Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander & Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau

Additional Tags:

Slow Burn, Love, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander is Traded, Ilya Rozanov is Obsessed With Shane Hollander, Angst with a Happy Ending, Mutual Pining, Yearning, POV Shane Hollander, POV Ilya Rozanov, Hockey, Stanley Cup, Shane Hollander Leaves the Montreal Voyageurs | Montreal Metros, Bottom Shane Hollander, Autistic Shane Hollander, Top Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov Needs A Hug, Soft Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander is a Mess, idiots to lovers, San Francisco has a hockey team and their mascot is a sea lion, Shane Hollander Comes Out, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander's Freckles, the boys should really just have a dang conversation already, Depression, Shane Hollander goes to a gay bar and doesn't implode

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-04-20 Updated: 2026-05-06 Words: 20,765 Chapters: 8/20

Promise

Summary

After winning the cup two seasons in a row, Shane Hollander is inexplicably traded to a west coast team just two days before Montreal and Boston are to meet for the first time of the season. Shane reaches out, Ilya doesn't reply. Then Ilya reaches out, Shane ignores him.

What now?

Notes

I wrote this while listening to Promise by Laufey over and over again in a strangely obsessive way. So, if you're looking for the vibe of at least these few chapters, there you have it.

I'm going to try to keep this updated every two days or so at first until it becomes unsustainable or I get too far over my skis.

Chapter 1: Though aurora skies

He didn’t object. When Farah, his agent, had called him about the baffling trade, he didn’t object. No bargaining, no begging, just “Huh.” Farah kept talking, and Shane kept responding, but he was on autopilot. He had been doing this all his life, pretending to be there when he was anything but. Farah didn’t notice. She probably would be shocked later when he had no idea what her instructions had been.

“You’ll likely get a call from the team in the next hour or so and they’ll give you a time to report to the airport. It’s just over 6 hours to San Francisco, so you’ll likely not report to practice for a couple of days with all the travel, but their coaching staff and equipment manager will likely be in touch today… Shane? Are you still there?”

“Yeah, Farah. Yeah.” Shane snapped to attention, finding he did know what he was supposed to be doing. It was nice when his brain did the work while he was gone. “Take the call, get on the plane, get back to practice. Right.”

“Hey, sweetheart, I’m really sorry this is happening. I know how much you love your life in Montreal.” She paused to breathe and Shane quickly interrupted her.

“It’s part of the game, Farah. If I didn’t want to get traded, I’d pick another career.” It had sounded very mature and professional but Shane knew he was feeling anything but. “Thank you. Really.” The phone clicked and Shane dropped down into the leather chair of his hotel room. Where was he even? Tampa? A Carolina? It didn’t really matter. He’d ask his mom to go pack him a couple of bags and close up his apartment. He had what? Two seasons left on this contract? Or was it three?

Shane closed his eyes and blew out a breath. His phone buzzed. Looking down at the screen, a text blinked back at him..

LILY: See you in two days.

“Fuck.”

—--

It was like Farah had predicted. His coach called– all business and so detached. As if the past 5 years of his life did not matter. As if he was a toy that two children could exchange. Being traded is hard. It’s full of shame, of guilt, of blame. And for generational talents who were also franchise anchors, it was downright bizarre. Shane didn’t even ask his coach why. The words he was saying were robotic and sounded strange coming out of his mouth. Shane could easily imagine the front office approved script he was reading from sitting just out of frame.

Shane’s flight was in 4 hours. He sat in the hotel lobby facing a warm mostly ignored beer. The rest of the team was already on the bus and headed to the airport. He wondered if they noticed he wasn’t on the bus. If they asked about him, and what their HR approved message had sounded like. Shane’s phone was quiet, so it was possible no one knew yet. He hoped he would already be in the air when the news broke. Let Farah and his mom have the first few hours.

The text from Rozanov sat unanswered. He picked up his phone and thought about calling. They didn’t do that. Hadn’t done that. But it felt… wrong to just send a text. Right? He chickened out.

SHANE: I got traded.

His phone rang a second later, but before he could pick it up, the call disconnected.

—-

The news had been a frenzy the week Hollander was traded. And everyone wanted to know what Ilya thought. Press calls, on ice interviews, random people on the street. Everyone calling his name to ask him what he thought of Montreal’s own Shane Hollander being sent to the west coast away from the snow and the pressure of the eastern division.

“I look forward to seeing him in the Stanley Cup Finals.” had worked at first. But it lost his humor on day three. And from there all he could do was shrug and say the same old “Let’s see if he can catch up to me in the scoring race.”

But alone, in his house in his bed, Ilya felt empty. Things had been good(?), yes, good, between him and Hollander. They had fallen into a rhythm after Vegas last year and it had been nice. It had been comfortable. It had been all Ilya had thought about since. He measured the days in how far they were from the next time they’d meet. Three weeks till I’m in Montreal, Two weeks till he’s in Boston. Back and forth through the season till the inevitably torturous summer break.

They were just two days away from the first meeting of the season when Hollander was suddenly gone. Ilya realized he was being dramatic. It wasn’t like he had died or even retired. But playing on the west coast… Hollander may as well have been on another planet. Their teams would only meet twice this year. He had already checked. And they wouldn’t even be together at the All Star Game.

Ilya stared at the last text Jane had sent. “I got traded.” Ilya’s first reaction had been to jam the call button. To hear his voice. To protest. To beg him not to go. But as fast as the impulse hit him, the cold understanding that there just was no choice. No stopping this. It was the sacrifice they made for their charmed lives. And so he hung up.

That was that.

Hollander never called back. Never texted again. And so Ilya watched ESPN that night. San Francisco’s post game interview talking about Hollander reporting for practice in the morning. Montreal welcoming the player they had replaced him with. So many commentators shocked and confused and angry about the whole thing.

It had been 16 days and the news hadn’t let up. Hollander had played three games now with the Sea Lions and been amazing in each one. That only fueled their confusion. Ilya watched the games he could, west coast time being generous to him. When his teammates asked if he was coming out, he’d make an excuse to go home and watch Hollander play. It felt like an addiction, the physical need to just watch him move and breathe and be happy.

For all the angst that Ilya felt, Hollander did look happy on the screen. His new team embraced him (of course they did, they were extremely lucky to have him) and he was playing the best hockey of his life. Ilya could tell he had been out in the sunshine, his skin was darker, sure, but also glowing in a way. He seemed relaxed, too. At home, even.

Ilya couldn’t help but wonder if it wasn’t just the weather or the lowered expectations or the much chiller team, but also… him. That Hollander was no longer tethered to him. That maybe he was able to measure his life in things other than the days between the moments they spent crashing into each other. That while Ilya felt like he was drowning, maybe Hollander felt like he had finally been pulled from the water.

Ilya looked down at his own hands to see he was holding his phone, text messages open, and thumb hovering over Jane’s name. Fuck. He had stopped himself from doing this too many times to count. But it had been 16 days, the longest they’d gone without texting or talking or fucking in what? A year? Two? Before all blended together in a long mess and after stretched before him desperately long and entirely wrong.

So, fuck it, he’d text. What was there to lose, really? Two awkward games a year? Maybe a press conference or two together. An award presentation sometime in the future? None of that mattered, not really.

ILYA: San Francisco looks good on you.

Sure, it was flirty and ignored the weight of everything. Ignored the reality that Hollander’s last message held. But this is what they were best at. Starting over. Ignoring the emotion, and hurt, and whatever else was lingering between them.

The three dots appeared. Then disappeared. Then appeared. Then they were gone. Ilya didn’t realize he was holding his breath. Butterflies were building in his stomach and he was focused on each breath as it came and went. Then it just stopped. He threw his phone, shattering the screen.

—-

Shane was in the locker room when he had gotten Lily’s text. It was unmistakably him. Smooth, simple, devoid of real emotion while being flirty. His way of saying I’m still here. I still want you. Can we forget? But Shane didn’t want to forget just yet.

If he was being honest, he was hurt. Rozanov had left him alone and disconnected on what had been the worst day of his life. It had felt so sparkly clear– if we can’t fuck in two days, what is there to talk about anyway? And so as the days passed one by one, Shane just accepted it was done. They were done.

It was better this way, he reasoned. What could they possibly expect from two nights a year? The collision course Shane had seen ahead of them was just gone. And wasn’t that a good thing? Wasn’t that what he had been hoping for all along? They couldn’t be together anyway. There was no more than what they had and the longer they had that, the more Shane wanted. It had become painful more than fun.

