Shane doesn’t know what to say. They’re lying on top of the sheets, naked bodies pressed together. Rozanov’s erection is pressed into Shane’s thigh, but he’s not trying to do anything with it. Shane doesn’t know what to think of that.

“You just...” Rozanov prompts, then frowns when Shane doesn’t complete the sentence. “Is not what you want? Should I stop?”

“No!” The answer is so immediate it could be classified as a yelp. Shane’s hands clench, one on Rozanov’s neck and one on his waist. To keep him there, if necessary. Even if Shane wouldn’t actually manage to keep Rozanov anywhere he didn’t want to be.

It shouldn’t be such a relief to feel Rozanov twitch against him. Nor should it make him feel lighter to watch the way Rozanov’s pupils dilate as his eyes twitch over Shane’s face. But it does. Rozanov wants this. This, specifically. Rozanov wants Hollander. Not just because it’s easy and in front of him right now. He chased after this for two years. The absurdity of being wanted like this, even if it’s not really him, almost makes Shane laugh. It’s just enough of a distraction for Rozanov to get in under his defences.

 “No?” he asks. His voice is deep and velvety in that way that Shane’s memory always emphasizes when he gets himself of to thoughts of him. “I should not stop, is what you’re saying? Don’t stop? I think you can ask nicer, no? Just to make really sure.”

“Fuck you, Rozanov.”

Rozanov pretends to think. “Hm, no. I think plan was other way around. But I might be forgetting.”

There is absolutely no fucking way that Shane will beg. Shane Hollander would never beg another man to fuck him. And if Hollander does, will Rozanov even still respect him afterwards? Sure, he likes when Shane does what he asks. And he’s never chirped him about it, even though it’s excellent material. But there’s got to be a line somewhere, right?

Instead of saying please, Shane gives Rozanov the next-best thing he knows he wants - he kisses him again. It works like a charm. As soon as their lips touch, Rozanov’s hand snarls into Shane’s hair again. Tilts his head back for better access so Rozanov can lick into his mouth and make him swallow a groan that vibrates in his chest and almost certainly makes him drip. Just almost, though. Shane isn’t checking.

Kissing Rozanov is the best feeling Shane has ever experienced. The blowjobs were nice, sure, he loved that. But kissing is just... It’s more, even though he can’t say why. Shane gives himself over to it completely, without any hesitations. Just melts into Rozanov’s arms and forgets himself to the degree he only realizes he’s been grinding against Rozanov's leg when the man draws back to look at him.

“You still want?”

“I still want.”

What follows is a lot of teasing. First verbally, about the size of Rozanov’s cock and the amount of condoms Shane keeps in his bedside table. Then sexually. Because apparently Rozanov isn’t happy to just finger Shane open and get to the main event. No, he eats him out. Languidly, like he’s savoring it. Like he wants to do it. Even once he graduates to fingers, because those are definitely necessary, he keeps licking around them when he doesn’t have his mouth on Shane’s cock. But he always backs off when Shane gets too loud. Which Shane agrees with in theory, he doesn’t want to embarrass himself by coming too early, but Jesus Christ. It’s a lot.

Only when Shane’s nerves ratchet up in the short period of time it takes Rozanov to roll on a condom and slick himself up does it occur to Shane that maybe this was strategic. Rozanov didn’t give him any room to think and freak himself out. 

Which is something he gets back to as soon as he looks up from his hand on his cock. Thankfully, he has the presence of mind to wipe off the excess lube on his hand on the sheets before he touches Shane face. His kisses are even more open-mouthed now. Sloppy, but somehow still appealing because he knows why it’s sloppy. The desperation carries him through any potential awkwardness as Rozanov arranges him on the bed, spread out on his back. Makes him open his arms and legs as Rozanov shuffles closer. Makes a thrill go through him when he feels blunt pressure against his hole.

“Still okay?” Rozanov asks.

Shane’s nod changes his entire life. He can feel it, all the little parts that make up Shane and Hollander and Shane Hollander rearranging themselves, making way for Rozanov to fit into him. Into his body. There’s pain, but only in the strictest sense of the word. It’s too sharp to be called anything else. It makes his nerves sing. Shane squeezes his eyes shut and gives himself over to it.

It’s so much. So much more than he was expecting, which sounds silly even in his own head. People always talk about sex like it’s this huge thing, but Shane has never quite understood. Even after hooking up with Rozanov twice, he couldn’t conceptualize this being that much different. He’s had sex before, and it wasn’t anything special. And sure, he thought this would be better. But he didn‘t think it would be everything.

They’re face to face. That’s another thing Shane wasn’t expecting. The closeness. Rozanov is right there, eyes glinting in the soft light of the fire, breath puffing against Shane’s face. He keeps dipping back in for kisses. One, then another, then another. Like he’s already forgotten he just did it. Like he can’t help himself.

“Still okay?” he asks.

Shane pulls him down for another kiss just because he wants to kiss him. It definitely doesn’t have anything to do with the way his eyes burn or with the tightness in his chest. By this point, it feels like there are only two options: Leaning in further or scrambling away. Shane chooses the former. Withdraws himself from scrutiny even if it means blurring his edges. 

Switching onto his hands and knees takes away some of that overwhelming closeness. Shane knows this instinctively, so he goes easily. What he doesn’t expect until he feels it is the change in angle. Fuck. 

Shane has been making noise the entire time. Way too much to be dignified, but he’s been able to muffle most of it in kisses, so who fucking cares? It all spills out of him now. Rozanov is big enough that he gets to Shane’s prostate no matter what. But at this angle, the stimulation is much more direct. So much more intense. Even more intense when Rozanov gently puts a hand between Shane’s shoulder blades and pushes until Shane’s cheek meets the pillow.

It’s over quite quickly after that. Shane’s dick slaps heavy against his abs once, twice, and then he comes without so much as a finger touching him. All over his way-too-expensive sheets that he definitely won’t have to take back to his own apartment because the dryer hasn’t been delivered yet. So suddenly that he can’t even communicate it. But Rozanov understands.

Maybe it's the way Shane's moans change, or maybe it’s the way his ass tightens like a vise. He tries to ask, but Shane’s too out of it to answer. Not that it matters. With a few hard snaps of his hips, Rozanov comes as well. Somehow, that makes the whole thing even hotter. At Rozanov’s broken groans, Shane feels himself clench again.

For a while, that’s the last thing he consciously takes note of. Things get hazy after that. He’s vaguely aware of lips on the back of his neck. Of protesting a strange emptiness when the body behind his pulls away. Of letting himself be moved around like a ragdoll until he’s lying comfortably with Rozanov warm by his side. Everything else is fuzzy. Like he’s underwater and sounds don't quite get through to him.

At some point, Rozanov goes off to shower. He comes back with his skin still tacky from the steam, complaining that Shane killed him. But the smile on his face echoes in his voice. It makes Shane feel all warm inside.

“Worth the wait?” Rozanov asks. 

It’s different, this time. Nowhere near the sultry confidence of ”Did you like sucking my cock?” in that first hotel room four years ago. Instead, there’s an undertone to the words. Something surprisingly unguarded on Rozanov’s face in the soft light of the fire. 

He looks so young, Shane thinks. Asks himself what he should say, what would be an acceptable answer that wouldn’t give too much away. Wouldn’t show any of the affection sluicing through his veins, warm and fragrant like the mulled wine his father loves so much at Christmas time. Everything he can think of would be too much. 

So Shane just kisses him. But even that is wrong, somehow. Because he lingers. Shane’s lips touch the corner of Rozanov’s mouth, skin still tacky from the hot shower he just took, and instead of correcting course and doing something sexy that involves tongues, he just lets himself stay there for a second. Until he’s magnetically drawn to deposit another kiss on the prominent ridge of Rozanov’s brow.

Something curdles in his stomach even as he does it, and it only draws in on itself more tightly when Rozanov immediately leaves his bed. Too much, Shane tells himself. Hollander wouldn’t be kissing Rozanov’s forehead, what the fuck are you doing? That’s not what this is. 

He comes to the conclusion that this is a good thing. Immediate separation. This was intense. He’s just feeling like this because being fucked is intense, and it was his first time. He’s getting it confused with real intimacy because he isn’t used to it yet. Rozanov probably knows that, since he does this all the time. And so he’s helping Shane maintain his own boundaries by leaving. Not allowing him to get even more confused. 

Another reason for Shane to be thankful he’s doing this with Rozanov. Because there’s no way he would tell. No way anyone will ever find out just how much Shane Hollander likes this. The sounds he made, helpless and small. How he let all of this just happen to him. How he came without even so much as a hand on his dick, face squished in the pillows, with a man’s heavy hand on the back of his neck.

Rozanov is a vault. So Shane tries his best to put his Hollander face back on, to pack up all his messy emotions so he can accompany Rozanov to the door to say goodbye. Because Shane, in all his forms, is a good host. He prides himself on that. Hosting isn’t like fucking. There are easy rules, questions that can only be answered with a yes or a no. Did Shane offer his guests a drink? Did he ask for everyone’s dietary preferences? Did he introduce everyone, make sure conversation flowed smoothly by introducing his pre-prepared topics if things got too quiet? 

It doesn’t work as well as he would like it to. Shane still feels kind of floaty and distant, like his head is packed in cotton wool. He’s only ever felt like that on the stronger painkillers after an injury, which is mildly alarming. But he does his best to keep his face blank. 

When they get to the bottom of the stairs, Rozanov takes one look at him and suddenly has one of his feet up on the steps to fiddle with the laces on his shoes.

“What are you doing?” Shane asks. It takes too long for him to get the words out, but there’s nothing for it. His head is just slow right now. Thankfully, Rozanov doesn’t comment on it.

“Tying my shoe, Hollander. Slipped in without opening earlier. Very bad for good shoes. I should be responsible, treat them good.”

“More responsible with your shoes?”

Blue eyes glint up at Shane. “Yes. So they don’t break. I’m Russian, yes? In Russia, you respect your property and it last long. Not like in America. Can’t even get your fucking phone repaired, have to buy a new one.”

That… Shane blinks. “This is Canada.”

“Canada is in North America, yes?”

“Fuck you.” This time, the answer comes more quickly. Things around Shane feel sharper now, more real and immediate. 

Rozanov stays for a bit longer, even if he doesn’t really engage in Shane’s awkward attempts at a conversation about the Olympics. Which is fine. Shane feels fluttery just in the knowledge that Rozanov is lingering. Like maybe he doesn’t want to leave. 

That fluttery feeling only gets worse when Rozanov leans in to retrieve his jacket. Kisses Shane once, twice. Softer than he ever has before, even that first time. That was just cautious. This feels… gentle. It makes Shane want to lean in and chase after him, to hold his jacket hostage and only release it for a ransom of more kisses just like these ones. But that wouldn’t be very Hollander of him. So he doesn’t. He just watches Rozanov go.

When Rozanov is gone, he’s gone. For the first time since they started this, they have no contact at all. A few times, Shane tries to contact him. Tries very hard to be unobtrusive, just little nudges over text messages, spaced out over time specifically to not be annoying. Rozanov doesn’t reply.

There really isn’t a good reason for Shane to try to talk to him at the Olympics. He knows it’s risky. Even without Carter Vaughn's comment about queer athletes being brave, Shane is aware of the situation in Russia. Has watched the documentaries and read the op-eds. Had the blood in his veins freeze to ice the first time he realized they’re saying that just being queer is tantamount to propaganda. So no, he’s not trying to initiate a hookup when he goes to talk to Rozanov. He’s just trying to check in.

Even that, though, is very much undesired. Shane hasn’t been rebuffed that soundly since middle school. It would be funny if it didn’t sting so much.

“We are not anything,” Rozanov says.

Shane knew this. Of course he did. But he still feels something crack deep in his chest. Because whatever they are, that time in his secret Montreal apartment didn’t feel like nothing. The opposite, really. It was everything. The most present Shane has ever felt in his body off the ice. The most honest he’s ever been with his body. 

For an hour there, he got to just be Shane, but without the usual overthinking. The thought alone feels like a mistake. Shane knows that’s not what happened. He was Hollander, like he always is. That’s the name Rozanov shouted as he came.

It doesn’t matter that Rozanov kept checking in with him. After that incident with the girl in the club, Hayden said something about consent, and Shane googled it. So now he knows that checking in is the right thing to do, and it shouldn’t make him feel special. It’s just proof that, even if Rozanov is an asshole, he’s not a horrible person.

He has a feeling, then, that it’s not going to happen again. And that hurts. It feels like a rejection, like that night wasn’t nearly as life-changing for Rozanov as it was for Shane. 

Because it wasn’t, idiot, says a mean little voice in the back of Shane’s head. He would try to smother it, except he kind of thinks it’s right. It was his first time in all the ways that feel relevant to him. He got all kinds of intense about it, because that’s just what happens with first times. But Rozanov... 

Shane has seen the TMZ articles. The tweets bragging about Rozanov’s prowess that he sometimes gets tagged in because people on the internet forget how to not be fucking creeps at least every second Thursday. He’s got his theories about all of the things Rozanov might have gotten up to with his coach’s son, and other men in the two years that Shane left him dangling. Needless to say: There is no was this was his first time. Of course he doesn’t have the same feelings about this as Shane does. So why would he want to do it again?

Even though it feels like a mistake, Shane sends him a message. Can’t leave it alone before he does, because otherwise he’ll just berate himself for being a silly boy sulking about being rejected. Maybe this is something else, right? He should be a decent human being and check.

Are you okay?

Of course, Rozanov doesn’t answer. They don’t play each other again for the rest of the season. The Raiders get into the playoffs, and then they win, and Shane has to sit on his couch and watch Rozanov lift the Stanley Cup, surrounded by people who think they’re not just rivals but enemies. The smile that steals onto his face when he’s finally alone feels painful. Is this something Rozanov will tease him about? Will they be talking enough for Shane to get teased, at some point in the future? He doesn’t see that happening.

When Shane finds out they want him to present an award with Rozanov, he almost tells his mother he doesn’t want to do it. He only doesn’t because he can’t come up with a good enough reason. Why wouldn’t Shane Hollander jump at the chance to present any award, no matter who else is on the stage with him? It’s an excellent opportunity to show people he’s good at yet another thing. Or - well. If not good, then at least charmingly awkward. His mother insists there’s a market for that. The way she says it sounds like get yourself a girlfriend, I swear to God women don’t all hate you just because you can’t maintain eye contact. 

So Yuna Hollander, manager extraordinaire, agrees on Shane’s behalf that he’ll present an award with Ilya fucking Rozanov. Shane doesn’t sleep well for the entire week preceding it. The suit he chooses is a bit more fitted than he would ordinarily wear. He gets a fresh haircut the day before. And then, Rozanov doesn’t show up until literal seconds before they have to walk on stage, claiming to have been busy.

It’s uncomfortable to smile into bright lights on a good day. To do it with Rozanov standing beside him, making stupid jokes for an audience that’s only too happy to laugh at how stilted Shane Hollander is might be actual torture. Rozanov raises his cellphone to take a selfie, leans close to get both of them in the picture, and Shane’s chest gets tight. Rozanov’s hand glides down his back to squeeze his ass where anyone might see if they just looked from the right angle, and Shane loses his breath entirely.

Not even the bathroom provides adequate shelter from the onslaught. Rozanov follows him, forces a confrontation that rips Shane open and still doesn’t cede an inch. Makes him beg and then says no. Kisses him and then leaves.

Shane knows better than to follow the invitation to the penthouse. Worries about the implication that they’re going to do whatever Rozanov wants. Doesn’t know what he’s hoping for when he knocks on the door with his suit jacket in hand. It wouldn’t have been this, though.

“Take off your clothes,” Rozanov says. He’s leaning back against the huge windows, shirt hanging open and feet bare. By all rights, he should look vulnerable. He doesn’t. He looks unapproachable.

He doesn’t touch Shane, even once he asks Shane to touch himself. At first, Shane barely notices. Rozanov’s gaze on him is so heavy that it feels like a caress. He revels in it, in the reactions he can provoke by forgoing his dick and pushing a finger straight into his hole. Until.

Until he says “I need you” and Rozanov still doesn’t kiss him.

He reacts almost immediately. Steps closer to the bed to let Shane nuzzle his crotch. Stretches him open with careful fingers, two and then three, careful but not gentle. But he doesn’t kiss Shane. Not even on the back of his neck, once he’s balls deep inside of him and giving him two breaths to acclimate. 

Shane doesn’t have much time to think about it. Rozanov takes him hard and fast, so he loses coherency almost immediately. Something off, but how can he pay attention to that when his prostate is being nailed with such exacting precision? Two and a half years ago, he refused to have anal sex in a hotel full of hockey players. Today, in a new hotel that’s filled with those same hockey players, he shouts when he comes. 

There’s no cuddling afterwards. Shane sits up against the headboard, feeling unpleasantly fuzzy, and feels the distance between them like a pain. Rozanov is on the other side of the bed, face closed off. Even if he weren’t smoking an actual fucking cigarette in the most expensive hotel room Shane has ever been in, Shane would know not to touch him.

Talking is also a mistake. Through the slight fog in his head, Shane feels like they’re having two different conversations. One message gets through, though: Leave. So he does.

In the elevator, he composes and deletes several messages. Mostly, he feels stupid. Everything in his head is still slow. His hands are clumsy enough that he struggles to open the door to his hotel room. The card reader just won’t cooperate until Shane leans against it with his entire body.

He crawls into the bed still wearing his clothes. Twists around until he’s managed to get out of the shirt, buttons too small for his sluggish fingers. Once he does, he flings it over the side of the bed, unfolded. And then, he just lies there and thinks.

This was a message.

There’s no way around that, right? Not with how different it was from the last time. Last time was all kisses, all the time. They even kissed goodbye in the stairwell. But clearly, that was too much. It was too close. So this time, they didn’t kiss at all. Rozanov kept himself as closed off as possible. It was both obvious and obviously on purpose.

And yet. Rozanov still did it. He kissed Shane in that bathroom, then asked him to touch himself, and then fucked him until he screamed. So that’s a no to the closeness and a yes to the sex. Shane sighs. This is just... he feels stupid to even be slightly surprised. Rozanov doesn’t want Shane.  He wants Hollander. This is just the natural consequence of that. 

He was too Shane the last time. Rozanov tolerated it, was even nice about it, because it was Shane’s first time. But that’s over now. So there needs to be more distance now. More Hollander. Which is fine. A good idea, even. Very smart of Rozanov, who probably has a lot of practice compartmentalizing sex.

Shane just needs to catch up. If he wants to keep hooking up with Rozanov, he needs to get with the program. And God, does he ever. So what if there’s less kissing now? There’s still Rozanov, whose touches light Shane on fire and whose cock makes him forget. He can be Hollander for Rozanov.

Chapter End Notes

Show of hands: Who else wasn't taught about consent at school or by their parents? I had to learn from Buzzfeed. At twenty. Which is just slightly humiliating.

Next up: Shane ruminates on how he can let Rozanov fuck him without making it weird. His mental gymnastics are even more impressive than the shit these two get up to in bed,

Chapter 5

Chapter Notes

PLEASE NOTE: This isn't the tuna meltdown, like I said it would be. I THOUGHT I had gotten to the tuna meltdown, but the setup felt incomplete. So please enjoy another 7k of whatever the hell this is. There's sex and there's suffering. It'll allow the crashout of the next chapter to hit that much harder. Shane may make life difficult for me, but damn if he doesn't make it difficult for himself, too.

They find the perfect lot for Shane’s cottage on a Monday morning in June. Technically, there’s a cabin still on it. But it’s in such a state of disrepair that tearing it down will be a mercy. Shane doesn’t even look inside. If his tours of the many and varied lakeside cottages around Montreal have taught him anything is that he’s way too fucking picky.

“Particular,” Murna had insisted the first time he voiced that thought. “You’re very particular. And that’s a good thing. God only knows the horrendous shit you’d be willing to spend your money on if you had less taste. Can you imagine? You’d be up to the neck in designer garden gnomes and crystal chandeliers in no time.”

Murna, of course, brought up the idea of building a new cottage way before Shane gave up on finding the perfect one hidden away somewhere. She was ready to pivot after tour number ten, which had taught Shane both that genuine brass hardware existed and also that he hated it. So what if they can just replace the kitchen? Shane will always remember the tarnished glint of the hinges on the cabinets. It took him another twenty cottages to realize that maybe, under these circumstances, building new really is the best idea.

He stopped questioning Murna after that. And now, two months later, he’s standing in the shade of two massive oak trees, on a lot that’s basically in the middle of the forest with no neighbors in sight, and watches the morning sun ripple across the surface of the lake. When he closes his eyes, he can already feel the heat of future summers on his skin, with the smell of warm grass in his nostrils and the sound of laughter in his ears. A loon calls. Behind him, Murna snorts.

“I shoulda known this was the one. Why did I even bother showing you the other two last week?”

The other two last week had been fine. This, though... it already feels like home. It’s a weird thought to have, Shane thinks. Doesn’t a home require a house? Something with a roof, at least? Some kind of shelter. When he asks Hayden at their next film night, his friend shrugs.

“I don’t know, man. I think a home is more than just a house. Like, a tent could be my home if that’s where Jackie was.”

“I don’t think it would be fair to make Jackie sleep in a tent in her current condition.”

That one gets Shane slapped in the back of the head. It’s a nice distraction from the jealousy bubbling in the pit of Shane’s stomach at the dreamy tone in Hayden’s voice. They’ve become close friends over the years. Good enough that Shane didn't even feel ridiculous being Hayden’s best man. But while that closeness is something that Shane cherishes and is deeply grateful for, it also has its downsides.

Like how Shane is jealous now. He’s never been jealous before. Angry at himself for not hitting certain goals he set for himself, sure. At times, he’s wished he looked different so that he could blend in better, wouldn’t distract people from his hockey with something as insignificant as his face. But people? He’s never been jealous of other people before. Never wanted what others have. What would be the point? That’s them. Shane is Shane.

Except now, Shane can look at his friend, who is his same age, and has already found the person he will spend the rest of his life with. A person he can love loudly and openly. Their wedding photos were reposted by the official Metros account, as was their pregnancy announcement. Twins. Hayden has spent many an afternoon agonizing about birth and babies on Shane’s couch. Shane always has a beer to open for him. He listens, and he tries his best to calm him and offer him rational advice. And when Hayden leaves, he has to lie down on the hard floor to decompress. It always takes a while for the pain to fade. Sometimes, he cries.

It’s become a talking point, over the years, that Shane Hollander has never been in a public relationship. Nothing big, just a little thing that the commentators like to slide in for flavor. When the Metros bring it up, it’s always with a bit of a sneer. Hollander can’t get laid. Shane is very careful not to point out that women offer all the time. Partially because they wouldn't like that, but also because it would bring up a new question: Why doesn’t he take them up on it? 

It’s not like he never has. It’s just... even if he walks out of the game with his heart pumping and his blood singing, the reality of trying to have sex with a woman is so daunting that he always has trouble getting hard. Or staying hard, if he manages. It’s probably best for his reputation if the number of women he’s disappointed in bed doesn’t grow too large. Even if he really does try. Oral sex, after a while, becomes familiar enough that he can approach it from a mechanical standpoint. Still, it never becomes appealing enough for him to get fully hard from it without touching himself, like it does with Rozanov. Shane studiously avoids thinking about why that might be.

He just... keeps on playing the best hockey he can, and never dates anyone publicly, and lets the commentators and fans call him respectful and a role model for the rookies. And he watches his best friend love his wife out loud and hates himself for being jealous of it. Like right now. Hayden’s hapless grin makes his stomach clench.

“I don’t know, man. Jackie’s tough. All those brothers she grew up with? I bet she could just give birth in the middle of the forest and be fine. Did you know she’s still considering a home birth? Scares the fuck out of me, honestly. She’s so kickass.”

Two months later, they’re all very glad that Jackie decided to go to the hospital. Three days in a row, Shane visits and holds Hayden as he shakes with deep, wracking sobs at the memory of what happened after their planned cesarean. Hears stories about there being so much blood it dripped on the floor. Of medical personnel with their hands inside of Jackie up to their wrists. Doesn’t ask for a clarification on inside, just helps Hayden put himself back together afterwards so he can go back out and help his mother-in-law take care of two squalling babies.

Maybe, he thinks, it’s okay. Love can be great, sure. But could it be worth this level of devastation? His mom, when he asks her, says yes unequivocally. Shane isn’t too sure. It looks like a lot. This is... to give someone this level of power over you, and then it’s not even always up to them if they leave? Breakups are bad enough. But for three days, Hayden genuinely believes that giving birth to their children may have killed the woman he loves. And he’s unrecognizable. Shane would like to avoid that, please. Maybe it’s okay if he doesn’t find a girlfriend.

Rozanov is still texting him. He’s in Russia for the summer, but he’s coming back early for some ad shoots. Apparently, one of the CCM people told them Shane would be shooting his own campaign with them roughly around the same time. So, a few months after Vegas, Shane finds out he was right: Rozanov doesn’t want to stop. He still wants Shane. Enough to extend his hotel stay two more days so they can fuck after Shane’s own CCM photoshoot wraps up.

But Shane was also wrong. Rozanov doesn’t have a problem with kissing. The first thing he does when the door of Shane’s hotel room clicks shut behind him is take two large steps towards Shane and kiss him. Without even taking his shoes off first. And he keeps kissing him. Even as Shane gets on the bed on his hands and knees after putting his clothes away, the first thing he does is kiss his way down Shane’s spine. He doesn’t eat him out again, but his mouth barely leaves Shane’s ass as he fingers him open. His other hand roams Shane’s body, gripping and squeezing and caressing.

The actual sex, once it starts, is hard and fast. For as much consideration Rozanov has always paid to all the other things Shane might want, he’s always been the one to control the pace. And that... Not that Shane’s going to complain, far from it, but he still remembers that first time. The build-up. The way it made his whole body sing before Rozanov sped up and pushed him over the edge. The articles on consent Shane read when he was researching it also said to communicate preferences. 

“Rozanov,” he grinds out.

“Yes?”

“Slow down.” Which is not how he was going to put it. But someone’s currently depleting his brainpower by hammering his prostate, so... whoops?

Rozanov immediately complies. Or, well. He stops. Completely. “Something wrong?”

At the sudden loss of stimulation, Shane makes a disgruntled noise and pushes back onto Rozanov’s cock. “No, don’t stop. I just... slower, maybe?”

“Okay.” Lips ghost over the back of his neck as Rozanov finds a new rhythm. “Was too much?”

“For the beginning, yeah.” It’s too honest, maybe. If someone said that to Shane, it might feel like rejection. At the very least, he’d keep thinking he did something wrong, would probably think about it so much that it distracted him. Rozanov doesn’t seem to have that problem. He takes the feedback and applies it with ‌single-minded focus. Checks in with Shane like he did that first time. And speeds up once Shane asks for it.

When they lie there together afterwards, trying to catch their breath, Rozanov heaves himself onto his side with a grunt. There’s something hesitant on his face, but he still pokes Shane in the right pectoral and asks his question.

“Was too fast last time too?”

“What?” The world hasn’t gone back to making sense yet. To existing outside of this bed. Honestly, Shane would prefer it if it could stay that way for just a little while.

“In Vegas. Was too fast in Vegas too? You did not like?”

Shane blinks at him. “Vegas was fine.”

It’s the wrong thing to say. Rozanov rears back like Shane slapped him, clutches one of his hands to his chest. “Fine? You have sex with me and say it was fine?! This never happens.”

It’s very him, what with the theatrics and the ego. Shane almost forces a laugh and plays along. But there’s something in Rozanov’s eyes that makes him careful. A depth that he isn’t used to. He hesitates.

“I think I just don’t like it that fast. Not immediately. I’m still... I’m still learning this.” It’s more vulnerable than he’d like. Too close to confirmation that he’s not doing this with anyone else, which in itself might be read as confirmation for things that are even more vulnerable. Things that Shane refuses to even think about. But he’s still glad he said it, because Rozanov closes his eyes and smiles. And then, he lets himself drop onto the bed to burrow his head into the pillows and just breathes for a while. Shane has blinked several times when Rozanov resurfaces.

“Thank you for saying this,” he says. “I will remember for next time. Promise.”

Shane bites his lip to hide the thrill that goes through him at those words. Next time. Like it’s a done deal. Which it is, realistically, because he can’t think of a reason why he would say no if Rozanov asked him to hook up. 

But also… there’s an expectation there. Next time. Right now, it’s reasonable. They’ll meet again soon enough. Looking back, though, Shane has been looking forward to this encounter for months now. And he’s been thinking of this as next time, too, even though they hadn’t even agreed to meet yet. 

That feels dangerous. They don’t owe each other anything. Rozanov could decide tomorrow that he never wants to fuck Shane again, and that would be that. Shane really needs to stop it with these expectations. The only thing he can reasonably expect is to get his world rocked if they meet up. If. 

The next time is only three weeks later. There usually isn’t a game in the preseason that puts the Metros up against the Raiders, but exceptions prove the rule. It’s kind of nice, actually. Energetic enough to be a challenge, with everyone fresh off their summer vacations, but not vicious in the way their games usually are. No one wants to risk an injury before the season starts. It’s the first time outside of All Stars that a game of hockey Shane has played against Rozanov feels like an actual game instead of a neck-to-neck competition.

Hayden, sleep-deprived and out of it, scores a goal almost on accident. In the replay later, it looks like pure reflex. He doesn’t even look down at the puck when it touches his blade, just slams it into the goal. The look on his face afterwards is priceless. But by the time they all filter into the locker room after they’ve eked out a 4:3 win against the Raiders, his eyes have glazed over again. Shane is starting to get worried about him.

That night, in Shane’s secret apartment, Rozanov starts slower. Shane didn’t light the fire, because he was worried about making the ambiance too romantic. But he doesn’t ever turn on the big light either, and the color of the light from the bedside lamps is kind of similar. So Rozanov’s curls glint golden when he licks up the underside of Shane’s cock and presses a little kiss just under the head. 

It’s deliciously languid. And then, it’s just languid. And then, it’s torture. Even once Rozanov sucks him down, pointer finger languidly circling his hole, he goes slow. Much slower than he ever has.

It feels intentional, especially once Rozanov looks up from between Shane’s legs and winks at him. Winks at him. The audacity. Shane throws his head back and swears, fights the instinct to buck his hips into the tight heat of Rozanov’s throat.

“You can go faster,” he says once he trusts his voice again.

That’s a mistake. Rozanov sucks harder, but only while he moves his head back until the head of Shane’s dick bobs free, shiny and pink.

“I don’t want to go faster. I want you to be patient. Can you be patient?”

“Of course!”

“Ah.” Rozanov tuts. “Not so fast. Think about it first, I want proper answer. Can you be patient for me?”

There’s an intensity in his eyes that Shane doesn’t quite recognize. Maybe that’s why he indulges the demand, genuinely tries to consider it. Even then, he can’t come up with anything except yes.

“I can be patient for you.”

“Good boy.” The smile that curls around Rozanov’s lips makes fire lap up Shane’s spine. “Hands behind your head on the mattress. Don’t touch me until I say.”

Except he doesn’t say. He just keeps sucking Shane off until he genuinely thinks he’s about to come, stomach tight and breath short. Only then does he let up. Pushes a finger into Shane like it’s not even important, a second one like an after-thought. Scissors them apart like it’s just something to do to keep himself occupied. Shane can only lie there, gasping, asking himself if Rozanov doesn’t hit his prostate because he isn’t trying or because he’s actively avoiding it.

“You ready for me to fuck you now?” he asks after a while.

Shane nods. Then, he reaches for Rozanov. Because if they’re on to the next thing, surely that means he can move his hands, right? Wrong. Rozanov’s fingers wrap around his wrist.

“Ah, no.” He gives Shane an indulgent smile. “Did I say you could move? If you want me to fuck you, put it back.”

Shane is distantly aware that he would usually fight back against something like this. He can’t stand it when people order him around for no good reason. Usually. This, however, makes him go pleasantly fuzzy. So he puts his hand back without a complaint.

Rozanov seems to have a thing for slow today. The pace at which he breaches Shane is glacial, slower even than that first time. And then, it just… stays that way. Doesn’t markedly get faster. That Shane definitely has opinions about, but he doesn’t feel like it would help him to say them out loud. He was the one who asked for slower the last time, wasn’t he? Leave it to Rozanov to have fun with that.

Not that Shane isn’t having fun. His entire body is thrumming. After the first little while, he has to bite his lip against all of the noise that he would be making otherwise. With each delicious drag of Rozanov’s dick across his prostate, he wants to whimper. With each hot breath that fans across his face, he wants to squirm. For a long while, he valiantly resists. And then, Rozanov sweeps him into a kiss and Shane almost howls into his mouth.

“Please,” he says. If he’s going to sound like a slut anyway, may as well give up this last bit of dignity. “Please, can you go faster?”

“No.”

“Please, Rozanov. I can’t-”

“Yes, you can.” Rozanov’s words are hot against Shane’s lips. He’s stopped thrusting altogether now, buried to the hilt, and Shane wants to scream. “You can, Hollander. Do you trust me?”

“I-”

“Is easy question, yes or no. Do you trust me?” He punctuates the question with little flexes of his hips, nudging Shane’s prostate where he’s already pressed up against it. Shane mewls.

“Yes.”

God, this should be humiliating. Shane’s face is burning, but not from embarrassment. It feels more like a fever - the kind that’ll only break once he’s had an orgasm. Jesus Christ, Shane thinks. This is ridiculous. Why is he giving Rozanov this kind of power over him? Surely, this isn’t normal. In all of the highly undesirable information he’s received about his teammates’ sex lives in the locker room, never once has one of them said anything about-

“Good. Then how about we compromise. I go a bit faster and you don’t ask again.”

“Yes, please.” The words burst out of Shane like he’s been saving them. But that doesn’t matter now. Because a bit faster turns out to be just right. Rozanov hitches Shane’s hips a bit higher against himself and speeds up just enough that, by the third thrust, Shane feels tears gather in the corners of his eyes.

God, has anything else ever felt this intense? There was that one time he tried edging himself with the help of a tutorial on the internet, that was a lot. Too much for just wanting to take the edge off, so Shane never did it again. This, though… he’s not confident it could be called edging. He’s not on the edge. At least not the edge of orgasm. Maybe a mental breakdown if he doesn’t get some more stimulation soon.

As if he’s heard him, Rozanov leans in. His right hand is right next to Shane’s ear now, snarled tightly in the sheet. His face is close enough to kiss. And his stomach now rubs against Shane’s neglected cock with every thrust. Fuck.

It’s difficult to lean in for a kiss with his hands still behind his head, but Shane manages. Just for long enough for Rozanov to lick into his mouth and press him into the sheets with his entire weight, blanketing Shane’s body. 

The noise Shane makes is inhuman, and probably way too loud for how close Rozanov is. But he can’t really pay that much mind. Every last muscle in his body is contracting. Tightening up in anticipation. Shane gasps for air as Rozanov moves to kiss the corner of his mouth.

“Yes, Hollander. So good for me. Perfect. You will come for me now? Show me how pretty you can be when you-”

The rest of it is drowned out by Shane’s own shouts. For a few seconds, he hears nothing but himself, feels nothing but the delicious relief of his body shaking with release. And then, just as he begins to regain lucidity, he gets to revel in the twitch of Rozanov’s cock in his ass, the gust of a low curse on his face.

“Fuck, Hollander.”

Shane smiles. Exactly. Fuck Hollander. That’s how that should go. That’s what Hollander should be for. Fucking and nothing else.

He’s not as sure about that the next day. What was he thinking, letting Rozanov just do whatever he wanted like that? Sure, it was good. That was the hardest he’s ever come in his life. But he still needs the guy to respect him the next time they meet on the ice, and this just doesn’t seem a smart approach for that.

Before he can overthink the topic too much, Hayden shows up. He’s got that look in his eyes that tells Shane Hayden wants advice and that they’ll need beer for this conversation. Usually, that worries Shane. Today, he’s grateful for the excuse. Even if beer sucks and he kind of wishes he had something stronger. 

Wishes for it even harder when Hayden says: “I’m talking about anal, okay? But not, like, for Jackie.”

White-hot panic sets in when he realizes that Hayden came over, specifically, to ask Shane’s advice on taking it in the ass. It only slightly abates when Hayden explains that he’s asking because he knows Shane won’t make fun of him. The phrase “I wanted to know if you had any wisdom to impart” doesn’t really fill Shane with confidence that Hayden hasn’t spent their entire friendship thinking Shane is gay.

But it’s okay. Shane forces himself to breathe and blink, and then, he makes himself talk. Because no matter what, he and Hayden are friends now. Genuine friends. They call each other by their first names, and they regularly go to each other’s houses, and Shane knows what Hayden looks like when he cries without even trying to hide it. It’s okay. They can do this. He wants to help.