So, clean break. Restart. Plus he was in San Francisco now. A good place for… people like him. A good place to find himself in a less precarious situation, even. A good place to build a life that wasn’t just orbiting a brooding sarcastic man who left him aching and wanting and feeling so very alone.

For 16 days he believed his own lie. He spent time in the sun, and for the first time in his life could run outside during the season every day. He read on the balcony in his apartment, and spent days off exploring the hilly damp city that somehow was shrouded in fog and bathed in sunshine. And then, in the loud chaotic locker room after a particularly good game, Lily sent him a text.

He typed and stopped. And typed again. Something flirty. Something flippant. Something angry. Something dismissive. Then he stopped typing, and looked down at his phone.

SHANE: I miss you.

Shaking his head violently, he erased the words letter by letter and shoved his phone back in his bag.

Chapter 2: How we didn't say goodbye

Chapter Summary

This was a terrible idea. Ilya knew it was a terrible idea. He also knew he wasn’t going to keep himself from doing it, so he didn’t even bother to try.

He was standing at the LA Kings ticket booth an hour before their game started. He had skipped the morning optional practice back in Anaheim to come to LA early. Ilya wasn’t sure why he didn’t think of it earlier… San Francisco played the Kings the day before the Bears did. Which meant Shane was in the same city at the same time playing hockey. On a day Ilya had off.

Okay, so it was extremely weird for him to be spending a day off at a hockey game. But it wasn’t unheard of entirely. Buying a regular ticket and sitting in the crowd? Yeah, okay, that was a particularly awful idea. But Ilya was known for being a little excentric, a little weird, and extremely unbothered about it.

Chapter Notes

The idea for this chapter came to me as I was doing some schedule research and realized that this year Boston played LA the day after San Jose did. You're welcome.

Somehow it was already November, and Ilya was on an airplane across the country. Anaheim, LA, and then at the end of the roadie, San Francisco. These long west coast trips were hard on the body and often on team morale. They would play at home, and then head straight to the airport from there. Seven hours gate to gate and back on a bus to their hotel. That would give them two full days to acclimate and rest before their first game.

Two full days in LA when all Ilya wanted to do was find himself in San Francisco.

He slept fitfully on the plane. The anxiety of being in the same time zone as Shane again building in his body. He felt like he had been plugged into an outlet. Every bit of him charged and anxious. The feeling made him want to peel off his own skin to get away from it. Nothing felt right. He shifted in his seat for the 100th time when Marleau narrowed his eyes.

“No one can sleep if you can’t sleep, eh, Roz?” Marleau turned towards the window, resting his head on a surface that Ilya couldn’t jostle.

“Sorry.” Ilya muttered. He pulled out his phone, stuck his earbuds in his ears and put on some action movie he had seen 100 times hoping he could trick his brain into shutting up long enough to get some sleep.

—
This was a terrible idea. Ilya knew it was a terrible idea. He also knew he wasn’t going to keep himself from doing it, so he didn’t even bother to try.

He was standing at the LA Kings ticket booth an hour before their game started. He had skipped the morning optional practice back in Anaheim to come to LA early. Ilya wasn’t sure why he didn’t think of it earlier… San Francisco played the Kings the day before the Bears did. Which meant Shane was in the same city at the same time playing hockey. On a day Ilya had off.

Okay, so it was extremely weird for him to be spending a day off at a hockey game. But it wasn’t unheard of entirely. Buying a regular ticket and sitting in the crowd? Yeah, okay, that was a particularly awful idea. But Ilya was known for being a little excentric, a little weird, and extremely unbothered about it.

He didn’t take off his sunglasses or hat as he bought his ticket. And god bless him, the ticket booth attendant didn’t even look twice. Ilya secured himself a decent seat at center ice… not along the glass. That would be too much. But close enough that he hoped maybe the jumbo tron would catch him. A stadium full of eighteen thousand fans either cheering or booing him should get Shane’s attention, right?

Yes, this was a terrible idea.

Ilya entered through a normal gate. Went through security like a normal fan. At first no one seemed to recognize him. Or maybe because he was in LA everyone was much better at pretending not to see him. There were cities that were just like that. New York and LA chief among them. People were just cooler here. Let you exist more. And so he ambled through the concourse mostly unnoticed and unbothered.

Ilya had never been to an NHL game as a fan, he realized. Not really. Sure, he had sat in the box when he was injured or been a guest at a game one of his friends invited him to. But he had never walked in through the general entrance gate, bought a pretzel and a beer and ambled to a regular seat. It was thrilling and much more exciting than he had imagined it would be. Like he was a spy getting away with something he shouldn’t. He was almost giddy.

He had an aisle seat about 10 rows up off the ice just at the red line. He settled in for warm ups and searched the visitors side. He hadn’t seen Hollander since the MHL awards in July. Four months wasn’t long, not really, but it had felt like an eternity.

Ilya’s breath caught when he finally saw him stretching in the silly frog pose that they all did and the fans all adored. His eyes were glued to Hollander as he stood and started passing a puck around with his teammates. Ilya realized how few of their names he even knew. Hollander took a shot and turned around to reveal an A on his jersey. Ilya found himself feeling a pang of… anger? Sadness? Disappointment? Hollander had been a wonderful captain for Montreal, winning them two cups before they tossed him away to the west where he had to work his way back up under veteran skaters he barely knew.

The clang of the puck against the pole snapped Ilya back to attention. He watched through his sunglasses as Hollander was just Hollander. Beautiful, fluid on the ice, confident, just friendly enough to make friends without it feeling forced. He was just himself.

Ilya wasn’t sure what he had expected. Perhaps he was hoping for a miserable Hollander who hated every moment of his time this far away from home. Perhaps he expected Hollander to be resigned to it, or angry about it. But what he found instead was a comfortable man who was at the top of his career and seemed to accept the uncertainty of it all. Ilya was bothered by how much Hollander was unbothered.

The game started with the usual pomp and circumstance. The lights and the booming announcer. The pump up music that got the crowd loud. The crowd size was respectable. Loud and excited, though the arena wasn’t quite as full as Boston’s usually was. Ilya was struck by how fun it seemed to just be a part of loving hockey. He had never been a fan of this hockey league with this hockey culture. He could get into this.

It was unremarkable as far as games go. Hollander was doing his thing, and Ilya could tell that he was struggling, just a little, to find his place in his line. The wings were working with him, yes, but they still didn’t know him and so sometimes the puck was just a little out of place. The assist wasn’t materializing. Hollander would break the perfect mask of being calm and confident and show he was annoyed. That didn’t stop him from scoring, though. Burying it deep in the net straight through the goalies legs. It was a good shot and the right wing who assisted was just as excited as Hollander appeared.

He told himself he was here to watch the Sea Lions play. It was like live game tape. And, yes, he had stopped watching Hollander exclusively and started watching the team, but he didn’t believe his own lie, not really.

Sometime in the second period, Ilya took off his sunglasses and hat. He could sense people looking at him. He knew people were snapping photos as if he could hear the shutters of the cameras. Little screens nonchalantly popping up pointed at him and not the ice. He couldn’t help but smirk. His ridiculous plan that was not at all the reason he was in this arena (not one bit) appeared to be working.

As the horn blasted for the end of the second period, Ilya slid from his seat to get a second beer. He wasn’t mobbed on the concourse but he wasn’t entirely ignored anymore either. He smiled at fans, shook hands, but in general was left alone. God bless LA.

Ilya got his beer and some cotton candy. He was a grown man and could eat a bag of pink fluff if he wanted to. Also, it made him look cute. He wanted to look cute, not in the least bit intimidating. The next period started, the score still tied at 1. The first TV break starts and… there it was.

Ilya smiled and waved as the camera stopped on him, putting his face up on the jumbo tron. He was clutching his half eaten bag of cotton candy with a huge almost silly grin. The crowd went wild, loud enough that he could see Shane Hollander look up from his bench and go white. Suddenly Ilya wished he had gotten a closer seat. He wanted to see the expression on his face. He needed actual proof that Hollander still cared. That he’d react to Ilya. Hollander turned away from the jumbotron and Ilya caught enough of a glance to confirm that yes, he reacted. In fact, Hollander looked mad. Like, really really mad.

The game ended, Hollander had gotten another goal and won the game. The crowd, now deflated, was filing out of the arena. Ilya lingered a bit so as not to be totally caught in the crush of the crowd. He put his sunglasses and hat back on and slipped out into the night. LA was bright and loud. Not as much as NY, sure, but bright and loud nonetheless. Just as he settled into his town car, Ilya felt a buzz in his pocket.

JANE: What the fuck were you doing at my game?

There it was. Ilya let out a long breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. It worked.

—-

What. the. Fuck.

Shane had a normal warm up to a normal game. He was reasonably happy with his team mates. He was reasonably happy with his playing. He was reasonably content with his life (given the circumstances). Sure, it was a bit frustrating to find the puck too far ahead or just a bit too far back more often than he’d like. And sure, it was hard having no real friends in a group of guys who had gone mostly unchanged for the past two seasons. But it was all reasonably okay as far as surprise trades full across a continent go.

It was fine.

Did he know that Rozanov was playing in this same stadium less than 24 hours from now? Yes. Of course he’d known. The obsessive undeniable compulsion to check the man’s schedule had only increased since his text. Three weeks, four days and five hours ago. But who was counting? He was not counting.

And while his body hummed with the knowledge that Rozanov was likely somewhere within miles of him, in this very city, he didn’t expect to see him. He surely wasn’t going to ask to see him.

The third period was upon them, and Shane was getting worked up. He couldn’t break through and hadn’t scored since the first 10 minutes of the game. He hadn’t been able to eke out an assist, either. His passes weren’t landing as well with his wings as he would have hoped, and the game felt sluggish and off. The first commercial time out started and he sat on the bench, raising his water bottle to his face and taking a long pull.

The crowd was suddenly deafening. Loud and rowdy and jubilant, even. Shane glanced up at the jumbo tron despite himself. He figured he’d see a kid dancing or a fan doing something weird or ridiculous. What he did not figure was he’d be looking straight at the twenty foot face of Ilya Rozanov.

Shane stopped breathing. He stopped moving. Ilya smiled at the camera hugging a ridiculous pink bag of cotton candy to his chest and raised a hand to wiggle his fingers in a smug little wave. Shane was hit with the realization that this was for him. That Rozanov had walked himself into the Staples Arena, sat himself down in the fan seats and waited to get noticed. Then he wiggled his fingers and hoped Shane would see him. And how would Shane not see him?

One of his teammates, Jones or James or something like that elbowed him. “Holy fuck, dude. What is Rozanov doing sitting in the god damned stands? That guy is so weird. You know him, right?”

“I mean, kinda.” Shane heard himself answer, but didn’t really remember doing it. Rozanov’s face disappeared from the screen and Shane was furious and flushed and shaking. The time out ended, his shift hopped over the boards, and he commanded the ice. Shane poured whatever it was he was feeling into his skating.

The game shifted after that. It didn’t take more than 3 minutes of gameplay for Shane to sink another puck in the net. On this team he wasn’t always the only scorer. His team mates were good. They worked together. And most importantly they hadn’t learned to rely entirely on Shane. It was nice. It was freeing. He really did not care about that at this moment. At this moment he wanted to play hockey so hard that Ilya Rozanov was impressed. And that feeling made him so mad that he wanted to skate so fast he melted divots in the ice behind him. Whatever it was going on in him, it worked enough that they ended the game 2-1.

Shane headed to the locker room and stripped off his gear, He always left his gear organized and easy to pack for the equipment managers. Polite, respectful Shane Hollander would never toss it in a heap or stack it haphazardly in his stall. Once he was down to his compression layer and tugging off his socks, the anger he had been bottling up for the past hour possessed him. He grabbed his phone out of his bag and typed the text with so much intensity he was worried he’d put his hand through the screen.

SHANE: What the fuck were you doing at my game?

The dots appeared immediately, transitioning to a little bloop as the reply came though.

LILY: Getting your attention.

Shane huffed out a breath and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. He needed to shower. He needed to change. He needed to get himself to the bus to get to the plane to get home to sleep in his own fucking bed. He did not need to be texting with an extremely irritating Russian who could not take a hint.

SHANE: You’re not going to leave me alone, are you?

LILY: No.

SHANE: Text me after our game.

Chapter End Notes

The next one is going to be significantly longer and therefore I'm going to be a bit slower to update than like 12 hours. Think more like 3-4 days.

Yes, they will be in the same place at the same time. I promise.

Chapter 3: I'm standing still

Chapter Summary

“We got you, Hollzy. Ya’ll are crazy out there. Don’t you worry about that shit.” Shane hadn’t had a nickname like that in Montreal. He was just always Hollander. But the locker room here in California was much less serious, much less intense, and all the guys called each other by multiple nicknames. Hollzy was the one based on his name, but he would really be one of them when he got a name based on something about him. Shane secretly couldn’t wait.

“Don’t I know it.” Shane met Jojo’s eyes and the corners of his mouth turned up just a little bit. “But it did make beating their asses fucking fun.”

“Well, that I can get behind.” Jojo tapped his helmet to Shane’s. “Let’s go have some fucking fun.”

Chapter Notes

The song I listened to the most writing this one was The World Spins Madly On. In case you want to listen along. I decided to break the game up from the meet up cause we get some new characters to absorb and (hopefully) love.

THANK YOU to everyone who's read this so far and please pass it on if you like it. :)

“Welcome to Inside the Crease, the best podcast for the hockey obsessed and hockey curious. My name is Peter Mann and I’m here with Ray Schmidt. Today we’re going to talk about the most anticipated game of the week. The San Francisco Sea Lions take on the Boston Bears for the first time since Shane Hollander was traded outside of the eastern division. He had been longtime rivals with the Boston captain, Ilya Rozanov, though they haven’t played on the same ice since April of last year when Boston fell to Montreal in the first round of the playoffs.

So what do you think, Ray– are these two guys excited to face off again, or is this rivalry dead in the water?”

“Well, I don’t know, Pete. It all comes down to how things feel on the ice tomorrow, but given that Hollander isn’t the captain of the Sea Lions, and that’s a team that prefers a calm even game, I think there won’t be the kind of fireworks we’ve come to expect from a Hollander Rozanov game. Plus, and I know this is an unpopular opinion, but sometimes I feel like this rivalry thing is something the league is selling us to keep people engaged with them. And it’s a lot harder to do that in this current MHL set up.”

“I guess we won’t know till tomorrow, Ray, but I’m excited to find out–”

—-

The fucking audacity. The sheer fucking audacity.

The anger hadn’t abated. Shane had flown home, slept, woken up, gone to practice, came home, then did it all again the next day, but his body was still full of rage. His hands were shaking as he put on his skates, getting ready in the dressing room before the game began. He hadn’t been aware he had it in him to stay mad for fourty-eight minutes, let alone fourty-eight hours.

But how fucking dare Rozanov walk into an arena with the sheer purpose of prodding Shane. As if he hadn’t been the first one to disengage. As if he hadn’t fucked off for two full weeks before slinking back into his DMs without a single acknowledgement. And DURING a game.

Fuck that shit.

Shane knew his teammates could sense something was going on with him. Anger was rolling off of him in waves. He even accidentally checked his own defense during a scrimmage yesterday.

“Yo, dude,” James Jordan, the left wing on Shane’s line called over to him as they came off the ice at practice. “You okay, man? You seem… like tense or something?” Jojo had been with the Sea Lions three seasons. He was from michigan and looked exactly how you would imagine a hockey player from Michigan would look: tall, thin, brown hair, very crooked nose, and perfectly repaired teeth. He had been a first round draft pick and played like one. His name was on the back of jerseys all over town but he wasn’t a show boat or a star. He was the guy that made sure everyone was good. Made sure the team “passed the vibe check” as he would call it.

“Yeah. Sure. I’m okay.” Shane nodded, forcing his face into the manicured smile he saved for the press. “Don’t worry, Jojo, I’m just anxious to play Boston. I got it.”

“We got you, Hollzy. Ya’ll are crazy out there. Don’t you worry about that shit.” Shane hadn’t had a nickname like that in Montreal. He was just always Hollander. But the locker room here in California was much less serious, much less intense, and all the guys called each other by multiple nicknames. Hollzy was the one based on his name, but he would really be one of them when he got a name based on something about him. Shane secretly couldn’t wait.

“Don’t I know it.” Shane met Jojo’s eyes and the corners of his mouth turned up just a little bit. “But it did make beating their asses fucking fun.”