Apparently, a difficult birth doesn’t just affect the mother. Shane’s never thought about that. But now, Hayden is sitting on his couch with his head hanging low between his shoulders, avoiding his eyes, saying: “I can’t really get it up anymore. You know, because somewhere in my head, I got it twisted around that sex means babies, and babies mean Jackie dies. So. You may be able to understand that that doesn’t make me hard.”  

Which, yeah. Shane is able to understand. That sounds fucking horrific. What makes a bit less sense is that, apparently, Jackie has decided the way around this “problem” is for Hayden to try anal. But who is Shane to judge? He very deliberately doesn’t give any feedback on that idea. And he tries his best to make his advice sound as general as possible. More like I once read on the internet than in my own extensive experience.

When Hayden leaves, he looks bleary-eyed but hopeful. He does not look like he has spent even one second wondering how Shane knows what prostate stimulation feels like. So Shane spends the next two weeks anxiously waiting for the other shoe to drop. For Hayden to realize that, maybe, it’s a bit gay for Shane to know these things. But that moment never comes.

The next time they meet up, Hayden thanks him for the advice and says it helped. And then, before Shane can clench in anticipation, he says: “I guess I owe Boston Lily some flowers if I ever get to meet her.”

It conjures up an image of Hayden giving Rozanov a bouquet of flowers with a card attached. Thank you for the prostate orgasms from Mr. and Mrs. Pike. Shane laughs until he can’t breathe. Of course. Hayden would never think that Shane Hollander knows about anal sex because he’s interested in men. It should be a relief. Shane doesn’t examine why it isn’t.

There are more important things going on, anyways. Like getting into the playoffs. And then staying in the playoffs. And then winning the Stanley Cup for the first time in over a decade, in Shane’s first year as captain of the Montreal Metros. For a while, there’s no space for anything else in Shane’s head.

This is his dream. It’s everything he’s ever wanted, the goal he’s been working towards since he was twelve years old and still getting bullied for missing school to attend tournaments. Having achieved it feels great until it doesn’t.

The high lasts for about a week. Then, his mother invites herself over for dinner and puts a power point presentation on his tv to show him all of the new sponsorship deals she wants him to sign. Brands liked Shane Hollander, but they like Stanley Cup winner Shane Hollander even better. 

“It helps that you’re kind of unique on the Metros,” his mom says while Shane tries to chew salmon that suddenly tastes like cardboard. “You’re young and you’re good-looking. You’re single, but you don’t sleep around. That’s the jackpot, really. You don’t always find that in professional athletes.”

Shane, who wants nothing less than his mother talking about his non-existent sex life, signs off on most of her ideas to keep her from trying to convince him. Consequently, he spends a great deal of his summer in front of cameras. Most of it either wet or shirtless. Sometimes, both. He hates every second of it, but that’s just how things go. If he wants to be Shane Hollander, then he needs to do these things sometimes.

Unfortunately, it’s not just the people in the marketing department of Speedo who look at Shane and think Oh, he should be shirtless and wet. It’s also normal people. On the street. Who are now more likely to recognize Shane because he keeps appearing on billboards. Usually, it’s just women. Which is uncomfortable, but nothing new. Shane has gotten used to letting them down gently. But then, JJ drags him out to another fancy bar where Shane discovers an additional problem.

He’s sitting in a booth nursing a ginger ale. It’s cold, new enough to still be sweating. But already, JJ has abandoned him to be social somewhere else. This is fine until someone slides into the empty seat opposite Shane.

“You here all alone?”

When Shane looks up, there’s a guy there. Hazel eyes dancing with amusement, slender fingers wrapped around the stem of a martini glass. Carefully curated in a way that screams money rather than distinct personal style. 

“My friend left,” Shane explains.

The guy purses his lips. “You mean your teammate.”

Great. Shane takes a deep breath and fights the urge to squeeze his eyes shut. This is just what he needs. JJ promised him that no one would bother him here.

“Yeah,” he says. “I’m sorry, have we met?”

Across the table, the guy’s eyes light up. “Right. Sorry. I’m Jonathan! One of my friends invested in this place to help get it off the ground. I had to see what the hype was all about.”

He holds out his hand. Shane stares at it for probably a second too long before coming to the conclusion that it would be rude not to shake it. So he does, grip just tight enough to be business-like.

Jonathan frowns. “You okay? Are you, like, waiting for someone?”

Shane would love to say he’s waiting for JJ, but he’s not sure he could sell that. Once JJ has swanned off to be social, he can stay away for entire hours. He doesn’t mean to do it, it just happens. And if Jonathan has ever met him, he knows that.

“No, just…” Hopefully, his gesture is vague enough to provide an answer. “Do you need something?”

“Oh.” Jonathan’s eyebrows shoot up. “So direct, I like it. Well, then I hope you’ll forgive me for taking a page from your book. I was hoping to buy you a drink.”

“I already have a drink.” Shane turns the can so that Jonathan can see the label. In return, he gets an indulgent smile.

“That’s not what I meant. But okay. If you already have a drink, how about I stay a while? I’d like to get to know you. You seem interesting.”

That… Shane frowns. “I’m not.”

Across from him, Jonathan bites his lip. But not early enough to keep the smile at bay. “Well. I hope you’ll forgive me for being this forward. But I get the feeling you’re not picking up what I’m putting down, so I’m just gonna say it: I’m interested in you. I’d like to get to know you, have a few drinks, and then see where the evening leads us.”

Later, Shane will thank his lucky stars that it was that guy who approached him. Jonathan, with his carefully coiffed hair and his bland cashmere sweater. Because he can feel his face grimace before he can even think about it. The thought is so antithetical to him.

“No, thank you.”

“It’s not an insult,” Jonathan hurries to say. Already, he’s leaned back in his seat and has one foot out of the booth, ready to leave. “I was simply asking. It’s fine if you don’t want to.”

“I know it’s fine,” Shane says. His heart is pounding. This looks bad, but there are still several ways this can go wrong. Fuck. He needs to be careful. “I’m not insulted. You’re fine. I’m just confused.”

“Confused?”

“I mean, why…”

“Ah.” Jonathan purses his lips. “Promise you won’t be mad?”

“Promise,” Shane says. 

With a careful frown on his face, Jonathan leans forward. “Well, one: Why not? You’re really hot. I figured I could try. No harm done, right?”

He waits until Shane nods to continue. “But also… Well, you have a reputation, right? You don’t date. Which, you know, that could be wrong. And even if it’s right, there could be other reasons. But I figured there might be a chance it was because you weren’t interested in women. Always a good sign if someone isn’t dating.”

“Ah.”

And if his evening isn’t already going badly enough, that’s the precise moment that JJ decides he’s left Shane alone for long enough. 

“Shane, my man. Have you made a friend?”

“No,” Shane says.

Jonathan grimaces. “Sorry again. I was just leaving.”

“Hey, man, you don’t need to-”

“I really do. Made a bit of a fool of myself hitting on your captain, I’m afraid. Sorry, Shane.”

“It’s okay.”

And with that, Jonathan is gone. But the topic stays. JJ needles Shane until he’s recounted the entire situation. Which would be bad enough, except he then has the brilliant idea to relay the whole thing to their teammates during the first practice of the season. This results in great hilarity.

“Of course you didn’t notice, Cap. Typical Hollander move.”

“Our Hollzy. Universally appealing to women, children, and the gays.”

“And you just let him hit on you? I would have punched him in his fucking face.”

Around them, the world continues spinning. But in Shane’s chest, a yawning chasm opens and threatens to swallow him whole. He looks at Drapeau and wonders if he really just heard that right. But he knows he did. It’s Drapeau.

“He just said he was interested. I said no thank you, and that was that. Not really something to punch someone over.” He unrolls his tape harder than he probably needs to, but he just needs something to do. Drapeau, predictably, isn’t listening to him. But Stern is.

“Then why were you still talking to him when JJ got there?”

Ah. Well, if this isn’t just getting better and better. “I asked him why he thought asking me was a good idea.”

“And what’d he say?”

This. This is the moment when Shane would lie if he knew how. But it’s always so fucking obvious when he does, so he doesn’t even try. “Said why not, basically.”

A thing Shane keeps trying to master is the art of not saying less. Saying just enough of the truth to feel and sound honest, but to leave out the impractical additional details. Like Jonathan’s comments on his dating history. And that he said he thought Shane was hot. Neither one of those things would be received well by this audience.

Stern still looks pinched. “Probably doesn’t help that no one ever sees you pick up. I mean, we all know you do, but it doesn’t end up in the papers… I can see how someone might think you were gay.”

We all know you do. Well, thank God for small mercies. As the guys fall over themselves to offer to set Shane up on dates, Shane tapes his stick. With sharp, deliberate movements. Taking deep, deliberate breaths and trying to get his heart rate to go down. 

After that, Shane Hollander gets less circumspect with the women he has sex with. There still aren’t many of them. No one his friends try to set him up with, so they don’t have anything to report back. Just strangers in clubs, at bars, at parties. An actress here, a model there, a stunt woman to spice things up a bit. 

Three women. Carefully selected because he thinks they don’t expect him to be aggressive. That they won’t mind if they just do oral, as long as he does it well and is respectful about it. Women he doesn’t think will run to the tabloids, but who the tabloids will love printing pictures of when they are seen leaving the club together. Because Shane doesn’t try to hide. It feels wrong. Like he’s using them, because he is. He hates every second of it.

That frustration comes out as anger the next time Rozanov is in town. Rozanov kisses him hello as soon as Shane has let him into the stairwell, and Shane loses his breath. He kisses him again when Shane lets them into the apartment. Short and sweet, like it means something. The desire that wells up in Shane makes him want to hit something. Why does it have to be Rozanov? Why can’t he just want one of these women instead? 

But no, he wants Rozanov. At least he doesn’t have to be gentle with him. He can bite at his lips as they kiss and Rozanov will groan into his mouth. He can shove Rozanov into a wall and he’ll let his legs fall open so Shane can grind into him where he’s already mostly hard. He can bury his hands in auburn curls and Rozanov will laugh.

“You are in a mood, Hollander. Who pissed in your cheerios?”

“No, I’m not,” he says and tilts back in, but is stopped by a finger on his lips.

“Nu-uh. You are definitely mad. Spitting like little kitten. Everything alright? Something happen on the ice that I missed?”

Shane huffs. “No, it’s just one of those days. Can you please-”

And then they’re attached at the mouth, stumbling up the stairs and helping each other out of their shirts. Once they’re naked on the bed, Shane arches into Rozanov where their hard cocks are already pressed together between them.

“I want it hard and fast today. Can you do that?”

Rozanov blinks at him. “I can do hard. But not fast, not in the beginning. That good?”

“Oh come on. That was ages ago. I don’t-”

“You like it now? You like fast? Right from the beginning?” Rozanov raises a quizzical eyebrow. There’s more going on under the surface, probably. Shane needs to be careful. There’s a reason Rozanov is so efficient on the ice, so good as a captain. He can read people very well.

Saying yes would be a lie, so Shane remains silent and takes what he can get. Which is pretty damn good. Rozanov lays him out on the bed and eats him out until he’s almost sobbing. When he starts fucking him, it’s slow in the beginning. It only gets faster when Shane gets loud. By that point, he’s already forgotten why he wanted fast in the first place. His mind is preoccupied with nicer things.

Later, when Shane is melted into the sheets, still trying to will his consciousness back into his body, he can hear Rozanov chuckle. 

“See how good it can be when you listen, Hollander?” A warm washcloth removes the traces of the evening from his stomach. “Is all you need to do. Just listen to me and enjoy. I make sure you feel better after.”

In the moment, Shane doesn’t have enough brain cells to rub together to protest, even though he feels like he should. He feels even more indignant when he wakes up completely rejuvenated the next morning. Fully awake and energized, not the least bit maudlin. He walks into the locker room with such a pep in his step that even Hayden, usually very preoccupied with the fact that he managed to get Jackie pregnant again, notices and comments on it.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this chipper. Did you get laid last night?”

Shane shrugs and breathes through the wolf whistles that tear through the room.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Drapeau says. “That stunt woman again? She looked bendy.”

That stunt woman would probably want to punch Drapeau in the fucking face for leering like that, and Shane doesn’t feel disinclined either. But that wouldn’t be very captainly of him. He’s supposed to model good behavior! So he just tells his teammates to fuck off and mind their own business.

He has to do it again after practice wraps up, and the guys are bugging him about having been on fire today. Their words, not his. This time, at least, Hayden helps him get them back under control.

“Of course I know her name, Shane never stops talking about her,” he says, already down to his underwear and ready for the shower. He’s rummaging for something in his locker, so his laughter at the resulting needling is slightly tinny. 

And oh, he’s got them eating out of his hand now. They wait for him to emerge with a small dropper bottle in his hand. His grin only grows broader as they keep needling him while he puts some oil in his hair. Only when he’s screwed the bottle shut and returned it to his rightful place does he roll his eyes.

“Alright, you guys. I guess I shouldn’t say, but what can you do. If our captain’s beloved Nunya makes him play like that, you deserve to know.”

With that, he slaps his hands onto his thighs and walks into the direction of the showers. Shane frowns at his retreating back. Nunya? Not that he doesn’t appreciate it - but if Hayden absolutely has to make up fictional women, why not call them something less unique? Like Sarah. Or Lisa. 

“What the hell kinda name is that?” Drapeau calls after him.

“Business, Pat,” Hayden shouts. His voice echoes off the tiled walls of their communal shower. “As in mind your own. You’re being really fucking annoying about things that don’t concern you at all!”

In the resulting split about people either chirping Hayden about doing the joke wrong or being mad at him for being rude, Shane slips out of the door. But when he closes the door of his car on himself, he just sits there with his keys in his hand. He just keeps hearing it. If she makes him play like that. I make sure you feel better after.

Maybe that’s the puzzle piece he’s been missing. The missing perspective that’ll help him approach hooking up with Rozanov in a way removed from himself. Because that’s basically it, right? Fucking Rozanov is a bit like a wellness treatment. If Shane does it right, it helps him feel better for a while. Like an advanced massage, maybe. Certainly nothing to do with feelings. It’s fine. It doesn’t mean anything else. He doesn’t need to think about it.

Sadly, this enlightenment doesn’t come with a magically cleared schedule that allows Shane to test his theory. They don’t get to meet up for months. And when they do, it’s the All Star game again, and Shane… well, he feels some type of way. The last time they hooked up in a hotel full of hockey players isn’t something he really wants to remember. 

So even though he really wants to get fucked, he says no. Him and Rozanov trade blowjobs in the shower. Shane leans his head back against the cool tile, feels Rozanov’s throat contract around his cock, and stops thinking for the first time in weeks. When he tries to leave after, Rozanov bullies him into lying down.

“No, Hollander. You cannot leave yet. Get on the bed.”

If it sounds slightly less authoritarian than it usually would, that’s probably because he’s currently bending over. Not that Shane’s going to complain. While Rozanov performs what looks to be an intricately exhausting drying ritual on his curls, he is very kindly granting Shane an excellent view of his ass. Still, he puts up a token resistance. People don’t typically stay to cuddle their masseuse, after all.

“I should really…”

“You should really not go out into the hallway looking like someone just fucked you stupid. Your face is all flushed, Hollander, people will see immediately. Stay. Five minutes.”

It ends up being more like fifteen, because once Rozanov joins him on the bed, Shane has to fight to keep his eyes open. As soon as he feels the other man’s hot skin against his, he just wants to lean back and sink into him. Draw one of those strong arms around himself and allow himself some shut-eye. He’d be willing to bet actual money that’d be the best sleep he had in years.

But this is good too. Shane is happy with the boost it gives him. Happy to text back and forth just a little more, because it means more opportunities to remember and disappear into this strange energy for an evening. He always comes back up more awake, more prepared to meet the day. 

They only hook up once more that season. Because the Metros enter the playoffs again - and while Rozanov seems happy to fuck around during the playoffs, as documented by many a tabloid, the Metros have a pact to cut back on sex. This is the first time that has ever felt difficult for Shane.

Not that he needs it. He doesn’t need Rozanov to fuck him to play well. As proven by the fact that he manages to lead his team to another fucking Stanley Cup win. The second in a row! As his teammates kiss their wives and girlfriends, Shane hugs his mom and tries his hardest to believe it’s enough. That night, he gets more drunk than he ever has before. Tries his best to act normal when a woman sits next to him at the bar and starts talking to him.

He bursts into tears when she asks to go home with him, which is apparently so alarming that she calls him a cab and personally makes sure he gets in. The pictures that end up on the internet show them waiting, his face half-covered by the sunglasses she put on him, leaning into her neck. His teammates think he fucked her. He lets them.

“What’s her name?” his mother asks, when he finally dares show his face again a week later.

“I don’t know, mom,” he says. “She just put me in the cab.”

“That’s not what it looks like.” 

Heart thundering, Shane stares down at his lasagna. A rare post-season treat that he asked for ten days ago, when he first started to believe they might win. His mouth is dry. He doesn’t want it anymore.

Is there any way he can resolve this that won’t lead to his mother losing respect for him? Probably not. But his mother believing that he slept with some woman and doesn’t even remember her name one week later is a particular disappointment he really doesn’t want to have to bear. Even if it might be easier. 

“I was very drunk,” he admits. His throat is so tight the words are hard to get out. “She… said something and I got emotional. That worried her. So she called me a cab and made sure I got in. She didn’t get in with me, I promise. I was in no state to do anything, anyway.”

Whatever else is going on, at least he isn’t lying to his parents.

His mom tuts. “Oh, honey. Are you alright?”

Shane nods.

“Because if you’re not, that’s something you really need to get a handle on. It’s not good to have emotional outbursts in public. Remember?”

Oh, Shane remembers. They did extensive work on emotional regulation when he was a child. He can breathe through almost anything now. From not getting a candy bar that he wants to being the loneliest motherfucker on the ice on the night he won his second Stanley Cup. 

When Yuna Hollander smiles at him, the corners of her eyes crinkle like fine tissue paper. “If you need additional help, that’s okay. Sometimes, things get too much. You just have to tell me, and then we’ll find someone to help you manage it. Just say the word.”

The heat rushes to Shane’s eyes so quickly that he has to clench his eyes shut to guard against it. As if. It’s a nice idea, and he knows his mom means it. But he can’t. He can’t risk being honest with whatever professional she manages to find for him. That’s not… they could tell. Tell his mom, or maybe the world. Shane honestly doesn’t know which would be worse.

“I’m fine,” he says.

So much for not lying to his parents.

Chapter End Notes

I am boo boo the fool. This is what happens when I don't make a detailed outline. "Tuna meltdown goes here." Oh, ya think? *buzzer noise* WRONG!

NEXT UP (this time for real): Shane gets called Shane, which is his actual honest-to-God name, and proceeds to freak the fuck out over it.

If you want more of the buttsex conversation with Hayden, please hop over to the second installment of this series. It's fun!

If you want context for the canon divergence that starts in the next chapter, I suggest you go and read Store-bought is fine (the first installment in this series) before I manage to update. The reasons for the canon divergence lie on Ilya's end, and Store-bought is his perspective on this whole thing. But you'll be fine without it, if you don't want to spoil the ending for yourself.

Chapter 6

Chapter Notes

So... turns out writing around already existing dialogue is MORE difficult, actually. I should've known. Hope you enjoy!

When Shane steps into the locker room ahead of their first game of the season, the atmosphere is electric. Two Stanley Cups. They’ve won two Stanley Cups back-to-back, and today marks the beginning of their chance to make it three.

They’re all feeling it acutely. But while Shane would much prefer preparing for the game - and the speech they're all expecting of him - in peace, the guys seem to have different plans. 

In the corner closest to them, Hayden is doing his best to fight off JJ, who is attempting to destroy his hair via noogie before he’s even put his helmet on. On the opposite side of the room, Drapeau has some teammates gathered around his phone, howling at the newest nudes he’s been sent. The other guys are milling around, laughing, talking, and slapping each other with their jerseys.

No one is trying to involve Shane. Not even Hayden and JJ. They all learned long ago that Shane just isn’t any fun ahead of a game. Way before he even became captain. He doesn’t even really know why they don’t - have they just all given up and don’t want to anymore? Or do they keep their distance because they think Shane wants it? Does Shane want it? He doesn’t know. But it still twinges that they’re not even trying.

In an attempt to distract himself, Shane focuses on Mitty. Their goalie is the only other person not involved in this mess, content to stay in his little corner and do stretches that would look obscene in any other context. When Hayden nearly trips over him trying to get away from JJ, Mitty doesn’t even blink. Shane has always admired that about him. Mitty never- 

A heavy hand lands on Shane’s shoulder so suddenly that he jumps. “You sulking again, Cap? We really gotta get you outta your head more.” 

It’s Comeau. He’s still just in his compression shirt, pasty neck decorated with vivid hickies in various stages of healing. His new girlfriend must be a vampire, Shane thinks, not for the first time. On a deep breath, he drops his shoulders and relaxes out of his defensive pose. The gleam in Comeau’s eyes is unsettling.

“I’m fine,” he says. “I just like to take it slow before a game, you know? Make sure I’m collected and focused.”

Comeau clicks his tongue. “You know, I bet you’d be a whole lot more collected and focused if you got laid on the regular.”

The eye roll is instinctive at this point. But for once, his teammate isn't finished yet. “No, man, I know you get laid. But it’s so different with a girlfriend. I know I’ve been ragging on it, but I really was wrong. It’s so much better when you don’t gotta train up someone new every few times. We gotta get you a Lexi, dude. I swear, this girl-”

Shane tunes out once Comeau starts describing the many and varied sex acts that have temporarily converted him to monogamy. It’s laughable, really. He switches partners every two to three months, once he gets bored of them. Shane doesn’t know if that’s really so different from casual sex just because he calls these women his girlfriends now.

“Oi!” A hand appears in Shane’s field of view, unmanicured fingers snapping obnoxiously.

“You gotta listen. I seriously think this’ll improve your game. And we need that if we wanna win the Cup a third time in a row, don’t we?”

Close to them, Stern throws his head back and grumbles something about Comeau jinxing them. Shane is trying to figure out if it would be believable for him to lean into similar superstition with his response when Hayden ambles over.

“What are we talking about?”

“Pike!” Comeau throws an arm over Hayden’s shoulder and draws him into that weird half hug that Shane hates because the one-sided pressure throws him off balance. “Just the man I was looking for. I was just telling our Cap here that he really needs to settle down.”

“Uh…” The alarmed look Hayden cuts across at him at least tells Shane that there’s no obvious, easy response to this that he’s missing.

“Like, he needs someone regular. Not just to blow off steam, but also to come onto the ice after we win! Isn’t it a bit embarrassing to get hugged by your mom after you win the Playoffs? I mean, come on.”

Hayden pinches his nose. “Okay one: Yuna is awesome. And I’ll tell her you said that, don’t think I won’t. See where it gets you.”

The protest is immediate, but Hayden raises a finger and shushes Comeau. Shane bites down on a grin when Comeau’s words die on his lips, mouth still hanging open. Hayden has gotten very good at shushing people since he became a father. Especially after Arthur arrived and his naps had to be protected from rambunctious twin toddlers.

“And two: Shane can do what Shane wants. Matter of fact, he has someone regular. Just because he doesn’t show her nudes to everyone who doesn’t duck away fast enough doesn’t mean she doesn’t exist.” Hayden crosses his arms. “I try to set him up on dates all the time, but no one measures up to this girl, apparently. So leave him alone while he figures it out, yeah?”

Shane, who last had the opportunity to shoot down one of Hayden’s unsubtle setups seven months ago, can only blink. Too puzzling is the mixture of confusion he feels about the lie, thankfulness for the intervention and dread that he’ll now be interrogated on “Lily” by his other teammates as well. Comeau seems to already be winding up to it. But then Coach bursts into the locker room to talk about the lines one last time, and all is forgotten. Shane, who will be taking extra shifts for someone who managed to get injured in training, breathes a sigh of relief.

During the game, Comeau gets flattened into the boards by an overenthusiastic rookie from Buffalo. Not bad enough to be injured. But it serves as a distraction from his previous line of questioning. Not only does he not bother Shane, he also forgets to tell the others so they can bother Shane.

Unfortunately, Hayden doesn’t forget. He just chooses his moment to address things very carefully. In this case, that means he waits for the next time they’re hanging out. Shane is leaned back on his couch, ginger ale in hand, relaxed after a long day out hiking that, in hindsight, Hayden agreed to with suspiciously little protest.

“So. Boston Lily,” he says.

Shane stops breathing. Squeezes his eyes shut and forces himself to start again, works on subtly unclenching every muscle that just contracted in his body out of pure instinct.

“What about her?”

Hayden snorts. “That’s what I’m trying to find out. You don’t have to talk about her if you don’t want to, but I just thought I’d ask. Comeau is an asshole, but he got me thinking. You’ve been seeing this girl for how many years? And I still don’t know anything about her.”

“It’s complicated.” Shane says, voice hoarse all of a sudden.

“Yeah, no shit. Do you wanna tell me how? Again, say no if you don’t want to. But this doesn’t seem like you. So I'm asking.”

When Shane carefully turns his head, Hayden is staring at the wall. His pointer finger is tracing lazy circles around the mouth of the bottle he’s holding. But Shane knows better than to believe this nonchalance. Hayden just doesn’t want to spook him. Which means he probably won’t give up easily, even if Shane freezes him out now. He can always just ask at another time.

“I don’t know,” he finally says. “She lives in Boston. We’re both very busy with work. It’s complicated.”

“That sounds like a scheduling issue,” Hayden points out. “You’re very good at scheduling. I’m sure you could make it work.”

Ever the practical problem-solver. Damn him. Shane closes his eyes to tamp down on the wave of emotion that rolls up in him. Because sure, he could make it work. It would be difficult, but not impossible. There has been many a night where he stared at flights from Montreal to Boston and had to fight himself not to reach out. Not to embarrass himself by offering to visit.

“I don’t think she wants that. She likes to keep things casual.”

Because that’s the crux of the thing, isn’t it? It doesn’t matter what Shane wants. As long as Rozanov wants to keep it casual, asking himself what he wants is just setting himself up for pain. So he doesn’t. It’s better this way.

Next to him, fabric shifts on leather. Without looking, Shane knows Hayden has turned to face him. He keeps looking at the wall. There’s an art print there, some sort of abstract mess that he’s never liked. One of these days, he'll commission an artist to paint something real and beautiful. Maybe the view from his dock of the cottage. That would look much better on this wall.

“And is that what you want? Cause I’m not gonna lie, bud, you don’t exactly seem like the casual type to me.”

“It’s what I can get.” Shane says. His stomach hurts with the desire to just tell Hayden. Would it be so bad to have one person in this world he can be honest with? “I like how I feel when I’m with her. I don’t want to give that up.”

“Even if it makes you sad?” Hayden asks. “‘Cause from where I’m sitting, you don’t exactly look thrilled with this.”

“Hayden.”

“I’m just saying. You wanna keep panting after this woman, that’s your right as a Canadian citizen. But don’t you think you might be blocking yourself? Like, okay.” There's the rustling again. Shane could swear he hears the tacky sound of shoe soles on his beautiful, pristine leather couch. He refuses to look.

“Think of it in hockey terms,” Hayden says. “You’ve got the puck. That’s your heart, is the puck. You can’t make a goal yourself, because it’s gotta be teamwork. And you’re so preoccupied with passing to Lily that you could be missing someone else who’s completely free. Who could help you make your goal. Yeah? Have you at least talked to her about this?”

Something is burning in Shane’s eyes and he can't blink it away. Can’t manage to swallow the lump in his throat either.

“I’m not in love with Lily,” he croaks, and hears the lie of it the moment it leaves his mouth. His stomach sinks.

“Well.” Hayden slaps his thighs. “All the more reason to keep looking, hey? I’ll ask Jackie if any of her friends are ready for a commitment.”

That afternoon sticks with Shane. For many reasons, chief among them the fact that Hayden asked at all, and how important it felt to tell him. Shane still wants to tell him, is reasonably sure that Hayden wouldn’t hate him for being into guys. Except. 

Except if Hayden finds out Shane has been, however casually, seeing a guy for years, he’s bound to ask follow-up questions. Questions like: Who? And that cannot happen. Because no matter how well Hayden would take the news that Shane maybe isn’t completely straight, the Rozanov of it all is a problem. A massive one. 

In more ways than just this one, it turns out. No matter how hard Shane tries to beat them down, thoughts keep bubbling up. Memories of the questions Hayden asked. Have you at least talked to her about this? And: Don’t you think you might be blocking yourself? 

Fuck Hayden for triggering this introspection, honestly. This is the last thing Shane needs at the beginning of the season. Or ever. Now, when he jerks off to a memory of something Rozanov did to him, there are always questions after. Shane just can’t stop himself. Can’t help wondering if there’s any chance at all that Rozanov would want something more serious if Shane just asked. 

Shane knows he’s being ridiculous. Rozanov is well on his way to having fucked himself through the age-appropriate women in any place where he’s ever had free time. Just because the TMZ articles about it have dried up recently doesn’t mean he doesn’t do it anymore. It just means that it's so normal even the gossip columns have gotten bored of it. 

And anyways - what would more serious even look like? There’s no way. They’re too well known to hide something serious. And the consequences of people finding out would be way worse than just Hayden being mad. Jesus, Shane doesn’t even want to imagine what his mother would think. The hit his reputation would take. His earning potential. Would they even let him keep playing hockey? 

No, it’s impossible. By the time Rozanov invites Shane to come over to his new house before their next game in Boston, Shane knows there’s no hope. But maybe Hayden is right, maybe he’s blocking himself. And maybe it would help him to talk to Rozanov about this. It would at least take the decision out of his hands: If Shane uses the word serious around Rozanov, that’ll be the last time they see each other off the ice. 

So Shane says yes. And he begins drafting a little speech. Not too long. The kind of thing you can get through quickly, for both their sakes. All the salient points in one place. Honest enough to get rejected, careful enough to not humiliate himself. 

It’s in his pocket when he walks up to Rozanov’s door in bright sunlight. That’s new, as is them meeting up before the game. It’ll suck to have to play Rozanov after they’ve broken this off, but Shane didn’t let himself negotiate. Didn’t want to risk giving himself space to talk himself out of this. He’ll do it. 

That's what he tells himself when he rings the doorbell. Just do it. Man up and do it. You know the words by heart, you can do this. 

And then, Rozanov is shirtless when he opens the door. Share sticks his hands in his pockets to keep himself from reaching out. Rambles about real estate in an attempt to make small talk before he runs this for himself. Gets teased for it. Is backed up against the kitchen counter and kissed like it means something. 

“Do you think we should talk?” he asks, because he figures he should at least try. 

But he already knows there'll be no talking until they’ve fucked this out of their system. Not just because Rozanov has a one track mind, but also... if this ends today, then Shane will take what he can get. This is the only way he’s ever known sex to be good, and he really doesn’t want it to end. 

It’s surprising when Rozanov freezes. Even more surprising when, instead of something teasing, he says: “I’d love to talk. Later. Want you first. I missed you.” 

Shane almost laughs. “You missed me, really?”

“M-hm.” Rozanov smirks. “Last time I see you was months ago. Bad to go that long. What if I’m in withdrawals?”

Part of Shane wants to call him on his bullshit. All of those people he's fucking and he’s suffering withdrawal from Shane specifically? Likely story. But the idea is so nice that Shane can’t help smiling. Rozanov missed him. However much, that part must be true. He doesn’t lie to flatter people. And certainly not Shane 

“Oh.” Shane’s heart is beating too fast in his chest. The folded up piece of paper with his little speech lies heavy in his pocket. He can afford to be this honest, at least. “Well, in that case, I missed you too!”

Rozanov swoops back in, a hand on Shane’s cheek. His lips are so demanding they may as well be trying to extract something. Shane opens his mouth and lets himself be lost in it. Touches his tongue against Rozanov’s and groans, unafraid that someone will hear. Feels Rozanov’s hands shim down his sides and shivers. 

The sound he makes when Rozanov picks him up is truly undignified. Shane thinks he probably protests - Rozanov really shouldn’t be doing this - but there’s too much static in his head to think properly. All Shane can do is look down at those lovely blue eyes, bright with laughter, and wonder what Rozanov will give him to remember him by. 

A new experience, it turns out. 

“I would like to watch you again,” he murmurs into the sensitive skin behind Shane’s ear. “You want to ride me, Hollander?” 

The full body shudder those words cause would be embarrassing in any other circumstance. Now, Shane almost feels like it's an answer on its own. God, does he want that. Still, he hesitates. 

Not only would that be new, it would also be a whole new level of exposing. After the first time, they’ve not looked at each other much during sex. This way, there will hardly be another option. Add to that that the mechanics are new. What if Shane does it wrong? What if it’s bad? But that won’t matter in the long term because there won’t be a long term. So if Shane wants it, why the hell not? 

“Okay.” Shane says. 

It’s the last thing he says for a while. Rozanov’s fingers in his ass are a familiar heft, agile and teasing as ever. Normally, Shane would probably push back a bit and start bickering, but today, he closes his eyes and commits the feeling of them to memory. The way they caress around his rim before they enter, how they languidly scissor him open with little dance intermissions on his prostate. 

He only resurfaces when Rozanov withdraws his fingers to heave himself around onto his back and roll a condom over himself. Doesn’t even think about embarrassment as he moves to straddle Rozanov and slowly sinks down onto his cock. And then he forces himself to look at Rozanov. 

Shane is bad at eye contact on a good day. Usually, it crawls across his skin and makes him feel itchy with the need to move. Today, he can’t look away. But maybe that’s because he’s already moving. Without any proper thought, Shane’s hips find a rhythm that feels good. Not just to him, but also to Rozanov, who is looking up at him. No teasing, no cockiness, just wide eyes and ragged breaths. If it were anyone else, Shane might wonder if it means something. 

After a while, Share asks himself if he can’t come like this or if it’s just taking longer because of the physical effort. His breath is going hard now, thighs beginning to burn. And it feels good, it does. But he’s still far off the mark. Rozanov, however, who is still breathlessly staring up at Shane with eyes so wide he almost looks frantic, seems to be getting closer and closer. 

Complaining, thus, is the furthest thing from Shane’s mind when Rozanov flips them over. He keens openly. 

“Fuck.”

“Yes,” Rozanov says. His crucifix is dangling out of time with his thrusts, occasionally catching the light. “Moan for me. So pretty, Hollander. Louder.”

He hits Shane’s prostate with unerring precision and Shane sobs. It’s over quite quickly after that. Shane’s eyes have barely rolled back to face the outside world again when Rozanov’s hips snap harder two, three, four times and he shouts something in Russian. 

Then, he collapses directly onto Shane. That’s new, too, and it catches Shane so unaware that, for a moment, he just lies there and tries to compute the feeling of someone else's sticky, hot skin against his own. Ugh. 

He tries to move, but that’s difficult too, because Rozanov is still inside of him and Shane is sensitive now. But waiting it out isn’t feasible. Shane feels more uncomfortable by the second. 

“Rozanov,” he says. 

Rozanov grunts into the sensitive skin of his neck, and Shane shudders. 

“Rozanov, please. Can I go shower?”

Another grunt. “Can I just hold you? Was stressful week. I am in cuddly mood.”

Shane has to force himself to keep breathing. This doesn’t mean anything. Rozanov just articulated a thing he wants, there’s no reason to get all wet around the eyes because of it. He literally gave a reason for asking. It’s basically a hug. People ask for hugs all the time. 

“I need to shower first. But then... that’s fine. We can do that for a bit.”

Even if it’ll make things more painful. Shane is already being stupid, he can do one more stupid thing. Especially if Rozanov wants it badly enough to actually ask. 

He almost talks himself out of it in the shower. With the scalding water raining down on him - this place really has excellent water pressure - Shane realizes that Rozanov might take it badly if Shane cuddles him without first disclosing just how much he’d like to cuddle him. That feels like a faux-pas. 

So Shane tries to sidestep the issue. Says he needs to get back to his hotel. Even brings up Hayden, which is usually a surefire way to get Rozanov ranting. But it’s useless, because Rozanov knows what he wants and he’s not playing fair. 

“Stay,” he purrs, so close that his breath fans over Shane’s lips. 

What is Shane supposed to do but agree? That's right: Nothing. Zilch. Not a single fucking thing. All he can do is stay, and let himself be kissed. Rozanov maneuvers him until he’s the little spoon, and Shane just lets it happen. Lies there with Rozanov’s heavy arm thrown almost possessively across his torso until the little breaths puffing against the back of his neck have put him to sleep. 