“Well, that I can get behind.” Jojo tapped his helmet to Shane’s. “Let’s go have some fucking fun.”

As they started out of the room, the rest of Shane’s line stopped to tap their helmets to his. A couple even clapped him on the shoulder. Jojo must have said something, but Shane found he didn’t mind. Their faces were soft and caring and he felt supported. Like really supported. Something soft and human. Not the growling yells they were taught to perform for each other over decades of hockey rink after rink coach after coach team after team.

—-

Shane told himself he was going to stay calm. And for a bit, he did. Through warm ups, through the anthem, all the way up to the first face off. He bent over placing his stick on the ice and held his breath. Rosanov took his time getting to the circle. He bent lazily at the waste and pushed his stick to the ice. Then he razed his green eyes to look for Shane’s. Shane glanced up at him, and immediately the anger came rushing back. The puck fell– Shane won the face off.

The anger caught up to Shane about 10 minutes into the first period. He wasn’t listening, he wasn’t in sync, he was chaotic and messy and mad. Each time he had to stand across from Rozanov, close enough to hear him breathe, to see the sweat drip from his curls under his helmet, it added fuel to the fire burning in his chest. He was clenching his teeth so badly he thought he’d bite right through his mouth guard.

“You think you’ll finally get a point tonight, Hollzy?” Rozanov chirped at him the next time they found themselves face to face, emphasizing the new nickname the San Francisco guys had given Shane. He seemed intent on making each face-off a new torture. He clearly was trying to goad Shane into talking to him or even just look up at him. Shane refused. Not a word. Not a glance.

He crashed Rozanov into the boards over and over and over. Even when they had played together regularly, Shane wasn’t that kind of player. He played hard, but he was more the quick type with strong stick handling and a sixth sense for where his fellow players were on the ice. But tonight he was all force. All strength. He answered every chirp with a hit, and it didn’t take long for Shane’s team to see just how far gone he really was.

The horn blew and the first period ended. Shane’s captain, Liam Nylander took his time gathering his water bottle so he could fall into step beside Shane as they entered the tunnel. Nylander was a huge Swedish defender that had been the San Francisco captain for longer than Shane had been in the NHL. He was the heart and soul and face of the franchise and he took that very seriously. So seriously that he knew he had to do something about his very short fused starting center before he blew up the whole dang game.

“Hey, Hollander, hang back..” Shane slowed to walk beside him, not making eye contact as they moved slowly down the tunnel together. “What’s up with you, man? You seem… hot… tonight.”

Shane took a deep breath and let it out slow and ragged “Hey, man, I’m sorry. He’s been chirping me in the face off, and it’s just getting to me.” He looked heavy and defeated and so so tired.

Nylander tilted his head and bit his lip as he appraised Shane and his words separately. Then he nodded slowly. “What if we swapped the lines out a bit? You can be on the ice with him less. It’ll give you a chance to calm down and the rest of us won’t be scared of taking some friendly fire. I can talk to coach about it now during the break, yeah?”

Nylander was a good captain. He saw past the players to the humans beneath and worked with the coaches and the managers to be flexible enough to compensate for when the person beneath was affecting the hockey player.

Nothing in Montreal was like that. If your personal life, or your mental health, or even your physical health was impacting your game– you were a liability. A weakness to be dismissed or pushed aside. It limited Shane’s effectiveness as a captain and it harmed Shane as a person. He hadn’t realized how much until he had come here and started playing under Nylander and Coach Russ Bernette.

Shane sat in his stall and visibly relaxed. Just that little bit of care had acted as a release valve, letting some of his anger escape and lessening the pressure inside him. Burnette came in and gave them some notes, they were technical and precise. No one yelled. Everyone settled in for the three minutes of breathing they did as a group. Some sports psychologist added it to the game day routine, and honestly, it was really improving Shane’s game.

“Feeling better, Hollzy?” His neighbor and right wing John Dziurzynski gave him a little shoulder shove. Dziurzynski was a good humored guy– just a little bit dorky and a little bit weird.

“Yeah, man.” He let out a strained laugh and smiled over his shoulder. “I’m good.” He squirted some water in his mouth and put his helmet back on his head, clipping it before picking up his gloves again.

The second period was calmer. More controlled. Shane didn’t mind his time on the second line. The team here was more balanced and a lot more cohesive than he had expected. Plus, not having face off after face off across from Rozanov was doing wonders for his game. He was able to take time, let the game breathe and just play smart hockey.. Dziurzynski scored half way through the period. Nylander had the assist. The mood lifted as they took the lead.

Then Boston got a power play.

Shane knew that he would play for the power play. He had to. He was the fastest skater with the highest hockey IQ on the team. Shane also knew Rozanov would play the power play. That’s how this worked. They skated across from each other and Rozanov stilled behind his stick looking straight at Shane’s face. Shane raised his eyes so they were staring straight at each other.

Time stopped. Shane could feel his chest burn and his breath catch. He felt like he was in a tunnel and everything sounded so far away. The sound of their sticks clicking against each other and tapping on the ice. The roaring crowd. The ref’s instructions. The world kept going, but Shane was frozen, eyes locked with Rozanov. Shane felt the overwhelming urge to say something. Anything. But he couldn’t find words for whatever he was feeling. Then just as Rozanov opened his mouth to speak, the puck hit the ice.

Shane swiped it away, but the Sea Lions were short handed, and Boston won the face off.

Chapter End Notes

We're likely looking at another few days before I get more in, but the next chapter will be the meet up, so do not worry. The angst is on its way.

Chapter 4: How we didn't say goodbye

Chapter Summary

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” As soon as Rosanov stepped into Shane’s apartment, he pushed the door closed and turned to face him. Rosanov had his hands in the front pocket of his soft black hoodie. The hood was pulled up, but his curls peeked out from beneath. He was smiling at Shane, his eyes soft. He looked… happy.

“There you are.” Rozanov didn’t even acknowledge the rage that had been directed at him all night. He just stood there beaming at Shane. 

Chapter Notes

I updated the rating to explicit, so warning that now we have full on explicit material. I haven't written it in like 22 years, so please excuse any rust or awkwardness, it just felt off to use FTB here.

Ilya Rozanov hated talking to the press. Yes, he was good at it. And yes, it was part of his contractual obligations as the captain of the Bears. But he hated it. They always asked the same stupid questions with answers that said little to nothing about what really happened. He couldn’t tell them yesterday that they lost the game because his goalie got in a fight with his girlfriend on FaceTime an hour before the game. Or that he was distracted tonight because he couldn’t get Hollander to look him in the eye. No, he couldn’t tell them any of that, so instead he just smiled and gave the same old platitudes about working hard and getting them next time or being pleased they put a game together. Whatever the line of the day was.

But tonight. Well,  he particularly hated the press tonight. They would not let go of this old rivals meeting in the West narrative they had been pushing all damn week. They kept asking the same version of the same question, and it was exhausting. 

“How did it feel to play against Shane Hollander again, Ilya?”

“It was nice. I got to go to the beach before beating him this time. All-inclusive resort.” Ilya quipped. This had become a well-rehearsed dance. One he had hoped 4500 miles would end. But the season was young, and this was still new, so the dance remained. 

“Were the Sea Lions a better team with Hollander?”

“You should ask them that. It looks like we beat them last year, and we beat them again today. So, they still aren’t as good as we are, eh?” Yes, it was arrogant, but he was feeling snippy and annoyed, and the best way to get this over was to give them a soundbite that made him sound like a total ass and then saunter off. He had a phone to check, an apartment to find, and a man to pin down and fuck. Much more important stuff than this.

“Iyla, one more. We saw you exchange some words with Nylander before he took a swing at you. Care to tell us what that’s about?” 

Ilya’s lips curled up in a smile, and he shrugged his shoulders. “You’re going to have to ask him, guys. Thank you.” He winked, turned, and walked back into the locker room.

—-

 

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” As soon as Rosanov stepped into Shane’s apartment, he pushed the door closed and turned to face him. Rosanov had his hands in the front pocket of his soft black hoodie. The hood was pulled up, but his curls peeked out from beneath. He was smiling at Shane, his eyes soft. He looked… happy.

“There you are.” Rozanov didn’t even acknowledge the rage that had been directed at him all night. He just stood there beaming at Shane. 

Shane was immediately disarmed. He couldn’t remember why he was mad. Why had he been so mad? He just stared at the man standing in his entryway. Roazanov looked the same but also entirely different. Had he always been that tall? Had he always looked that tired? Shane crinkled his eyes, scrunching up his freckles as he studied Rozanov. 

Suddenly, Shane realized that it had been the longest time they hadn’t seen each other since Sochi. Five months. His chest burned, the feeling starting in the center and spreading out across the whole of him. His breath caught, and he put a hand on his chest as if he could feel the warmth.  Behind his eyes also started burning, his vision suddenly blurring.Oh god, was he crying? Why was he crying? He swallowed hard, willing his face to get itself together. 

“Here I am.” Shane’s voice came out in a whisper. 

They collided a moment later. Shane wasn’t sure who had moved first, but he was pretty sure they had met in the middle. Lips hitting each other so hard they just about clicked teeth. Rozanov pressed forward, attacking Shane with a fierce and uncontrolled need. Walking him back down the hallway, coaxing his mouth open, grabbing him around the back with one hand, while the other cupped Shane’s chin. He was drinking Shane in like a man trapped in the desert. It was overwhelming and amazing, and Shane just felt comfortable? Safe? Relieved? It washed over him like a wave of cool water over a burn, settling something Shane hadn’t realized was unsettled. 

Shane could feel himself melt into Rozanov. Hand moving up to push back the hood and fingers grasping at the curls underneath. He thunked against the wall and wrapped one leg around Rosanov’s, twining them together from head to toe. They stayed like that for a while. Five minutes? Ten? Shane wasn’t sure. They were just kissing and breathing and then kissing some more. Finally, Shane came back to himself, lowering his foot and dropping his hands from Rozanov’s hair to his shoulders, leaning, pushing back on them.

“Wait. Stop. Hold on. Hold on.” Shane mumbled against his lips as they pushed apart just a couple of inches. “We should talk.”

Rozanov grunted in response, dropping his head back and exposing his neck to Shane. He let out a long sigh before rolling his head forward and meeting Shane’s eyes.“Yes. Okay. We talk.” 

Shane was surprised that he didn’t fight it. Didn’t say later and keep them hurtling towards the bed. That was how this usually went, and while Shane had meant that he wanted to talk, he didn’t have a plan to actually do so. That wasn’t how this went. That wasn’t what they did. Well, shit. 

“Should we sit down?” Shane offered awkwardly as he started to slide out from under Rozanov. The other man didn’t reply, but did follow after as Shane moved down the hallway and into his living room. Shane hadn’t wasted time moving from his team-provided rental into his own space. His apartment was spacious, had soft, low lighting, and lush curtains to help dampen the echo that would come from high ceilings. Shane made sure to have an area rug under the coffee table so the floor wasn’t cold, and the shoes didn’t click. His living room had a cream colored low profile couch around a coffee table facing a television set. It was well decorated, but not personal. Carefully curated by the bubbly designer who immediately understood the low lighting, no echo, and no visual clutter instructions Shane gave her. 

Shane dropped on the couch, sitting against the corner on one side, pulling a leg up underneath him. He hooked his fingers under his leg below his knee and faced the rest of the sectional. Rozanov paused for a moment, contemplating how or where to sit, but once he realized Shane had positioned himself so he couldn’t sit touching him, he dropped down at the other corner of the couch, matching Shane’s position.

“Okay. I am sitting.’ Rosanov said without snark or malice. He tilted his head to watch Shane, his expression too even and calm to be readable. Shane rubbed his fingers along his jeans under his leg, looking for a sensation to help him think. He needed to think. Making coherent thoughts that expressed himself was hard on a normal day; it was impossible when looking into the tidepools that were Ilya Rozanov’s eyes.

“What are you doing?” It was more of a plea than a demand. Shane truly did not understand this man. Ilya turning up somewhere unexpected… like a fucking hockey game, his fucking hockey game… had left Shane rattled for going on 48 hours. 

“I told you, I’m getting your attention.”

Shane blinked. “You ignored me for two weeks, Rozanov. What do you mean, get my attention/”

Rozabov let out a long sigh and blinked very slowly before making eye contact with Shane. “Hollander…” Shane thought he saw the ghost of an apology on Rozanov’s face. But it was gone as soon as it was there. “I…” He shrugged, shaking his head and looking away, breaking eye contact.

“You hurt me,” Shane said plainly. “When you hung up. When you didn’t respond. I was alone, and I don’t know, I thought maybe we could…” Shane trailed off. He thought maybe they could do what? Talk? That Ilya would comfort him? Console him? Help his reliable hookup feel better that he was moving halfway across the world? Shane felt ridiculous. 

Shane watched Rozanov fidget. He rubbed his right ear with his thumb, trying to disguise it as an itch, but Shane knew him enough to know that he did that when he was nervous or lying or lying because he was nervous. No, not nervous…scared. When he was scared. Shane had a feeling this fearful anxiety was Rozanov about to break up with him or confess love to him. He wasn’t sure he was prepared for either.

“I did not mean to.” Rozanov sighed it out. He looked tired. “What was there to say, Hollander? I couldn’t– I can’t–” He shrugged. “I did not mean to.” Shane knew that was as close to sorry as he’d ever hear from Ilya Rozanov. It wasn’tenough.

Seated as they were on the couch, apart and unable to touch, made the moment even harder on them both. Usually, when things felt this…stuck…they could fuck their way out of it. Or one would leave. Those had always been the options before them. They had never been good at stillness, almost moving together or apart, but always moving. Now the three feet between them on the couch may as well be the 4500 miles that stretched between them.

“We don’t have to keep doing this,” Shane said plainly. “It is what it is.”

“Is that what you want?” Rozanov raised his eyes, looking to meet Shane’s again. It caused Shane’s heart to skip a beat. The question so direct that it pinned him to the couch and left him without any defenses. 

“I… I don’t know?” Yes? Probably. I mean…” Shane took a ragged breath, his tongue wetting his lips so he could keep speaking. “What choice do we have?” The question hung between them. They were looking into each other’s eyes, silent and motionless. Shane wasn’t sure how long it lasted. It could have been one minute, one hour, or one whole year. It felt like the most eye contact he had ever made in his life. His heart raced, his ears flushed, and he just felt naked, which was a funny feeling given the man who was causing it had seen every inch of his body. Many, many times. 

Shane thought maybe he could see Rozanov thinking. The calm, detached mask he normally wore was accidentally removed. His face was expressive, soft, and conflicted. He saw him formulate and abandon two, maybe three answers before he just shrugged. “I’m here now.” It felt like a surrender and a plea. The burning feeling returned, a fire in Shane’s chest.

“I’m still mad at you.” It sounded like a denial, but they both knew it was an acquiescence. Shane stood up and walked to stand before Rozanov at the other end of the couch. Rozanov straightened his legs, making room for Shane on his lap. Both men smiled as Shane lowered himself onto the couch, a knee on either side of Rozanov, and leaned in to kiss him again.

Rozanov closed his eyes and opened his mouth to immediately deepen the kiss Shane had started. He reached his arms up, one firmly holding Shane towards him with a palm between his shoulder blades and the other cupping Shane’s face gently, guiding his face and keeping it close. Shane broke the kiss to remove his shirt up and over his head placing it gently on the couch next to them. He needed to feel Rozanov skin to skin heat to heat. The full body experience of it. Of him. He reached forward to pull up Rozanov’s shirt next, their lips breaking again for it to come up and off the man’s body. 

Shane ran his hands up over Rozanov’s chest, fingers pausing to press into the notch of each of his abs, feeling his body as if it were a topography map. Studying each valley and divot as it separated the mountains of his muscles. Rozanov dropped the hand from Shane’s face to curl his fingers around Shane’s hip, rooting him in place. Shane squirmed against the touch with the urgency of a man who needed to be naked immediately. 

He reached down to undo Rozanov’s fly, pulling down on his pants as he pressed him into the couch. He couldn’t get the leverage he wanted, so Shane stood up and pulled them off, hooking his fingers in his socks to take them off as well. Then Shane paused to remove the rest of his clothes, quickly folding them and depositing them on top of his shirt. He moved back to straddle Rozanov once more, leaning in to kiss him as their erections pressed together.

Rozanov let out a low grunt, hooking his arms around the back of Shane and pulling him in. They stayed like this a minute, both lightly thrusting their hips, rubbing their dicks against each other, moaning and muttering into the other’s mouth. It was Rozanov who pulled back, panting and breathlessly speaking into Shane’s mouth.