Life is slow to filter back in. First is the light painting the inside of Shane’s eyelids a muted orange. Weird. He doesn’t usually sleep in like this. Then, the arm slung across his middle. Shane’s heart skips a beat. There’s a hand cupping his right pec.

Of course, Rozanov is right there when Shane opens his eyes and turns. He’s clearly also just woken up, blinking lazily and looking kind of confused. Adorable. Shane’s chest aches with the sudden urge to kiss him. Rozanov has no right to suddenly start being cute the day Shane has to leave him behind. It’s cruel.

It’s also so discombobulating that Shane gets pulled under by the wave that is Rozanov deciding to make food for them. He only resurfaces when he’s sitting at the kitchen counter in Rozanov’s clothes, nursing a ginger ale that Rozanov was way too excited he had in his fridge.

“Leftover from a party. Connors’ girlfriend, she doesn’t know how to have fun either.”

Right. Shane traces his finger through the condensation that immediately builds up on the can. There’s something off about this. He just doesn’t know what yet.

“You like tuna melt?” Rozanov asks.

“You wanna make me a tuna melt?”

Rozanov shrugs. “I’m gonna make one for myself. I can make one for you too.”

“Oh, okay.”

There’s definitely something off. Shane stares, tries his hardest to keep his face blank while his thoughts are racing. Sure, his mother wouldn’t consider the preparation of a tuna melt cooking. But it’s still preparing food for someone. Before today, Shane would’ve bet actual money that Rozanov doesn’t do that. So what gives?

The only possibility Shane can come up with is that Rozanov has caught on and is trying to be nice about it. He’s figured out that Shane wants more than what this is and wants to let him down gently. Just like he “gently” guided Shane through his first time - because he’s surprisingly good at difficult stuff. If you ignore whatever the fuck happened at the Olympics.

That explanation only makes sense to Shane for a few seconds, until Rozanov starts laying out the ingredients for the sandwiches on the counter.

“I want to eat and watch game with you,” he says, eyes fixed on what he’s doing. “Buffalo today, should be interesting. Always wanted to watch with you. Is different from playing. I ask myself: Is he a screamer here too?”

Shane can’t help but snort at the absurdity. “Always? What, like you watch and wonder what would Hollander say?”

If Rozanov is offended by the little accent Shane puts on, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he widens his eyes as far as they will go and looks at Shane like one of those dogs with the wrinkles and long floppy ears.

“Ah, what can I say? I pine. Is problem.”

Fuck you, Shane thinks, even as he huffs a little laugh. Alright, that’s a definite no on his earlier theory, then. If Rozanov knew about Shane’s crush, he wouldn’t be saying stuff like this. He might tease share about it, if the mood took him, but not in a way that implied the interest was returned.

Something else, then. Maybe Rozanov is genuinely hungry and wants to be a good host. Maybe he’s in a weird mood because of the stressful week he mentioned earlier. The rest of this can be chalked up to him being an incorrigible flirt. That’s fine. Shane can deal with that. They’ll eat, then they’ll fuck again like Rozanov wants, and then Shane will say his piece and leave.

At least that’s what Shane thinks until Rozanov starts talking about women.

“There’s a girl I like here very much. Svetlana,” he says and Shane’s stomach twists.

He sits there as Rozanov describes her, can’t help but think how perfect she sounds for him. An old friend who shares his language and culture, who knows hockey and loves it. Apparently, they fuck sometimes, but she’s not his girlfriend. And now, she doesn’t have as much time for him anymore. The horror.

“You think she’s the only woman in Boston who’d sleep with you?” Shane asks. It’s a good response, he thinks. Casual and a little teasing. No hint at how knotted up his stomach is.

“I think I will find someone else,” Rozanov says. Shane feels it like a slap, even though it’s not him they’re talking about. It feels like confirmation that the two of them will never be more than they are. That Rozanov will always need more than one person. Need a woman.

And then, Rozanov has the gall to try to interrogate Shane. On the women he sleeps with, of all things. Women he’s never heard about, apparently, even though Shane made sure to appear in some gossip columns. Not that he calls them women, of course. No, he says “girls", like he’s one of Shane’s teammates. That doesn’t help the situation one bit.

Shane pushes back. Tells Rozanov it’s private. And maybe that's the truth, because while TMZ and similar rags may have names and faces, that's all they’ve ever been able to get. Only Shane and the women know the rest, and that’s how it should stay. It’s bad enough that Shane has to remember.

Rozanov doesn’t seem happy with that answer, and that’s a bit confusing. What does he care? Either way, Shane doesn’t owe him this. Doesn’t need to make himself even more vulnerable on the day he’s come to collect his rejection. He’s not doing this.

Thankfully, Rozanov seems to have retained some of his usual perceptiveness. When Shane refuses to play ball, he retreats.

“I like girls,” he says.

“Yeah, no shit.”

Everyone knows. There isn’t a person alive who keeps up to date on hockey and doesn’t know how much Ilya Rozanov fucks. Women, always women. It’s unavoidable. Shane has tried.

“But I also like you,” Rozanov adds.

“Lucky me.”

“Not as person, of course.” There’s something intense in Rozanov’s eyes now. Which is weird, because they’re finally back on familiar ground. 

“Of course not,” Shane says with a grin. “I'm boring.”

“But you have a good mouth.”

Now ordinarily, Shane wouldn’t dare assume. He’s horrible at people and facial expressions, so assuming things tends to mean setting himself up for failure. But by God is Rozanov staring. His eyes trace over Shane’s face, down to his mouth and back up again. Which wouldn’t be anything new, except Shane knows what it looks like when he’s about to be kissed. This isn’t that. There’s something else going on here, he’s sure of that.

It should be a relief to hear Rozanov’s phone ring. To get interrupted and have the eye contact break, the weird atmosphere lift off him like one of those weird plasticy capes his barber uses. But instead, it’s just exchanging one stressful thing for another.

Shane doesn’t speak Russian, so he doesn’t understand anything except for papa. Which would be strange enough, because Rozanov never talks about his family. But the strain in Rozanov’s voice…

The remote is in Shane’s hand before he’s even thought about turning the volume up. But there’s only so much he can crank it without seeming weird. And so he hears, even though he tries not to, how Rozanov tries to calm his father down. How he calls someone else to yell at them.

In the quiet after that, Shane’s stomach churns. Hockey players turn into blurry shapes on the tv. He can’t even see the puck. Is this what Rozanov meant when he said stressful? Because Shane doesn’t know what he was imagining, but it certainly wasn’t genuine personal strain.

Rozanov returns with a neutral face, but Shane can see the tension in his shoulders. Against his better judgment, he tries to help by making small talk. It gets him mocked, but at least Rozanov is smiling again.

And then... Then, Rozanov tugs Shane to lie back with him and turns the tv down. Just does it like it’s nothing, so nonchalantly that Shane doesn’t second-guess it until his cheek makes contact with the bare skin of Rozanov’s chest. Until there’s a hand on his head, carding through his hair. He has to suppress a shudder.

What the hell is this? What is Rozanov playing at?

Immediately, he feels bad for thinking that. Not everything is a play. There isn’t some cunning strategy lurking behind every corner. Shane closes his eyes and breathes the moment in. The guy just had a stressful call with his father. He’s probably just seeking comfort, as unlikely as that seems for Rozanov.

For a few wild seconds, Shane feels pressure at the crown of his head and asks himself if Rozanov has just kissed him. But that’s absurd. That’s - no. They don’t touch like that when they’re not currently having sex. Or are about to have sex. Or are locked in the reality-defying stairwell leading to Shane’s secret apartment, bickering about the Olympics.

It’s weird, sitting on the couch like that. Shane’s wearing a t-shirt, but it’s thin, and Rozanov is emitting heat like a furnace. Nestled against his chest, Shane feels surrounded by it. Surrounded by him. Not in the fun way, like it is during sex. No, this feels much more personal. Intimate.

Much more importantly, though, it doesn’t feel like Rozanov. There was none of his usual brashness in the way he tugged Shane to his chest. The fingers in Shane’s hair don’t seem to be there for any clear purpose. He’s not being seduced. He’s just being touched. In all of the years they’ve been doing this, that has never been a Rozanov thing. 

Could it be an Ilya thing?

Shane tries to quash the thought as soon as it occurs to him, but it’s too late. The damage is already done. He can feel the hope ripping through his body, building new pathways. Those won’t stay, Shane reminds himself viciously. He came here for a reason. He is going to be rejected.

He could be getting rejected right now, as a matter of fact. They’re not doing anything else at the moment. But after what he just witnessed, that would feel mean. Rozanov clearly doesn’t need another heavy conversation right away. He needs a distraction.

Jackpot. Shane turns to kiss the peck his cheek has been cushioned on. Distraction, he can do. Didn’t Rozanov say he wanted a second round, anyways? Shane’s not about to get fucked after an hour-long nap and a meal, but this couch holds plenty other possibilities.

Rozanov doesn’t say anything. But Shane doesn’t need him to. He kisses his way down his stomach, memorizes the ridges of his abs. Buries his face in Rozanov’s crotch, where he’s rapidly growing hard, and inhales the concentrated scent of him. Imagines that each little kiss he presses to Rozanov’s body is a stamp, a mark that will stay behind and keep them connected, even once Shane is no longer allowed to touch.

Conditions are ideal for a blowjob, but if this is the last time, Shane wants to see Rozanov’s face. Wants to be able to kiss him during. It’s fine, he tells himself. He can be selfish. And how selfish is it, anyway, reach into Rozanov’s ridiculous lounge pants to pull out his cock?

Any thought of selfishness stops by the time Shane has stroked Rozanov to full hardness. For one reason and one reason only: because the rest of the thoughts stop too. Shane is running on pure instinct.

Rozanov is beautiful. So responsive that, for a moment, Shane wonders if something is wrong. But no. Once he’s got the two of them in hand, stroking them together, it’s clear that Rozanov is just reacting. Experiencing something being done to him, when usually he is the one doing things.

Fuck.

Desperately, Shane tugs at his own pants and widens his legs so he can get closer. Smushes their faces together so they can breathe into each other’s mouths. In the few moments that he manages to have his eyes open, Rozanov's blue ones are already glinting up at him. Then, he has to clamp his lids shut because he's feeling everything everywhere.

“Are you gonna come for me, Rozanov?” Shane asks.

He’s fishing for a distraction. A witty retort, something, anything that he can cling to right now. Because he's so fucking close and he's feeling so fucking much and he just - it's just - what if he explodes?

“Fucking make me,” Rozanov says.

There’s nothing else in the world that matters after that. Nothing except for Rozanov’s spit slicking his hand, the way Rozanov’s cock keeps catching under the head of Shane’s dick from his little rutting thrusts, and the way Rozanov moans directly into Shane’s mouth, unrestrained and unselfconscious.

Shane can feel it when Rozanov is about to come. Speeds up his hand when Rozanov’s thighs start clenching beneath him. Closes his eyes in anticipation of his own orgasm and-

“Fuck, Shane!”

Two things happen immediately. One: Shane’s eyes fly open. Two: Shane comes. He doesn’t even really feel it, because what?

“Ilya,” he says.

And oh, wouldn’t it be wonderful if he just wasn’t able to help himself? Probably. But Shane doesn’t have the luxury of that excuse. He just said it because he wanted to. Because he was looking at the man falling apart so beautifully in his hands, and the thought of calling him by his last name felt as wrong as it would to forfeit a game. Ilya.

Beneath him, a smile breaks open Ilya’s face like the sun returning to its rightful place after a rainy day. He tilts into a kiss on a sigh, and Shane is helpless to return it. Just melts into his welcoming warmth. It feels right. It feels like home.

Two breaths.

That's how long it lasts. Then, reality checks Shane into the boards like a d-man with a grudge. Home? Stupid. He’s being stupid, and reckless with his own heart. Being overly familiar with first names will only make this harder than it has to be.

Rozanov leans in for another kiss, but Shane turns his head so it lands on the corner of his mouth. His entire body is cold now. Except for his right hand, where it now feels like their fresh spend is burning into Shane’s skin. His heart is going way too fast.

Fuck.

Shane has to leave. Screw talking and ending this well, there’s no way. His breath has picked up too. If he doesn’t leave quickly, that’s his dignity done with. If he already has to lose Rozanov, Shane would really prefer not to lose Rozanov’s respect as well.

Wiping his hand and putting his dick away is one move, thank God. Anything more complex would ruin Shane right now. He almost trips over himself trying to get out of Rozanov’s lap. He’s breathing too fast. Tries to keep his face clear and says something about having forgotten a meeting.

Disdain unfurls over the confusion on Rozanov’s face. Clocked, JJ would say. He clearly doesn’t believe Shane, and Shane doesn’t have the brain power to try to come up with a better excuse. Everything is getting kind of hazy

“Hollander,” Rozanov says.

If Shane had the air for it, he would scream. Now he remembers the last names, really? Where was that presence of mind a minute ago when he could have prevented all of this by simply acting like he always does? It wouldn’t even have been hard!

“I can’t…”

The rest of the sentence doesn’t materialize. Shane doesn’t even know what he was going to say. He can't what? Take this? Be Shane to Rozanov when he keeps fucking other people? Read minds to figure out how best to diffuse this situation?

Over on the couch, Rozanov clenches his jaw. “Hollander, you are panicking. Sit down.”

The word panic alone amplifies everything God, Shane's lungs hurt. “No. I’m not-”

“Yes, you are. You’re panicking.” Rozanov gets up, but at least he stays in place. Just sort of hovering with his hands half-stretched out. “I can see you’re panicking. But is fine. Will be okay. Just sit down. More comfortable, yes?”

“I don’t…” 

Shane doesn't even know what to address first. It’s not fine, and he knows it won’t be. Sitting isn’t going to change that. Nervously, he eyes the door. He could still just leave. Rozanov wouldn’t stop him, right?

At least that’s what he thinks until Rozanov takes a step towards him. Just the one, but it’s enough of a reminder for Shane’s vision to go fuzzy around the edges. This isn’t good. He needs to leave. Staying can only make things worse. Nevermind the fact that it’ll get more difficult to leave the longer Shane stays. Already, he feels unsteady on his feet.

“Hollander. Sit,” Rozanov says and points towards his couch, in case it wasn’t obvious what he meant.

Shane looks at the couch. Tries to breathe normally. Fails. Tries to come up, one last time, with a good reason for leaving. Draws a blank. Frowns. Could he really stay? Could they talk about this, is that a genuine option? 

"Sit. Is okay.”

Rozanov’s voice is even softer now, and closer than Shane was expecting. It feels like permission. The relief of that robs Shane of the last little bit of his breath, but that’s okay. It’s not his problem anymore. He’s let go of the wheel.

His first step is wobbly, so Shane isn’t particularly surprised when his knees just give up halfway through the second one. He crumbles in front of the couch, pushes his face into the cushions to feel the texture of the fabric on his skin. Tells himself it’ll be okay. Rozanov said so. Rozanov has a way of making things be true.

His breath returns in increments. He follows Rozanov’s instructions as well as he can under the circumstances, and it actually works. Which is good right up until this kind of panic has subsided enough for another kind of panic to take over. Fuck. This just happened right in front of Rozanov. Humiliated tears burn in Shane’s eyes. He doesn’t know what to say, so he just doesn’t say anything for a while. Things just stay quiet for a while.

“I will not call you by your first name again if you don’t want,” Rozanov finally says into the silence. “Clearly was wrong. I apologize. But will be hard. These last months, I have thought of you as Shane. Is difficult to call you Hollander. Very... unpersonal. Like colleague. Like we just play hockey and nothing else.”

Shane hears the words, but they don’t compute. This... what? Something twists in his chest at hearing Rozanov saying his first name again. Shane. Like it’s natural. Like they know each other and this is just what they do, call each other by their first names. He wants it so much it hurts. 

But the words don’t make sense. Not coming from Rozanov, of all people. What does he mean, the last months? How long has this been going on? For how long have they been fucking like they’re strangers with a common goal, while Rozanov has wanted to call Shane by his first name? And, most importantly: Why? For what possible reason could he want this?

“Is fine if that is what you want. I respect your wishes,” Rozanov continues when Shane doesn’t say anything. “But I just... I want to say clearly, just once, that I want more. You don’t want more, that’s fine. I never say again.”

Shane draws a sharp breath. “More?”

That’s... What does that mean? More how? More sex? Seeing each other more often? He won’t even allow himself to consider the other possibilities, because he already knows that’s not it. And he was meant to get out of today with minimal damage to himself. That hasn’t quite worked out so far, but still. Not like Shane has to make it worse.

“More,” Rozanov croaks, like that answers any of Shane’s questions. 

“That’s not clear,” he points out. Because fuck it. If Rozanov wants to pretend at honesty, wants to break Shane open like this, he better be honest in the way Shane needs to understand. 

He watches the words hit. Sees the immediate frown on Rozanov’s face that smoothes out once he decides that, maybe, Shane is right. Still, it takes a moment for the man to sort his thoughts before he gives a more complete answer.

“I want not just sex. Be part of your life, even if it’s secret. You come to my house, I come to your real flat. We don’t leave immediately.” Here, he pauses. Looks at Shane. “Is nice, yes? I really liked spending time with you today. Would like to more often. Make fun of bad hockey teams in front of TV, eat together. Not have sex with other people, just us.”

The words are quiet, but they hit deep. Burrow like an insult and put down roots. Already, Shane knows he’ll never forget them. And he doesn’t even know what they mean. Which feels ridiculous. It should be obvious. There’s a blaring neon sign in there somewhere. Not have sex with other people would be clear from any other person. But this is Rozanov, so Shane needs to be absolutely certain.

“You want to be in a relationship with me?”

“No!” Rozanov’s eyes go wide. Shane waits for the hurt that should come with the word, but he’s too struck by the panic he heard in that yelp. By the way Rozanov’s eyes skip over his face and one of his hands twitches like he wants to reach out. “No, I know relationship is unrealistic. No one can know. I’m Russian, could never go back if people find out. I don’t ask to meet parents and friends, go eat dinner in restaurant. Just... also friendship.”

Friendship. Something in Shane snaps. “And exclusivity! You don’t fuck people and sleep in their beds and hang out just as friends. That’s a relationship, Rozanov! What the fuck?”

The words are loud, but Rozanov barely shows any reaction. He just looks at Shane, calm as can be, and nods. “You don’t want this. Is okay. I understand.”

Oh, fuck that. “No, you don’t! Don’t put words in my mouth, Jesus Christ. You can’t just spring this on me and then not let me ask questions.”