“I want to fuck you.” Rozanov gently ran his fingernails down Shane’s back, drawing a long moan from the man. Shane found himself forgetting his anger. Forgetting the complicated mess of it all. Forgetting the 100 promises he had told himself about how this was going to go. He was a grown adult who made his own decisions; he wanted desperately to be fucked by Ilya Rozanov, so that was what he was going to do.

Shane slipped off Rozanov’s legs again and pulled open the coffee table drawer to reveal condoms and lube right there. Rozanov laughed, and it made Shane’s cheeks and ears turn red. 

“You find you need that often?” Rozanov asked, but it seemed a bit sharper than playful to Shane. 

“I like to be prepared.” Shane chirped back, enjoying that Rozanov seemed, perhaps, just a bit jealous. “You never know when the opportunity will present itself.” Rozanov moaned and grabbed the lube and condom from Shane’s hands. His pupils were blown wide, and he seemed to be having trouble catching his breath. 

Shane smiled widely and genuinely. The man before him looked positively starved. He was completely entranced and overwhelmed with desire. Desire for Shane. The need written all over his face as he continued to make eye contact while pouring the lube on his hand, tucking the condom half under his thigh. 

“Come here, let me at you.” He reached out with the clean hand, trying to get Shane closer. Shane smiled and didn’t move.

“I have an idea,” Shane smirked at Rozanov, suddenly empowered by the impact he was clearly having on him. What he was doing could only be described as sauntering, but he moved across the room to the other side of the couch. Shane leaned over the arm, resting his elbows and holding his ass up in the air. “Now you come here.” 

Shane was being hot, sure, and a little hard to get. But also, he was just too emotionally raw to look Ilya in the face. He needed this to be sexy and casual and maybe a little bit rough. But not, under any circumstances, tender. No secrets would be communicated in it. Yes, this was the last time; he was sure it was the last time, but it wouldn’t take on the weight of a goodbye. It would not be bittersweet or cloying or leave him feeling empty, his heart and soul cored out of him. It would just be sex, because he needed to get fucked, and then they could go their separate ways and find new secret boyfriends. Hopefully, ones that did not play hockey. Shane would prefer one that did not play hockey.

While Shane was spiraling, Rozanov moved to his feet slowly but clearly with a mission. He settled himself behind Shane, crowding behind him so that he could feel the warmth of him up his legs and through to his back. Carefully, Rozanov moved a finger to circle his hole, pressing gently but firmly. This brought Shane back into his body, and he pressed back into him, unable to keep from making noise. Rozanov worked him open, pushing the finger inside to stroke his prostate. As he worked, Rozanov bent over to whisper in Shane’s ear.  

“I’m going to make you forget.” 

Shane shuddered as Rozanov pushed a second finger inside him. “Please,” he murmured, unsure what exactly he was asking for– the forgetting or the fucking. Maybe both. He was squirming under Rosanov’s touch and making an array of noises from moaning to whimpering to squeaking. When his skin was flushed, and he was relaxed and open, Rosanov slid on the condom and pushed inside him. 

“Hold on, Hollander.” Rosanov had his back pressed to Shane’s, their whole bodies aligned and touching. Maybe he had seen what Shane was doing, using this position to try to put distance between them. Maybe he just instinctively needed to have as much of his skin pressed against Shane’s as possible. But he was there, warm and firm and fucking him into the sofa. Shane’s face was pressed down into the cushion, and he was being pushed up on tiptoe every time Rosanov slammed into him. 

Shane could feel the rough upholstery of the couch rubbing against his stomach, making the skin burn. He could smell Rosanov’s cologne as he sweated it off onto Shane’s back. He could taste the salt in their sweat as it mixed and dripped down his face. He could hear the murmured Russian coming from just above his ear. He was completely and totally subsumed by him. Every sense assaulted until his brain just got quiet. Nothing existed but the experience of being in this moment in this place pinned to this couch by Ilya Rozanov. 

For that moment, Shane did forget. 

When they were done, they lay on the tasteful area rug next to the coffee table shoulder to shoulder looking up at the skylight above them. Their hands were intertwined. Fingers laced together. Neither acknowledged it nor spoke. Shane felt Rozanov’s fingers tighten their grip. Holding on. The moments passed.

Though he had tried to avoid it, Shane still felt it as they fucked. The goodbye of it all. They couldn’t keep doing this. It was torture. And for what? Three times a year? Maybe four if they were lucky. Less if either of them were ever injured. It was too much pain for too little. Shane needed more than that. He needed everything every time they were together, and he felt the loss of everything every time they were apart. His heart tore open, the wound reopening, as they clung to each other. Ilya had an early flight. It was getting late. There were a hundred reasons he should leave. A hundred reasons they should unlace their fingers and untangle their lives.

They didn’t move.

—-

Ilya was studying Shane’s ceiling. It was perfect and white and smooth and clean, and really, there was nothing at all to study. But he knew if he moved, the spell would break, and it would all be over. 

Sometimes, when Ilya was a child, he would play out in the yard with Svetlana. They would blow bubbles and then try to catch them in their hands. If you were just careful enough, just still enough, you could hold a bubble gently in your hand. It would sit there, glistening a hundred different colors as you hold your breath and stare at your palm in disbelief. And then, you’d breathe too heavy, or the wind would blow and pop, it was gone.

Ilya was clinging to Shane’s hand, waiting for the pop. He tightened his grip. He held his breath. He stayed very, very still. Please, just a moment more. Just one more moment. 

He was glad Shane couldn’t see his face. He knew he was crying. Or about to be crying. The back of his eyes stung. His throat burned. His heart felt like it was growing in his chest, so large it was suffocating against his ribs. He was heavy with all the things he didn’t say.

I didn’t call you because I couldn’t bear to.

I thought the silence would be easier for you.

I want this to be easy for you.

I don’t think I can handle knowing you don’t need me. 

I don’t think I can handle knowing you do need me.

I don’t want to say goodbye. 

I’m too scared to say goodbye.

Goodbye. 

Yet here he was lying silent, holding Hollander’s hand and willing time to stand still. It was his own making. What was he doing going to that game? What was he doing forcing himself here? Was this really better than before? It sure was harder. It felt harder. 

Missing Shane had been quiet, almost easy. Ilya had a life full of pain and loss; what was one more? He could bear it as well as he could bear the death of his mother, his father’s abuse, or the sting of his brother’s indifference. So he hung up. He didn’t call back. And he accepted his fate.

For 16 days. 

And then he broke down. Broke out. Broke. But it was too late. Shane was done, is done. And now they are lying here on the ground, not looking at each other, not speaking to each other, just holding on for the last moments of their… what? Relationship? Was this some kind of fucked up relationship? Ilya laughed out loud. Whatever it was, it was over now.

“I should go.” He burst the bubble himself. Unable to endure the waiting anymore. Ilya began to let go of Shane’s hand when he tightened his fingers, refusing to let Ilya go.

“I needed you.” It was a whisper. Ilya could have missed it if it hadn’t already been silent in the room. “I needed you, and you weren’t there.” Ilya relaxed his hand. Stopped trying to pull it away. He closed his eyes and let the regret wash over him. The pain of it all. The sadness. He was so sad. Bone-deep sad. “You couldn’t make me forget that.”

“Hollander. I’m–”

“You should go.” Suddenly, Hollander’s hand was gone. He was standing, taking the pile of his folded clothes as he did. “We shouldn't do this again.” And he disappeared up the stairs to his bedroom without looking back. Ilya waited a moment, then began to dress slowly. When he was done, he lingered in the entryway, waiting to see if maybe, just maybe, Shane would appear. He really wanted Shane to appear.

But he heard the shower turn on above and water flowing through the pipes. Ilya looked down at his now-empty hand. He could feel the impression of Shane’s there. He could smell him and hear his breath and feel his fingers, his thumb rubbing gently on the back of Ilya’s hand. He could feel it all, even if he was looking at an empty palm. Even though he was standing in an empty hallway. Even though he was returning to an empty hotel room before flying home to an empty condo. Even though all that, he could feel Shane holding his hand like he was precious. Like he was worth the pain.

Chapter End Notes

I am outlined out to about 20 chapters, but I'm not committing yet. But that's the horizon I'm looking at. I'm super excited about this! I'm usually a panther, but I have a whole ass outline and everything.

Your comments make me happy. I'm going to work to reply to more of them this week. But also, feel free to leave more, cause I thrive on praise (I'm mostly kidding here, I promise).

Chapter 5: I will let you down. I will make you hurt.

Chapter Summary

“So I was having lunch with Pelletier earlier, we both came from Toronto before this, and he was telling me why Hollander got traded,” Felix Bellerose, the French Canadian winger was telling defenceman Declan Murphy.

“Wait, what? You know?” Murphy was strapping on his leg pads and propped his elbows on his knees to look at Bellerose.

Ilya stopped tying the skates now, and sat up, fully listening. He was staring at the men, but in the chaos of the dressing room, who could notice? Also, this was a particularly juicy piece of gossip. It had been three months now and most of the league had no idea what possibly could have happened.

Chapter Notes

I was planning on this taking like multiple days to do, but I sat down to write it and it came out in a single long 3 hour burst. You're welcome? I have a super busy week the rest of the week, so I don't think it'll happen again, but you never know.

It was a momentous occasion in the Sea Lions locker room. Shane Hollander agreed to go out. They had a particularly exciting win against their conference rivals the LA Royals and everyone was in a great mood. Someone had put Turn Down for What on the stereo system and the younger guys were dance-moshing(?) to it. 

“Captain!” Dziurzynski yelled at Nylander over the din. “Hollzy is coming to the bar! You owe me $20!” 

“You’re a millionaire, Dizzy,” Nylander replied dryly, but he smiled over his shoulder at the other guy.

“Wait, are you betting on me?” Shane asked, incredulously and everyone laughed. “How many of you are betting on me?” He pulled off his shoulder pads and put them in his stall, turning around to find only snickering players’ backs.

Jojo came up on Shane’s right and wordlessly handed him a cold ginger ale. He then opened his beer and laughed as he watched the party unfold in front of them. 

“Montreal ever like this?” he asked. He seemed genuinely curious. There was so little insight one team ever got about how another worked, especially someone like Jojo, who had never played anywhere else and likely never would.

“Fuck no,” Shane laughed. “Not even close. We went out. We celebrated. But things are way more… intense there.” Shane pursed his lips and shook his head a bit. “Honestly, I forgot hockey could be this, I don’t know, fun?” 

“Glad we could help get that giant stick out of your ass then, Hollzy.” Jojo bumped his shoulder into Shane’s.

“Okay, okay, man.” But Shane was laughing through his warning. “How much did you bet I wouldn’t go out tonight, then?” He gave a sidelong glance at his friend.

“$50. Worth the loss, though.” Jojo clapped him on the shoulder and headed into the showers. 

—-

Shane arrived at the bar at a reasonable time. He knew he would not be the first one there,but he wasn't late enough that the other men would think he was trying to get there as they were leaving. He showered, changed, got in the car he always has to pick him up at the arena exactly 90 minutes after the end of a game and then instead of having it take him home,he had it take him exactly two blocks away from the bar they were meeting at.

From there, Shane took his time walking the blocks,enjoying the walk. He was still getting used to these cold winter days being 45 degrees. At night. But, honestly, it wasn’t like he minded it. It was just strange to wander about in a compression top and see people scurrying about in parkas. Shane was Canadian. Yes, yes, not all of Canada is frigid in the winter, but Montreal is. Ottawa is. To winter people, California seemed soft (derogatory). But, to be honest, Shane could use some soft (complimentary) in his life. 

It was maybe three weeks till Chrstmas, and so even though it was a Tuesday night, the streets felt full. There were people milling about in brightly colored sweaters, stumbling out of bars in droves from what was likely work holiday parties. Shane found the bar he was looking for and stepped in, pulling his toque off his head. He scanned the room for a moment, but it was the noise that got his attention first.

It was a sports bar. Of course. It’s always a sports bar. Wooden fixtures, hanging lights, dark but also lit up by so many television sets. There were a smattering of regular patrons left, but since almost all the games were long done, being the west coast and all, most of the sports enthusiasts had left. In the back, not far from the bathrooms, there were three tables squeezed between dark boards on one side and a pool table on the other. That is where the San Francisco Sea Lions were gathered. 

“Hollzy!” Dizzy called him over,gesturing wildly. “I thought I was going to have to give Nylander back his $20.”

“I never gave you, $20, Dizzy,” Nylander replied,his Swedish accent more noticeable after the few drinks he appeared to have already had. 

“I’m here! I’m here!” Shane laughed as he got to the table, smiling at the group. They were sharing a few pitchers of beer, mostly chatting loudly, though it looked like the goalie, Chucky (Shane could never remember his full Ukrainian last name, he’s have to work on that) was playing pool with Dane Sutterby a defenseman sometimes enforcer with an old school hockey mullet. 

“Yo, go get Shane a ginger ale,” Nylander quipped at a rookie,some kid named Rinaldi, Shane thought. 

“Yes, captain!” Rinaldi saluted and headed off to the bar,ignoring Shane’s calls that he could go himself.

“Good to see you out, Hollzy” Nylander gestured at the chair Rinaldi had just left. Ahhh, that was what he was up to, Shane thought. Got it. 

“Yeah, I thought it was about time.” Shane dropped into the chair, and turned slightly to face his captain. Nylander was a quiet but intense man. He was always at the center of the social structure of the team,but was never the heart. He didn’t make friends, as far as Shane could tell, but he was friendly with everyone. Well respected, and kept tabs on the dynamic. He was the kind of captain Shane thought he would have been in a place that let him be what he was meant to be and not what they expected of him.  

“I know this move has been rough for you,” Nylander went on, holding up a hand to stop Shane’s denial. “No, I know it has. Of course it has. I’ve been at this a decade now, and I’ve seen a lot of people get traded. They usually know why, or see it coming. But, seriously, Hollzy. I have no idea why you are on my team.”

Shane bit his lip and shrugged. “Sorry?”

“Oh, no no no. I’m very pleased you’re here. You’re an amazing player. You know that. And what team couldn’t use a player as smart and talented as you. What I’m trying to say is, I know this transition is hard. Unexpected is hard.”

Shane felt himself quiet. He hadn’t had many people in hockey who acknowledged the elephant in the room. That Shane had a harder time with change, that he was not as sociable as everyone thought he should be, that he thrived on routine and imposed control over the chaos of hockey to keep himself controlled. 

“It is. Unexpected is hard,” he met Nylander’s eyes and tried to convey the thanks he felt, not sure if he was doing it right, but grateful enough to want to try. He let out a long breath and relaxed back into his seat. “But you all… you’ve been really patient with me, and I’ve never felt like I didn’t belong. I’ve seen how sometimes teams treat a new guy, especially one like me– and not the hockey, I’m not talking about the hockey– just, guys like me, as outsiders.”

“I want you to fit in here, Shane.” It was strange how Nylander just slipped back and forth between nicknames,last names, and first names. He was one of the first hockey players Shane had ever noticed doing that. He noticed how comfortable he felt with how he seemed to set the level of intimacy with something that simple. “And I don’t want you to worry. About… we wouldn’t do that to you.”

Ah. There it was. Shane nodded, averting his eyes now. Nylander had heard the rumor that had ended his time in Montreal. Or at least he thought that was what ended his time in Montreal. His shoulders tensed and he closed his eyes a moment remembering the incident that could have been nothing or could have been everything.

He was sitting in his stall not long before a game. It was something in the preseason, it didn't matter. Couldn’t even remember what team. Not Boston, though. That’s important. It wasn’t Boston. But, Shane was sitting in his stall texting Ilya. Yes, the name said Lily but the words they were exchanging had quite a bit to do with dicks. Plural. 

A particularly meatheaded defenseman with a French Canadian name that was new to the team grabbed Shane’s phone from his hand saying he wanted to use it to change the music in the locker room. Before Shane could grab it back, he looked down at what was on the screen. Shane could see him smirk and begin to form a chirp about Shane’s girlfriend when he read the actual texts. The man’s face went white, he shook his head and shoved Shane’s phone back at him. 

Though he moved on to something else in the locker room, he never looked Shane in the eyes again. And the next day, there were two more players that wouldn’t look at him. Then another one the next day. At the end of the week a good quarter of the room wouldn’t talk to him, shower near him, and would linger in the dressing room till he was gone to change. Then Farah called.

“Thanks, Liam.” Nylander’s first name felt weird in Shane’s mouth, but he took the queue from his captain and addressed him as a friend, not a hockey player. “I… I believe you. This is hard, but it’s nice.” Just as Shane made eye contact again with an understanding Nylander, Rinaldi appeared with his ginger ale. 