This time, Rozanov flinches. Just a little bit, but enough for Shane to see. Enough for him to feel guilty. He doesn’t want to be the kind of person who gets loud in a fight. And this isn’t even a fight! He shouldn’t - what if Rozanov is telling the truth? He must be, even if Shane is misunderstanding it. And he’s being patient about it, respectful. Vulnerable, even, beyond the absurdity. Maybe Shane should humor him.

“Okay. So you want all of those things you just said. If I say wanting those things means wanting a relationship, do you still want them?”

“Relationship is too risky,” Rozanov says.

Shane wants to scream. Take him by the shoulders and shake him and tell him that’s not an answer. “Literally how? We already do all of the things we would get in the most trouble for.”

Rozanov looks at him like the answer should be obvious. “If you are my boyfriend, I want to tell people. But I can’t tell people. So.”

“So,” Shane parrots. “Man, you are something else.”

But there’s something about those words that filters through in the previous ones didn’t. Shane’s heartbeat picks up. Is Rozanov saying that, if he could tell people, he’d want Shane to be his boyfriend? Like that’s the only argument against a relationship, that he would want to shout it from the rooftops? That’s... no. No, Shane tells himself. This is something else. A problem with the language barrier, maybe. He takes very deep, careful breaths, until he believes it.

“Why do you want that?”

Rozanov, to his credit, at least gives that question proper thought. “Because I like you. You are not around, and I miss you. Something happens, I want to tell you. You look at me, I want to kiss you. Even if we are on the ice and you just won the face off.” He smiles. “Especially then.”

“You like me?” The question is out before Shane can stop himself. It’s a bit pathetic, maybe, but what the hell. He has to ask. Before the hope spreads any wider than just the little spot of warmth radiating behind his sternum. “Like, actually? But you always... You leave, or you tell me to go away. That doesn’t... why would you do that if you like me?”

His heart is beating so quickly now that Shane feels his thoughts go faster than he’d like them to. He likes me. Surely not. But that’s what he said. Shane tries to come up with what it might mean. The combination of things Rozanov has said is damning. He likes Shane. He wants more than sex. And he wants exclusivity. Even if he says he doesn’t want a relationship, that’s what that means, right?

Next to him, Rozanov is still unusually subdued.

“I was scared,” he admits. “I’m still scared. But my therapist, she say you need to be honest, Ilya. Is not fair to not let people in. So I try.”

“You have a therapist.” Somehow, that’s even more jarring than I like you. 

Rozanov nods. “Yes. Marleau’s cousin kill himself because of depression, so he get worried about me. And maybe I also get a bit worried. But I meet Zoya, and is better now. She’s very helpful. Many strategies.”

“Oh,” Shane says. Files it away for later analysis and deliberately doesn’t examine it so they don’t get off track. “That’s good. I’m happy it’s working for you.”

Silence stretches between them until Rozanov squeezes his eyes shut and takes a deep breath. “Zoya, she says if you want to be with him, you have to ask. Not good to just pine. Do something about it.”

Shane breathes through the initial sting of panic at the thought that Rozanov talked to someone about this. Might even have told them his name. Therapists can’t tell anyone about the things their clients share in sessions. Hayden told him, none too gently, when Shane asked him if he wasn’t worried tales of his erectile dysfunction would end up in the tabloids. Not his finest moment. Also: Not important right now.

“Be with sounds like a relationship,” he points out. 

Rozanov, of course, rolls his eyes. “Zoya also says this. So okay. We call it relationship. I want relationship. What do you want?”

There’s not even a moment of hesitation. I want relationship. Rozanov says it just like that. Like it’s not even that big of a deal. Like Shane hasn’t been telling himself for weeks that Rozanov will reject him if he asks for more. Fucking weeks.

“Even if you can’t tell people?” he asks.

With a scoff, Rozanov throws his head back. “I don’t give a fuck about people, Hollander. I want you. I know I can’t tell people. I just want as much of you as I can get. So I ask for more. As much as you’re willing to give.”

As nonchalant as those words are, the undercurrent of pain in them makes Shane freeze. Because he knows that pain. Knows as much as I can get. Intimately, in a way that he didn't even believe Rozanov could experience. All this time. All this time, Rozanov has - and he just - 

“Fuck,” Shane says. “Fuck. I can’t believe-”

And all of a sudden, sitting curled up against the couch doesn’t feel small and safe anymore, it feels restrictive. Like Shane can’t breathe. He pushes himself up to his feet so fast that the couch skids across the floor with a dull creak. Looks down at Rozanov, who doesn’t seem so in control all of a sudden.

“Do you know why I freaked out like that?” he asks.

Rozanov blinks. “I cross a line, I think. Say your name. You don’t want this, and it scares you.”

Oh, the absurdity. Shane barks out a laugh. “No, it scares me because I want it. And because I didn’t think you wanted it.”

“I want it,” Rozanov says. Immediately. He’s looking up at Shane with his clear blue eyes, hopeful and more beautiful than Shane has ever seen him. And still.

Shane hesitates. Just says “I hear you” instead of “yes, please be my boyfriend and never look or touch a woman ever again.” Because this is… It feels too big. The very thought of it makes Shane’s skin itch. This wasn’t in the plan. He came here expecting a rejection, not Russia’s Greatest Love Machine asking him to go steady. He wants to laugh, and then he wants to cry. I want a relationship, Rozanov said. Which is exactly what Shane wants. And it feels terrifying. He has no idea what to do with that.

Rozanov gets up, and that’s when Shane realizes he’s stayed quiet for too long.

“Fuck.” He rubs at his eyes. “Okay, so can I think about this? Can I have time to think? Because this is a lot, and I… I’m not so good with decisions off the ice.”

“Of course,” Rozanov says, voice flat.. “Sorry for… stress.”

“No. Please don’t… Don’t apologize. I - thank you for asking. Thank you, okay?” Shane makes sure to look Rozanov in the eye at least on that part. To make sure he knows Shane means it. His heart is hammering. “I need to leave so I can freak out about this properly, but thank you. I don’t think I could’ve asked.”

“Shane, if it freaks you out -”

There’s that name again. Shane. It makes him feel warm all over. He takes a step forward for emphasis. “I freak out about everything. All the big personal decisions. Freaked out before the first dinner at Hayden’s, too. I just… I need the space to do it, and then I’m over it. It’s fine. That’s not your problem, you didn’t cause this.”

Rozanov looks like he disagrees, but Shane has neither the words nor the energy to explain better right now. So he chooses the thing that has always worked best for them: Touch. Taking Rozanov’s hand feels momentous, and also like the most normal thing on earth. It grounds him immediately, enough to get his thoughts in order.

“Okay,” he finally says. “Here’s what we’ll do: I leave now, and we play the game tonight. We don’t meet again after that, but we’ll text. And we’ll find a date to meet again soon. You text me every option you come across, I do the same. I don’t care if I have to fly in for a day, we’ll see each other soon, okay?” 

The best word Shane can find for Rozanov’s reaction is overwhelmed. Which would be beautiful if it weren’t also a tiny bit inconvenient. One of them needs to keep it together for them to get to the end of this conversation successfully, and now they’re both teetering on the edge. Best get it over with quickly, then. Shane takes a deep breath.

“And up until then, we see how texting more works, okay? If there’s something you wanna tell me, just do that. And we can… If you want to, we can agree not to sleep with other people. Even without a decision. I mean, I’d understand-”

“Eight months,” Ilya interrupts him. His eyes are wide.

“What?”

“I only slept with you for eight months. Not interested in other people anymore.” 

“Oh.” Shane’s hand tightens around Rozanov’s. “Fuck, Ilya. Can I kiss you?”

Rozanov has already mashed their faces together when Shane realizes… huh. First names. He did it. He used Rozanov’s first name again and the world didn’t end. In fact, he feels fucking amazing right now, and it’s not just because he’s being kissed like Ilya’s life depends on it. Hard and demanding.

He wants to lose himself in it. Celebrate the achievement of graduating from distant fuckbuddies, but he can’t. Just because he’s fine right now doesn’t mean the breakdown isn’t coming. Shane can taste it, like his mother says she can with approaching migraines. It’s already there, and it’s going to happen. The question is just if he wants Ilya there for it. Which… no. So he forces himself to withdraw.

“Fuck,” he says. “I really want this. Just… let me get over myself, okay?”

Ilya nods. He stays where he is when Shane goes to the bedroom to change back into his own clothes. When Shane gets back, he’s still in the same place. Shane can’t help but kiss him for it.

And then, he’s in a taxi on the way back to the hotel, doing breathing exercises to regulate himself. Just a few more minutes, and then he’ll be alone. It’ll be fine. He can do this. The taxi driver probably doesn’t even recognize him, hasn’t said anything to indicate that he knows who Shane is. But he still can’t risk it.

The moment Shane throws himself against the door of the hotel room to close it and sees Hayden perk up where he’s sitting on his bed, he realizes he’s made a mistake. Of course the room isn’t empty. But there’s no stopping it now.

He has to watch Hayden’s eyes widen in alarm as his breathing speeds out of control. Has to see him flinch as he hits his head against the hard surface against the door once, twice, before he manages to stop himself and simply presses his head back to roll it against the wood so he can feel the discomfort of the motion spark across his scalp.

“Fuck, Shane. You okay?” 

Hayden already has his feet over the side of the bed before he seems to think better of it. Shane huffs a wet laugh.

“I’m good.”

“That’s a bit hard to believe, bud. You’re crying.”

Shane clenches his eyes shut. The words are coming harder now. Speech is always more difficult to reach when he gets like this. Like the things he wants to say are books he’s already read. So he knows what’s there. But they’re up on a high shelf and he doesn’t have a ladder, so he can’t share them right now. Not without straining himself hard to reach them.

“Just too many emotions at once. I’m overwhelmed. But not bad. Nothing bad happened.”

It feels important to say that. Hayden knows Shane left to meet Boston Lily. Just because he doesn’t know who that is doesn’t mean Shane wants to let him assume the worst. Well, that and he really needs Hayden not to freak out right now. He can’t deal with that on top of everything.

“Okay…” Hayden sounds hesitant. “Anything I can do to help?”

Shane wants to say no. He knows how to do this. These things happen, he can deal with them. Usually, he just needs to sit them out. Do some breathing exercises, maybe. Journal about it later. It’ll be fine. He’s an adult, he can handle himself.

But that’s not what Hayden asked, is it? And so, pressed back against the door with his breath going fast and his heart thundering in his chest, Shane remembers something his dad used to do for him in these situations when he was still a little kid.

“Squeeze me,” he says.

“I’m sorry?”

“Hug me. As tight as you can. Pressure helps.”

He doesn’t think he’s ever asked Hayden to touch him. Hasn’t done it much outside of hockey or training. So it should be weird. It would be reasonable for Hayden to ask questions. But he doesn’t. He simply gets up, walks the few steps to where Shane is still trying to flatten himself against the door, tugs him forward, and does as asked.

He doesn’t even question it when Shane sobs in relief. Just squeezes him tight and breathes deeply and loudly, like he’s hoping Shane will eventually match it. Which he does. It just takes a while.

They migrate to Hayden’s bed eventually. The covers are already mussed up, and Hayden doesn’t even think before he pulls them back and ushers Shane in. Climbs in after and hugs him again to create a tight little cocoon of warmth. Holds the shell in place while Shane tries to gather all of his inside pieces and put himself together again. Eventually, exhaustion claims him.

The next day, they wake up to the alarm Shane set before he left. It’s loud and obnoxious and Shane’s phone is in his pocket, where he doesn’t expect it to be, so it takes way too late to turn off. 

Once he looks up from doing it, he finds Hayden already watching him. “You good?”

“Yes,” Shane says and is surprised when it feels true. He is good. Ilya Rozanov wants to be in a relationship with him and has said he won’t sleep with other people anymore. Has said he hasn’t slept with anyone but Shane for the better part of a year. It’s scary as fuck, but it also feels like it might be the best thing that’s ever happened to him.

Hayden nods. “You gonna explain what happened?”

“At some point, probably.” Shane fights to detangle his legs from the sheets. “But not right now. Come on. We’ve got a game to win.”

Chapter End Notes

Why tell Hayden anything when you can just leave him in the dark and still use him as a weighted blanket when you most need him? Hayden doesn't need to know. He's a good hugger regardless.

There are now over 80k words in this series. I've basically written a novel since Febuary. That's insane. (I know that this doesn't count as a novel. I'm just freaking out about the word count. Fucking hell, that really is something. I'm so proud of myself!)

Next up: The boys actually talk this time. And it's good. But they still cry.

Chapter 7

Chapter Notes

Shane barely sleeps the night before the game. He can’t relax into his usual pre-game routine either, but that might be Hayden’s fault. There are only so many questions Shane can dodge before he wants to scream. Still, he tries his best. He even returns to the breathing exercises his high school coach would make him do when it all got too much before the draft. In for four, hold for four, out for four, hold for four. 

As always, he can count on the ice. Stepping out onto it feels like connecting to a power source. Shane, who has been trying to drag himself through the motions all day, feels energized immediately. By the ice. Not by the view of Rozanov joking around with Marleau while the two of them do their warm-ups.

Ilya, Shane reminds himself. If they’re going to be doing this, then he needs to be able to call the man by his first name. Even if it’s just in his own head, even if it feels dangerous. Maybe especially because it feels dangerous. If Shane wants this, he’ll need to be brave about it. Brave like Ilya is, apparently, talking to a therapist and taking her advice.

So, just for a minute, Shane lets himself look. Ilya and Marleau are engaging in some sort of slap fight that Ilya seems to have started. Marleau is rolling his eyes, mouth twisted, trying to hold Ilya at a distance and failing. But Ilya’s eyes are bright, lips curling around rapid-fire words that seem to amuse not only him, but also his teammates. He looks happy.

The way that thought makes Shane’s eyes burn tells him it’s time to look away. He’s got his own stretches to be getting on with, anyways. And more breathing exercises, when Coach confirms that, as always in the past few years when the Metros have played the Raiders, the first face off will be him and Rozanov. Ilya.

Shane loses that face off, and he wouldn’t even be able to tell anyone why. Later, when he tries to recall if Ilya said anything, there’s nothing. The entire game, he feels a bit like he’s packed in cotton wool. The replays tell him he played well, but Shane thinks that might have been mostly reflex. Mentally, he wasn’t really present.

Returning to his hotel room after a game against Boston feels weird. He should be with Ilya right now - except he really, really shouldn’t. His insides still feel way too raw with fear and what ifs. If he was around Ilya, he’d be embarrassing himself. Maybe by crying, or maybe by clinging too hard, or maybe by freaking out again and saying no on instinct because every intense emotion feels like a threat. He wants to do this right. So he stays where he is, and he texts Ilya something normal to congratulate him on winning, and he carefully doesn’t think too much.

The next day, he meets his parents for lunch and his mom tries to entice him into going to a fucking tennis game by saying he might meet a princess. Shane deflects it the best he can. But later, he looks at her and tries to imagine what would have happened if he told her the truth.

“I’ve never been interested in a woman like that,” he might have said.

It would’ve shocked his mother, if only because they never talk about stuff like this. But he doesn’t think she would have heard the words the way he meant them. Would have told him he’d just need to put himself out there, and he’d find the right woman one day, instead of asking if he’s ever been interested in a man. 

Could he tell her that? Telling her about Ilya feels impossible. So much of his career and public image is tied up in their stupid fucking rivalry that she’d probably have a conniption if she ever found out. But the other thing...

Once, when he had just been drafted, she sat him down at their kitchen table while his father was out at work. She’d had her serious talk face on, but there was no paperwork for him to sign, so just for a second, Shane worried he was in trouble. Turned out: Not yet. 

“I want you to know you can always tell me anything,” she said. “You’re about to enter a very high pressure environment around men who are older than you, and who might have grown up very differently. And I know you can handle yourself. But you need to know that there is nothing that you can’t tell me. Not just if you’re in trouble, but also if you just want to talk. Okay?”

Shane had only been able to nod, too stunned to make sense of her words.

She sighed. “I’m not just saying this in case you get a girl pregnant - although, if you ever do, please know that I’m here and will listen. Things happen. But I also mean about everything else. I’ll talk to you about anything. You don’t need to be afraid to ask, yes? I might not know everything, but I know how to find out, and I’ll do my best to navigate anything you want my help with. Even if it’s drugs, or - or sex stuff, or whatever. If you need to talk to someone you can trust, I’m here. I’ll always be here.”

It was a nice little speech. At the time, he’d felt insulted that she thought he might ever want to try drugs. Like he didn’t know better than to impede his own performance like that. He’d been so distracted by it that he didn’t pay any mind to what she said about sex. Because he wasn’t going to get a girl pregnant, so what did it matter?

But now, he watches her delicately spear little pieces of salmon and wonders if he could tell her that he’s attracted to men. His parents are reasonably liberal, he knows that. They vote for the LPC. One of his father’s male colleagues is married to a man. Shane had sat with them at the dining table when his father told them, like it was a fascinating tidbit of information. Just that. A man married to a man. Entertaining on its own.

Shane’s mother hadn’t understood why he even told them.

“And?” she’d asked. 

“What do you mean?”

“Well, what does it matter? So he’s married. Most of your colleagues are married, honey, that’s nothing special.”

So it’s not like Shane is scared that his mom has a problem with queer people. No, he’s reasonably concerned that Yuna Hollander would be certain that Shane Hollander cannot be queer without imploding the public image she’s so carefully constructed for him. And that she wouldn’t like that. All her work, gone up in smoke the moment someone might seriously believe that Shane likes to get fucked.

And, oh, isn’t that another mortifying detail? He doesn’t want his mother thinking about him having sex. Like, at all. But definitely not like that. The very thought of it feels wrong. It isn’t... no. That’s just for Shane and Ilya to know. No one else can ever find out how desperate Shane gets. How much he wants it. 

Ilya doesn’t want to come out. He’s said as much. If he hadn’t, Shane would be freaking out about something completely different right now. Probably wouldn’t even have seriously considered it. Because he just can’t. Shane Hollander cannot be gay, or queer in any other way. He’s too visible. And his team... 

Shane is captain now, but it still feels like his team is barely tolerating him some days. They don’t like that he won’t come out drinking with them. That he doesn’t like the partying, even if he isn’t trying to stop them. Not that they’d listen to him. They barely listen to his feedback and speeches. They certainly don’t laugh at his jokes. If they even notice he makes them.

“People say you’re not funny,” Ilya had said. It was meant to be a joke, but it’s still true. Shane’s own guys would say he isn’t funny at all.

But not telling anyone at all... No matter how much the thought of telling someone makes Shane’s heart race, the thought of just keeping something that big a secret makes him feel heavy. A relationship is a good thing. With even just the slightest change in circumstances, it would be happy news. Shane keeps all sorts of little secrets for Hayden, but still, the thought of telling him feels impossible. And if he can’t even tell Hayden...

Speaking of Hayden: For obvious reasons, Hayden is concerned. For days, he asks probing questions about Boston Lily that Shane can’t answer without either lying or outing himself. And every time Shane tells him everything is fine, he believes it less.

After about a week of this, he sends Shane a text message.

I told JJ you need to get out of the house. You don’t need to talk to me, but you need to do something to get out of your head. He’ll call you in a few minutes. Please say yes to whatever he asks you to do. You deserve a nice night out. I’m worried about you.

Well, fuck. Now he can’t even say no without feeling like an ass. So he doesn’t. JJ calls to tell him about a restaurant opening that some actors are also going to be at, obviously expecting resistance, and Shane just agrees to accompany him. That, apparently, is also worrying. But JJ seems willing to gloss over it.

As soon as Shane arrives, he’s enveloped in a firm hug. 

“Eeeey, Capitaine, look at you! Out late after bedtime, I’m so proud of you!”

Shane rolls his eyes, but he can’t help the smile. It never feels like an insult with JJ. Social interactions in general are easier when he’s there, greasing the wheels for Shane and bridging any potentially uncomfortable silences with the next insane thing that crosses his mind.

JJ introduces him to a lot of people that night. Mostly women, Shane notices, which isn’t how JJ usually rolls. That probably means Hayden put him up to it. Good God. It’s fine for about an hour or so, and then Shane flees to one of the booths. A booth where, it just so happens, Rose Landry is also hiding out.

Rose is... fantastic. Shane doesn’t think he’s ever met anyone so easy to talk to. She asks interesting, relevant questions and listens like his answers matter. Sometimes, she pauses to think before she speaks, like she wants to make sure she says something worth hearing. Other times, she blurts out with an answer before he’s even finished talking. 

All the while, she’s sitting across from him, kicking her feet under the table and sneaking fries one after the other, like she thinks he might cut her off at one point. It’s the first time since he met Hayden that Shane has had the feeling that someone genuinely just wants to be there with him. Wants to talk to him not because they want something from him, but just to talk. And it’s Rose Landry, of all people.

JJ keeps sneaking looks at them. When Rose asks him if he would accompany her back to her hotel because it’s already dark out and she’d like to walk, JJ winks at Shane while they leave. Shane just rolls his eyes.

“Sorry about him,” he says. “They get like this any time I talk to a woman. It’s annoying.”

Rose tilts her head back to look straight up at the sky. “That’s what friends are for, though. Miles was in the crowd somewhere. I texted him we were leaving together. I guarantee he’s already composing the perfect text about your Calvin Klein campaign, or whatever. You call it chirping, right?”

Well, thank God for the darkness. Shane’s cheeks are burning at the memory of that campaign. He’s so thankful that the publicity push for that is over now. It was horrible. Pictures of him in just his underwear all across town. People commenting on his... package. Like not saying dick made it better. Ugh.

“Not really,” he says. “I mean, I don’t know the exact definition, but chirping always seems mean to me. Like, mean-spirited? This is just teasing. I mean, I hope.”

Rose laughs. “Oh, yeah. No, he’s probably congratulating me on getting you alone as we speak. In the most inappropriate way he can think of.”

“Oh.”

Shane doesn’t know what to do with that. By all rights, he should want it. He knows that. She’s perfect, the perfect woman, beautiful and charming. She makes him feel light and happy. But that’s all. There’s no desire. How could there be, when every second thought of his is consumed by figuring out how to say yes to being in a relationship with Ilya Rozanov?

“It’s fine,” Rose says breezily. “I know you’re a good boy. I’m not expecting you to come up with me.”

Well, thank God. Shane doesn’t even want to know how awkward that would be. Because of course, he’d say no. They said no sex with other people, him and Ilya. Ilya has already had less sex in the last six months than Shane did, and isn’t that a crazy thought? So no, that’s not happening. But Shane has never had to say no to someone he actually likes.

Is that what this is? Is it a potential for more, something that could grow if he lets it like people always say will happen? He doesn’t even know what to do with that thought. Because it’s so obvious that he should want it. If this is his one chance at normalcy, he should chase after it until he can grab it with both hands. He wants normalcy. The kind of life that no one will raise an eyebrow at. 

Not that it matters. She’s already said she doesn’t want him. So Shane keeps chatting with Rose, about the stars over Montreal and the stars at the restaurant that night, until they’re in front of her hotel. Only then does he realize his mistake.

“Well,” she says with a little shrug and a glint in her eye. “This is me. And I’m going to go up all alone.”

Shane nods. “Yes. Good night.”

At first, Rose blinks. Then, she grins. “Are you at least going to give me your phone number so I can send you a screenshot of whatever horrible text Miles has managed to put together about your abs?”

Right, of course. That’s what people do when they meet someone new. Shane starts rattling off his phone number - and then has to do it again because she hadn’t unlocked her phone the first time. She sends off a text right away, and Shane can feel his phone vibrate in his back pocket. He has Rose Landry’s phone number now.

It’s strange, knowing that Hayden will absolutely lose his mind when he tells him. But that’s not what’s exciting to Shane. Because she wants to talk to him. He’s not the only one who enjoyed this evening, and he didn’t misunderstand her enthusiasm. Rose is cool, and she wants to keep talking to him. 

“Right,” Rose says, pocketing her phone. She’s looking at him where he’s standing a few feet away from her, hands in his jacket pockets to guard them against the cold. “I had a really nice night with you, Shane.”

Shane. Just Shane. Not Shane Hollander. Because Rose understands that a private person is not the full name on the call sheet. He doesn’t think she uttered his last name after that first time right when they met.

“I did, too. I don’t usually have too much fun at these things. But it was really nice meeting you. I loved talking to you.”

It feels like too much to say. But why not? He’s only just narrowly avoided disaster during an incident where he wasn’t saying enough. May as well lay it all out. If she doesn’t like it, she can just walk away.

The corners of Rose’s eyes crinkle. “Oh, you’re such a sweetheart. You really don’t want to come up with me, do you?”

“Not particularly.”

The words are out before Shane has the opportunity to stop himself. Before he has fully understood what Rose might have meant. But he understands as soon as he sees how high her eyebrows shoot up. 

“Not your type?” she asks lightly.

It would be easy to take the out. And he should, but it just... it feels wrong. They don’t really know each other yet. And he’s already lying to his friends and parents, he doesn’t want to lie to her too. Instead, Shane clears his throat. “Something like that.”

It’s not the whole truth. But he sees her interpret it as confirmation anyways, and bites his lip against the urge to immediately interject with some asshole comment about preferring dark hair or bigger curves or one of the myriad other reasons for which he’s seen his teammates say one woman is more desirable than the other. No. No lying. Wasn’t he just thinking that Rose is cool? And anyway, it’s not like he’s really confirming anything.

“I knew I liked you for a reason,” Rose says, much to his surprise. “You were, like, actually talking to me. This is so great. I can just tell we’re gonna be besties. Can I hug you? I kinda wanna hug you.”

And so Shane gets squeezed within an inch of his life before Rose goes up to her room and he turns around to get his car from the underground parking garage next to the restaurant. He doesn’t go back in to say goodnight to JJ, which means he gets hassled about landing the Rose Landry the next day at training. It doesn’t matter how many times he says he didn’t sleep with her.

When he gets back to his apartment and looks at his phone, there are two text messages waiting for him. The first is from Rose. She says: Miles didn’t even try to write me a pretty text. He just made very rude comments about hockey asses and all of the things they could be used for. I’m deeply disappointed in him :(

Shane huffs a laugh. Then, he thinks for a moment. How big of a risk is he willing to take? Oh, well. Very powerful thing to be on the receiving end of, he answers. Just enough plausible deniability for him not to panic. But not enough for Rose to send him a string of shocked emojis that tell him she understands exactly what he said.

The other text is from Ilya. Rookie exploded washing machine with bubbles, he writes. Called me in the middle of night. Not what I mean when I say ‘any problem you have. I am always there’. But at least no surprise pregnancies yet.

It’s so out of left field that Shane can only stare at it for a moment. Ilya has been texting him more ever since Shane reached out after their game. Barely a free hour goes by in which they don’t exchange texts. The first thing Shane does when he wakes up is check his phone, and there’s usually something waiting for him that helps him start his day with a smile. 

There’s no clear pattern to it, from what Shane can tell. It’s just random thoughts Ilya has, observations he makes, little jokes. Small enough not to feel like pressure, but with enough weight to it that Shane feels like they’re sharing their days. It’s meaningful, a connection. But this…

Ilya is a good captain. Shane knew he must be, for the Raiders to choose him. They’ve not really talked shop, but from what little Ilya has said, Shane could tell he was proud of his team. So why is it such a surprise that he would be there for them?

There’s a tightness in Shane’s chest at the image of Ilya being woken up in the middle of the night, and trying to talk his rookie through a laundry-related incident that feels like an emergency but definitely isn’t one. He was probably still bleary-eyed and blinking, like the one time they woke up together. Trying to keep from laughing to make sure that if the next emergency was a real one, the rookie would still call.

That, more than the rest of it, shakes Shane. He’s never thought of Ilya like that. What he’d be like as a friend. As a captain, beyond the facets of it that were important to Shane’s on-ice strategy. I don’t know him. The thought hits Shane like a particularly vicious cross check.

Immediately, his heartbeat speeds up. God, what is he even doing? For as much as he wants Ilya, he has no idea who he is as a person. How can he even consider the possibility of more under those circumstances? That’s such a massive risk to take when he could still just wake up one day and discover they’re incompatible. Or, more likely, Ilya realizes that Shane is actually too boring for him. Not just in a way that is fun to tease about, but fundamentally.

Still, the thought of saying no and never seeing Ilya again makes Shane feel like he’s being torn in two. So he decides to take a different kind of risk.

Hypothetically, he writes to Rose, if someone wanted more from you than just hooking up. But that’s all you’ve ever done and so you don’t know them as a person and you don’t know if you’d be compatible like that. What would you do?

It doesn’t even take a minute before Shane’s phone starts ringing in his hand, Rose’s name lighting up the screen.

“Wow, subject change much?” Rose says instead of greeting him.

Shane stutters, tries to apologize, but she isn’t interested.

“Tell me more about this person,” she demands. “Are they hot? Do they treat you well? Is the sex good?”

“Yes.”

A hum. “Your last message sounded like the sex might be very good. Powerful, you said? Powerful sounds fucking awesome.”

Shane hesitates. But what the hell, right? Rose already knows more than anyone else. She hasn’t been an asshole about it. And at least this way, it’s not in writing. “Yeah, it really is. I’ve never felt this way with anyone else.”

“Oh, woo!” Her cheer is so loud that Shane rips the phone away from his ear. “Okay. And they respect you? Like, you get the impression that they know where your boundaries are and stick to them?”

“You don’t want more, that’s fine. I never say again,” Ilya's voice echoes through Shane’s head.

He has to clear his throat before he can answer. “Absolutely. Better than anyone else I know.”

It’s true, he realizes. Even Hayden keeps bothering him about subjects he’s said explicitly that he doesn’t want to talk about again. He always shuts up for a few weeks, but then his curiosity gets the better of him. And Shane has the feeling that when Ilya said never again, he meant it. Another scary thought. Shane really needs to get this right, or there won’t be a do-over.

“Right. And you can’t just tell this person you want to get to know them better before you commit to something?” Rose asks.

Damn it. Shane groans. “Wouldn’t that sound really stupid? We’ve known each other for literal years. If I ask to get to know him now, I’d feel like I was saying I know I trust you enough to fuck me, but if you want to go steady, I need to know your favorite color first.”

As soon as he hears the sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line, Shane realizes he messed up the pronouns. But beyond a short twinge of panic in the pit of his stomach, he can’t bring himself to care. Rose knew anyway, this was just an alibi. More important stuff to deal with right now.

“I mean, I see where you’re coming from,” Rose says. Like nothing happened. Like Shane didn’t just out himself beyond the last shadow of doubt she could have possibly had. “I think it’s a fair question to ask, but I understand why you don’t want to.”

The relief of it hits Shane so deeply that he yawns. Fuck. A look at his ridiculous sponsored watch tells him it’s two a.m. Way too late for him to still be up. Or too early? Either way, there’s a mandatory practice at nine a.m. And a game at seven p.m. This is really not the night to stay up late.

Rose, oblivious to Shane’s inner bedtime debates, is still on topic. “Is there a reason why you can’t just talk to him? Just ask him the questions you wanna ask. Get to know him without announcing it. If he really wants more, he should be happy to talk to you, no?”

Oh, fuck. Could it really be that easy? Rose assures him that yes, it can. And that it’s fine if he goes to bed now, they don’t need to keep talking just because they’ve only talked about him so far.

“I’m not interested in that kind of reciprocity,” she says. “Not every conversation needs to be a quid pro quo. Just listen to me the next time I complain about how the co-star I’ve managed to fall in love with refuses to eat me out, but still expects blowjobs.”

Shane balks. “He what?”

“It’s just a hypothetical-”

“That doesn’t sound fair. Eating a woman out isn’t even that difficult, you just need to get the mechanics down. And expectations have no place in the bedroom. You deserve better.”

Rose laughs. “Thank you. See, you’re gonna be brilliant once I need actual reassurance. Good night?”

“Um. Night.”

Shane lays awake way too late after that. When he turns up to practice barely feeling alive, he gets teased mercilessly. Because the other guys got there before him for once, and that gave JJ the opportunity to tell the whole locker room that Shane went home with Rose Landry last night. It’s no use telling them that he didn’t sleep with her. The whistling is unbearable.

It takes him a whole week to gather the courage to call Ilya. A lot of that time, he spends just staring at his phone live he’ll suddenly feel brave enough. He never does. But they keep texting, and that’s nice. Rozanov has taken to sending him pictures of the dogs he meets on his morning jog. One of them has stubby little legs, and no tail, and consequently wiggles his whole back half when he greets Ilya butt first in his demand for scritches. It’s adorable. Shane likes that one best.

Call himmmm, Rose texts him on Thursday, when Shane is just sitting in his office after getting off the phone with his accountant. When he has the time. Shane hits call before he can talk himself out of it.

“What is wrong?” Ilya says as soon as he answers the phone

It’s absurd enough that Shane has to laugh. “Well, hello to you too, Ilya. So nice to hear your voice. Usually, you ask people how their day was. Where are your manners?”

“Manners? Don’t talk to me about manners, asshole. How was I supposed to know was normal phone call? You never call.”

“Oh.”

Ilya has a point. Ilya is also, as it turns out, not alone. He’s just gotten out of practice and is on his way to spend some time with Marleau. Marleau, who apparently knows Ilya is bisexual because he’s the one who helped him find a therapist, and who knows that the person Ilya has been talking to recently is a man, and who wants Shane on speakerphone.

They make plans to call again later in the evening. When Shane hangs up, he puts his head between his knees and breathes. Not because he needs to, just because it feels like a good idea. Marleau knows. He definitely wasn’t expecting that.

There’s a weird feeling in the pit of his stomach. Logically, he’s aware that Ilya would never out him to one of his teammates. But there had still been a brief moment of panic when Shane realized that Marleau might recognize his voice if Ilya put him on speaker. Someone on one of their teams knowing something, even just Ilya’s sexuality, feels incredibly risky.

But also… There’s someone out there who knows Ilya, really knows him, and he also knows Ilya is bi, and doesn’t seem to care. Someone who is, apparently, already planning which stories to tell at his wedding. It reminds Shane of something Hayden said once, about telling a story at his wedding. Like he expected to be part of Shane’s life forever, no matter what. And still, the idea of telling him feels impossible.

Maybe it’s jealousy, Shane realizes. Jealousy that Ilya has a friend he can be open with about this, without being afraid. He’s always been more free than Shane, less afraid, more social. So it makes sense that he would’ve found such a person. But still.

For about a week, Shane has had Rose. And he’s been honest with Rose in a way he never has been with anyone else. It’s been such a relief, even if she could technically ruin his entire career in one little interview. The only reason Shane isn’t panicking about that is his unshakeable certainty that she would never. It’s a weird thing to think about someone who’s essentially a stranger. Even if, over the course of the week, Shane has somehow gathered the knowledge that three previous boyfriends of Rose’s have by now come out as gay, and that she’s currently fighting a yeast infection because her costume department keeps putting her in spandex.

Shane calls back at nine, just like they’d agreed on. Ilya still sounds confused to even be talking to him in the first place - and it probably doesn’t help that Shane uses any lull in the conversation to look at his list of questions to ask a potential boyfriend. Their conversation is stilted and awkward, like any conversation that Shane leads. Ilya only tolerates it for so long.

“Do you think it’s important to vote?” Shane asks when talking about lactose intolerance is getting too dry.

Ilya laughs. “Fuck, Hollander. Where do you get these questions, magic eight ball?”

“No!” Shane bristles. “They’re important questions, especially right now. So, like, in a democracy. Do you think it’s important to vote?”

“If election is not rigged and vote is... how do you say - anonymous? Then of course. Voting is very important. Is not just privilege. Is duty.”

“Elections don’t get rigged, though. People just say that when they don’t like the results.”

“Yes. I am sure,” Ilya drawls. “Elections so fair in Russia. This is why they try to disqualify opposition before voting even happens. Choosing from Putin and the people he also wants to run is definitely democracy.”

Oh. Hot shame drips down Shane’s spine. He hadn’t even thought of that. Why didn’t he… He’s going to have to try harder. Of course, Ilya has a completely different perspective on these things. For the rest of the evening, Shane tries to stick to safer topics that don’t have political implications.

Ilya’s favorite color is yellow, because sun flowers were his mother’s favorite flower. They had them in their garden when Ilya was growing up. Shane hears the past tense and files it away for later. He doesn’t ask about it. Instead, he learns that Ilya’s favorite fruit are sour cherries and that he hated going to the zoo as a child because the animals all looked so sad.

Shane doesn’t remember falling asleep, but he will always remember the text messages he woke up to.

You snuffle in your sleep like tiny puppy

Don't worry, I hang up quick. Not being creepy.

Good night, Shane! Sleep nice!

Two more calls that week show Shane one very important thing: He thought he knew Rozanov. He did not know Ilya. At first, it’s a bit difficult to tell the two apart. Ilya has built himself an armor of brash humor and bravado that’s hard to penetrate. And he knows exactly how to distract Shane.

“Can I ask you about therapy?” Shane asks on their second call. It’s Friday evening, and Shane is lying on his bed in his lounge wear. There’s a book lying on his bedside table, waiting for him to learn more about the history of hockey in Russia. He won’t touch it tonight.

On the other end of the line, Ilya groans. “No, is so boring. Only talking, but no interesting subjects. I would rather talk about you. Watched your game today, saw you doing your stretches. Very sexy. So much flexibility. Could you get your knees to touch your ears?”

Shane knows for a fact that he can. But he didn’t call for phone sex, so he won’t let this call devolve into that.

“Is that an actual no? Because it’s fine if you don’t want to talk about it, it’s a very private subject. I’m just... curious.”

“Always so curious about me.” Ilya chuckles. “Is okay. Just not very glamorous. Don’t want to bore you away with my tragic backstory.”

Those words don’t make sense to Shane at first, so he sits with them for a bit. Bore you away. There was something in Ilya’s voice when he said it, small and petulant. Is that genuinely something he’s worried about? Or is he just annoyed? In the end, Shane decides to take him at his word.

“You said Marleau was worried about you? Because of depression?” Shane asks. He deliberately leaves out the part about Marleau’s cousin committing suicide, even though he desperately wants to ask. One thing at a time. This already feels tenuous.

“Yes.”

Alright, fair enough. If Shane was being asked these questions, he’d also want to say as little as possible. That’s not the important part, anyway.

“And you said your therapist - what was her name again? You said she really helps you?”

“Zoya,” Ilya says. “She is Russian, so I don’t need to translate. And she is very helpful, yes. Showing me how to make my life more stable. Coping strategies. Makes everything a bit easier, I am very grateful.”

Easier. Shane wonders what that means. But it already feels like a gift to be told this much. And he doesn’t want Ilya to feel like he’s interrogating him. Like he thinks it’s a weakness. If anything, it sounds like things may be more difficult for Ilya than for others. Which, consequently, would mean he is stronger.

“Is that how you knew how to help me calm down?” he asks. Then, he hesitates. May as well share a bit more. Show Ilya he’s willing to be vulnerable in return. “When I was a child, my parents took me to see a counselor a few times, because things just got too much sometimes. Like everything, you know? Sounds and smells and expectations and questions. She showed me similar techniques.”

“Oh,” Ilya says. Shane squeezes his eyes shut and begs invisible forces that he won’t ask any follow-up questions. Like why things were too much. Or what was too much that day on the couch. One, he doesn’t know and the other, he’s not quite ready to talk about. Or even think about. In his own head.

He needn’t have worried.

“Yes, Zoya says always name things out loud. It helps understand when your head is fighting you. And breathing, obviously. Breathing is very important.” 

Rozanov is an incurable party boy who drinks too much and who fucks anything that moves. Ilya, by his own account, used alcohol and sex to drown out the horrible noise in his head. He’s mostly stopped that now, because Zoya helped him see he was hurting himself. Instead, he cooks for his friends and works out more than he strictly needs to.

Shane doesn’t ask about the noise, that seems a bit too... private. They still barely know each other. But there’s another part to this that immediately feels more important.

“Is that how we started?” he asks.

“Hm?”

Shane presses his shaking fingers into his thighs. “Was I a distraction? Were you hurting yourself with me?”

“No, never! I never do this, Shane! I-” But he interrupts himself, and Shane can hear him recalibrating. “Zoya would say be honest. So. I am sorry, but I am unsure about first two times. Was fascinated with you from the start, because you shave my hand twice and your freckles are beautiful. Might have been distraction. Was stupid risk to take, both times. Too public. But third time…”

Ilya takes a deep breath. “Third time was definitely different, in your sex apartment. I wanted it so much, and it felt important. That scared me. So I ran away like coward. You say it hurt you, and I am sorry. But I couldn't stay away. It always meant something to me after that. Even if I knew it couldn’t go anywhere.”

Oh, God. Just hearing that makes Shane’s heart race and his stomach clench.

“It meant something to me too.”

“Fuck.” The word comes out with such force that Shane’s phone speaker crackles with the sound of Ilya’s breath. “Fuck, Shane. Are you sure?”

“Yes.” Shane says, his heart in his throat. “And now, you want it to go somewhere?” 

“Yes.”

The conversation ends shortly after that. But really, what more is there to say? Shane wants more, too. That’s not the problem, even though the thought of making himself vulnerable like that is terrifying enough. It just it seems so dangerous.

This thing between them, it could destroy everything. Shane is all too aware that it might end his career if it ever came out. Ilya Rozanov’s reputation might survive a gay sex scandal, Russia notwithstanding. People think he’s dangerous, masculine. Shane has heard how other players talk about him. There’s always an air of reverence to it, even if they hate him. That is not how they talk about Shane Hollander. Shane Hollander, as a concept, might not survive being outed.

Shane would. That’s where he and Ilya are different, he thinks. Ilya will probably always be welcome on the ice. And Shane will probably always be welcome at home. If only they could both be sure of both.

“Okay, but consider this,” Rose says when Shane finally gets over himself and asks her for help. Without mentioning Ilya’s name, of course. “Shane Hollander doesn’t exist without Shane. You were here first. The way you talk, it sounds like you live to serve him. It should be the other way around. Ask not: What can I do for Shane Hollander? Ask: What can Shane Hollander do for me? And if he’s only hurting you, I say he belongs in the trash.”

“I can’t just trash my public image, Rose. They’d never let me play hockey again.”

“But is it worth playing hockey if it means you can’t be in love?”

“I’m not-”

“Dude. Stop lying to yourself. Your man really went out on a limb, here. The least you could do is be honest with yourself.”

“He’s not my man.” The protest sounds feeble even to Shane’s own ears. 

“But he could be. And you obviously want him to be. So go get him.”

Shane thinks about her words for a long time. It sounds like you live to serve him. What a messed up thing to have to say. How can something be so wrong and yet so correct at the same time? And, more importantly, when the fuck did this happen? When did his image turn from something that served him into an icon with Shane as its most loyal servant?

He wants to call his mother, ask when it happened. If she even noticed it. Shout at her for letting it happen, because the more he thinks about it, the more he remembers her giving him little reminders at the beginning of his career. You’re Shane Hollander. People love the boy next door, that’s the best fit for you right now. You need to keep your reputation clean. A whole lot of kids are going to be looking up to you.

She will still remind him occasionally. Even if he doesn’t give her cause for it. Like it’s ingrained in her just as much as it’s ingrained in him. Would she have done it, he wonders, if she knew his image would feel like a prison one day? The very thing keeping him from happiness? Would she have said things differently or would she never have said anything at all?

Yuna Hollander is proud of her hockey player son. She loves attending galas with him and showing him off. Look! You said he wouldn’t be able to do it, and now you’re eating your words. He’s better than anything you’ve ever seen. But Shane’s mom also loves her son, and so they don’t do that often.

If he was able to be completely honest with her, she would probably understand. But that honesty would hurt her, so it feels impossible right now.

For the moment, Shane focuses on a different kind of honesty. Can’t tell his mom he wants to be with a guy if he doesn’t have him locked down yet, can he? That would be hasty.

After Shane had his breakdown, Ilya counted visiting Shane’s real apartment among the things that he wanted. So Shane invites him there. That’s a good proof of his intentions, right? Even if the thought of it makes him nauseous.

If someone sees Ilya, they’re just going to have to deal with that. Say they’re friends, maybe. Shane makes a note to ask Murna if she knows any apartments that are more discreet than this one without making it obvious he’s trying to hide something. He can already hear her laughing at him.

As soon as Ilya sends over the booking confirmation for his flight, Shane feels like he has a current running through him. Electricity hums in his veins as he tries his best to plan some meals they’ll both enjoy. Sparks between his fingers as he changes his sheets to the good satin ones and stashes some washcloths on the bedside table for easier cleanup later. Feels presumptuous about that for just a second before he realizes - oh. Maybe he does get to presume now. Ilya doesn’t seem like the kind of man who would change his mind at the last minute.

The day of Ilya’s arrival, Shane can’t do anything. He just about manages to eat breakfast, but after that, he sits on his couch like he’s paralyzed. Rooted to the spot. Wonders if it’s rude that he didn’t offer to get Ilya from the airport when he flew in just for Shane. He should’ve done that, it’s what you do when someone visits you. No matter the risk.

And then, a chime tells him that someone used their door code to his apartment. It’s an Ilya-specific chime, melodic and happy. Shane had to google the user manual to figure it out, but he did it. And then, he immediately felt stupid about it. Oh, well. It’s not like Ilya ever needs to know.

Shane opens his apartment door way too early. He’s on the fourth floor and Ilya seems to have chosen to take the stairs. So Shane gets to listen to his steps echoing through the stairwell, almost synchronized with his own erratic heartbeat.

The frantic knocking in his chest only abates when he sees Ilya’s curls cresting over the inoffensive terrazzo pattern of the stairs. And then, it drops out completely. Because as soon as their eyes meet, Ilya stumbles. Fuck. 

Ilya catches himself, thank God. Shane hurries to his side to grab him by the shoulder, warm and solid beneath the fabric of his sweater. He doesn’t let go until he’s pushed Ilya to sit on the little ottoman by the door where he always sits to tie his shoes.

His hands come to rest on Ilya’s cheeks, tilting his head so Shane can better look at him. That happens without his input.

“Everything okay?” Shane hears himself ask.

“Yes.” Ilya’s voice is steady, at least. “Just very relieved. I see you and it… how you say feel too much? Overwhelmed? I see your pretty freckles and then I have all emotions at same time.”

“Oh.” Shane blinks. “And that’s… a good thing?”

It almost feels like an excuse. Like Ilya is flirting again, to distract Shane from one of his too-probing questions. Except Shane hasn’t even asked one of those yet. That’s for later, when they’ve eaten. Or maybe when they’re lying in bed, loose-limbed and still a little sweaty.

“Is good thing if you say yes. Otherwise is just very embarrassing.”

Oh. Shane’s chest cracks open. He thought he was being clear, by asking Ilya to come to Montreal and inviting him into his home. Earlier, too, when he asked for time to get used to the idea. What did he say, exactly? He can’t remember now.

Has Ilya spent this entire time, all of these text messages and calls, thinking Shane might still say no? The idea makes Shane’s stomach turn.

“Of course, I’m saying yes,” he hurries to say. “Fuck, was that... were you worried about that? I thought you could tell.”

This up close, Shane can see tears forming in Ilya’s eyes. They glint even in the dim light of the windowless corridor, little gems in the corners of wide blue eyes.

“I thought I could. But... If I don’t know for sure, then I can still be wrong, yes? Would make sense to say no. Many good reasons.”

Fuck, maybe they’re more similar than Shane thought. He’s going to have to be clearer about his intentions here. Fuck his embarrassment, Shane’s comfort isn’t worth this kind of pain. He takes a deep breath.

“Not a single one good enough,” he says. And then, he has to catch Ilya by the chin to keep him from hiding. If they’re doing this, they’re doing it with eye contact. “Hey, no. None of that, okay? It’s gonna be difficult, we both know this. But I think it’s gonna be worth it. I really want this. I want you.”

At that point, Ilya openly starts crying. It bursts out of him so suddenly that Shane has to clamp down on a flinch. Don’t react until you know what’s happening, he tells himself. This doesn’t feel like the type of situations where there’s leeway for misunderstandings. Those have already caused enough trouble for them.

Ilya tries to bury his face in Shane’s wool sweater, which seems like a good sign. Still, Shane doesn’t feel like he’s been clear enough. So he goes to his knees in front of Ilya to make sure they’re looking at each other again.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t know it was stressing you out this much. If I had, I wouldn’t have made you wait like this. I just wanted to do it right, you know? In person.”

“I’m sorry,” Ilya croaks. “For messing up plan. I did not mean to-”

“No, oh my God!” Shane grips Ilya’s shoulders. Firmly, to ground both of them. Fuck, this went so wrong. “My stupid plan doesn’t matter if it makes you feel like this. I don’t ever want you to be in pain over me, okay?”

Ilya blinks at him. His lashes look spiky, glistening and clumped together by tears. “But plan is important to you.”

“Ilya, listen to me.” 

Honestly, Shane could scream. He hates when this happens. It’s one of two nightmare scenarios when he communicates his needs. Scenario one: He says what he needs and people make fun of him for needing different things than they do. Scenario two: He says what he needs, and people interpret it as a firm rule to follow to the detriment of their own needs. As if communication isn’t the most important thing of all in these types of situations.

“Fuck the plan,” Shane says once he’s sure Ilya is listening. “Whatever my plans are, you’re more important than that. That’s what relationships are about, right? You’re my priority now. Obviously, if I really need something to feel okay, that’s different. But this was more about… doing things properly and thinking it would be nice to be able to have you in my own bed, you know? That’s just windowdressing.”

“Relationships?”

Shane wants to roll his eyes. Of course, that’s what Ilya fixates on. “Relationships. You’re not getting out of that one. If we’re doing this, we’re gonna call it a relationship and you’re gonna be my boyfriend.”

Ilya squeezes his eyes shut, but Shane still sees the tears spilling down his cheeks. “Fuck. Sorry I’m such a mess. Is good tears, I promise.”

As if Shane isn’t also a bit wet around the eyes at this point. He doesn’t say anything, just wraps his arms around his brand new boyfriend and squeezes him. Feels Ilya’s breath puff against his neck and doesn’t want to squirm away for once. 

It takes a while until they’re ready to untangle themselves. In the hopes of lightening the mood a bit, Shane takes Ilya on a tour of his apartment. Together, they mock the bland art his interior designer chose, and laugh when Ilya declares Shane’s white sheets perfect for two men to fuck in without having the traces be too visible.

“We still need to change them, though,” Shane says, just to make sure.

Ilya’s eyes are warm and crinkly. “Of course, we do. Just like you have fancy clothes butler and still need to fold your pants, yes?”

“How do you know what a clothes butler is?”

The offending piece of furniture is standing in the corner of Shane’s bedroom, half clothes hanger and half clothes rack. It was a birthday present from Shane’s mom a few years ago, but he’s never used it. But it hasn’t been five years yet, so he’d feel guilty throwing it out. It looks expensive. The gleaming wood is polished, not lacquered.

“I’m a distinguished gentleman,” Ilya claims.

Shane looks down at his mismatched socks, one black and one charcoal, and laughs. “Well, you’re certainly a man.”

Ilya clutches his chest like he’s mortally wounded. “This is how Shane Hollander talks to his boyfriend? I will tell-”

“Shane.”

“What?”

Shane flushes. “I’m just Shane here. Let’s leave the Hollander at the door, yeah? I don’t know what to think of him right now.”

Later, when they’ve eaten lunch and are sitting at the table still nursing their drinks, Shane tries to explain a bit more. Uses Rose’s words without mentioning Rose, in order to avoid distraction. Then has to explain Rose anyways because his attempts at subtlety are, apparently, genuinely alarming. 

“We’re just friends, though, I promise. If you see anything in the tabloids, just ignore it. It’s not like that. She could tell just from looking at me.”

A small smile sneaks onto Ilya’s face. “So could I. Or - well. I suspected. And then I hoped. And then you got hard in the shower, and it all became very clear.”

Shane shakes his head. “I just wanted to say I didn’t tell her about you. But she knows there’s someone. And she’s very excited about it. She’s been encouraging me to do this. So.”

“Oh,” Ilya says. “Rose Landry knows you have crush on sexy man?”

“Rose Landry knows I’m in love with a man who is kind, and respectful, and who was brave enough to make the first move.”

Both times, Shane thinks. His heart is beating ridiculously quickly. He can feel it everywhere, even down to his toes. Fuck, this is terrifying. But if Ilya was brave last month, and if honesty is as necessary as he’s learned today, then Shane can be brave too.

“It sounds stupid, but I think I’ve maybe been falling in love with you for a while.”

First, Ilya’s eyes are wide as can be. Then, they’re closed again. As if that’d hide the new onslaught of tears. But soon enough, Ilya’s looking at Shane again. His eyes and cheeks are glistening.

“I am in love with you too, Shane. Don’t remember when it happened, but I’ve known for a while. Was scary.”

“Well, it doesn’t have to be scary anymore, alright?” Shane reaches out to wipe at Ilya’s wet face. “Or maybe we can be scared together, that seems more realistic.”

The word realistic makes Ilya roll his eyes, and then they’re bickering again. Soon enough, they transition to kissing, and then Ilya tugs at Shane so urgently he gets worried about his sweater. Which is, of course, the only reason he follows his boyfriend - boyfriend! - to the bedroom, where they thoroughly ravish each other. After folding Shane’s clothes.

When Shane returns from his shower, the sheets are already changed. Ilya doesn’t even mention it, just holds the duvet open for Shane to climb in and curls around him until they’re so entangled that Shane couldn’t move even if he wanted to. 

He feels calm, for once. Solid. Proud. Which is a weird word in this context, maybe, but he still thinks it’s the right one. Shane is proud, because he was afraid, but he still put on his big boy pants and got himself a boyfriend. It’s the kind of achievement he instinctively wants to tell his parents about.

Realizing that isn’t as scary as it would’ve been a few days ago. The thought of coming out is still terrifying. But his parents love him so much, Shane knows. And he wants them to know him. Wants them to know Ilya, and how much he loves him. And maybe he wants to show him off and reassure his parents he’s not alone anymore. That would also be nice.

Today is not the day. If Shane is going to do this, he’ll need to make lists and plan for contingencies and write a speech. Which is also not happening anytime soon. First, he needs to laze away the day with his boyfriend. And then, when he’s had the opportunity to prep thoroughly, he needs to get fucked by his boyfriend. Face to face, just like the first time. Until he cries. And it’ll be okay, because afterwards, they’ll shower together, and Ilya will hold him and they won’t stop kissing until they fall asleep.

Because they’re in love.

Chapter End Notes

Wooo, boy! Sorry it took so long, but I wanted to make sure it was right. And also it got long again.

This has been such a journey! Finally, Shane is at a place where he can tell Shane Hollander to fuck off sometimes. And where he has other people to help him do it! Now, he only needs to rope in his mom and then he can maybe have more fun playing hockey again.

Tell me what you thought? I've been loving all of your kind comments, they've been an incredible motivation while I was writing. Thank you so much!