“Oh, Rhino, I’m in your seat! Thanks, dude.” Shane took the ginger ale and moved to go lean against a high top where Jojo and someone he hadn’t learned their name yet were chatting. “Hey, guys….”

Shane stayed till the last player left.

—

Meanwhile in Boston, Ilya was tying his skates, listening to the gossip in the dressing room as they were preparing for warm ups before their game against Montreal. 

“So I was having lunch with Pelletier earlier, we both came from Toronto before this, and he was telling me why Hollander got traded,” Felix Bellerose, the French Canadian winger was telling defenceman Declan Murphy. 

“Wait, what? You know?” Murphy was strapping on his leg pads and propped his elbows on his knees to look at Bellerose. 

Ilya stopped tying the skates now, and sat up, fully listening. He was staring at the men, but in the chaos of the dressing room, who could notice? Also, this was a particularly juicy piece of gossip. It had been three months now and most of the league had no idea what possibly could have happened.

“Yeah, so, Pelletier was telling me that he grabbed Hollander's phone from him in the locker room to grab the music back. Some new kid from South Dakota or whatever was playing sad sack country music and that was just not the vibe, you know?”

“Dude, the story,” Murphy prompted. Pelletier had a tendency to ramble and get off track. It was very annoying when you only had 15 minutes to find out the biggest news in the league this year.

“Right, so he looks down at Hollander’s phone and he’s texting someone. His girlfriend or whatever, or that’s what everyone had always thought, but apparently they were sexting and like… well, either it was a man or… ya’know.” Pelletier made a motion with his hand that was a very derogatory way to indicate he meant a trans woman. 

“Yo. Nope.” Ilya didn’t mean to stop the gossip outright. He wanted to hear more. But his team didn’t talk like that. He was known for always stopping that sort of thing. He didn’t let any kind of slurs or gestures of any type fly. And given that he was Russian, it confused people at first. But also, if you knew anything about Rozy it was that he was weird and you did what he said unless you wanted your life to be very difficult.

“Oh, yeah, sorry, Cap.” Pelletier waved him off. “Anyway, eventually some of the guys went to management and they figured rather than wait for it to get around and become an issue, they’d trade him as far away as possible and let it play out on the other coast.” 

“Enough.” Ilya stood up and got between the men. “My dressing room is not a uh how you say, high school cafeteria.” He was beginning to crash and needed to get his feet on the ice as soon as humanly possible. Needed the clarity of it. The cold blast to the face would be nice to disrupt the cascade of panic forming in his chest. “Can we please go beat Montreal now? It is much more satisfying than this.” He waved them off as non-chalantly as he could, the calm mask of indifference firmly in place as he sauntered down the tunnel and out of the room.

Pausing at the end of the tunnel before the bench, Ilya made himself look busy examining his extra sticks along the wall. He was struggling to keep his breathing even and his hands steady. He knew what night that was. He did the math in his head and he knew exactly what night he was Shane’s undoing. Fuck.

It was normal. Natural. They were two weeks away from their first game. They were sexting in anticipation as usual.Nothing wild, nothing in depth. Quips back and forth that served as proof that they didn’t like each other. They just wanted to fuck each other and that was that. It was their normal routine. So, Ilya hadn’t thought about when he was sending the text. In fact, if he had realized that Shane was getting ready for a game, he probably would have been more turned on rather than not send the text. It was their personal phones. They had fake names. It was safe, surely.

It wasn’t safe. 

Ilya grasped one of the sticks in front of him, turning it in his hand. He needed to feel the weight of it,the stickiness where tape had peeled away. Something to keep him inside his body. To anchor him to the moment he was in.

The panic that was consuming him was the cold realization that Shane’s entire world was dismantled and shipped half a world away and it was Ilya’s fault. It was Ilya’s fault, and Shane knew it. The entire time. 

Everything suddenly made more sense. Why a missing phone call and an unanswered text for what felt like a short time compared to month’s long silences that were more easily forgotten were unforgivable. That Shane was alone, isolated, and it was because of Ilya. 

Ilya took a breath in and let it out slowly. He had learned how to do this after his mother had died. He would see her body in his mind, or even hallucinate it in the locker room showers, on the bathroom floor. At first the panic would consume him, and he’d become a pile on the floor shaking with gasping tears. But his father wouldn’t have that. His father would rather beat him than watch him cry. And so Ilya figured it out. 

First, he breathed in and out long and slow. Feeling the air in his body, the stick in his hand, his skates on his feet. He only focused on what he could feel. Turning his brain as far off as he possibly could. Then, he closed his eyes and locked that calm in place. No brain now, just body. And finally, he locked in a grin, shrugged his shoulders to test the new character he was playing, and entered the bench to set up for warm ups.

Chapter End Notes

I have some serious outline revisions to do this week, so I'm thinking we're aiming for 20 chapters at this point. I'm going to commit to that and then revise if I end up adding more again.

Upcoming is Rose Landry, so if you have strong Rose feelings, now's the time. I am not entirely sold on having her, but it could be fun in California.

Thanks for the love, I enjoy chatting with you! You can find me at thequeengeek on threads or in the comments here.

Chapter 6: a problem that you'll understand

Chapter Summary

Rose and Shane chatted most of the night. At some point she convinced him to dance. Badly. At another he convinced her to give him her number. She insisted he text her immediately. It was flirty, and fun, but neither of them seemed to make a move, and in the end, Shane figured he’d never hear from her again. Which is why he was shocked when a few days later she texted him.

ROSE: So, I have another day in SF, want to go eat some seafood and look at a prison?

SHANE: I am not going to Alcatraz with you, Rose Landry.

ROSE: Why must you break my heart?

SHANE: We can have lunch.

ROSE: I’ll take it.

Chapter Notes

I'm going to see the Wild play the Stars tomorrow night. It will be too late to write when I'm home, and I only write when everyone is asleep, so for sure losing a writing day this week. But hopefully the Wild win and I return in a good mood.

I got a new keyboard AND a beta reader (thank you, Carly!!!), so things should be getting better around here.

Shane kept going out with the team. After the first few times he found he wasn’t forcing himself to go out anymore, he was actually looking forward to it. The guys wanted him there, yes, but also it seemed like they also liked him. No one wanted him to be louder or wilder or drunker. They mostly just hung out at the same sports bar for a couple of hours and went their separate ways. It was chill and fun and manageable. Sure, sometimes another game was going late and there would still be people crowding the tables, and it would be loud. But even that he could manage these days. In moderation, anyway. It wasn’t like he was about to go to come watch the Niners game on a Sunday or anything. He was still Shane Hollander.

But, as Christmas approached, Shane had become a part of the team and actual friends with Jojo and Dizzy. So, when Jojo’s girlfriend, the executive director of Ruff Starts, a charity that supports foster cats and dogs, asked him to get Shane to be a guest at her fundraising gala, of course he said yes. Why own a tux if you don’t go pick at airplane chicken in a ballroom every once and awhile, right?

That was how Shane found himself sitting at a table with Dizzy and eight people he had never met. And while this would normally be a true nightmare scenario for Shane, Dizzy knew him well enough to help. 

“Okay, so you’re a reality star,” Dizzy was pointing at one of the people at their table, a thirty year old woman in a bodycon dress that clearly found him both charming and hilarious. “And you are a character actress that gets regular work in Hollywood whose name no one remembers,” he pointed at a woman around his own age who was beautiful but not memorable, which apparently was her whole career plan. “And then you two got rich off BitCoin and now you just go to fundraisers and do yoga on mountains, right?” That got the couple who were extremely fit and had at least two wearables on each (a watch and a ring, actually) to crack up. “Who am I missing?”

“Me,” laughed a Black woman in her fifties.

“Ah, yes, you have fostered 300 dogs over 10 years and are now the Queen of all the foster parents. You are paid only in dog beds and gala tickets. And your wife is somewhere else, not eating her very lonely looking salad. Very bad party date.” 

“And you,” a redhead in a shockingly expensive gold dress stops at the table, leaning on the back of the empty chair that should hold the foster mom’s wife, “are the Shane Hollander. Hockey god and the new hope of San Francisco.” She smiles, all red lips and very white, very perfect teeth. 

“Rose Landry?” Shane’s voice broke just a bit and lifted in a question even though he was pretty fucking sure that standing next to him was the extremely famous A-list actress Rose Landry. 

“Well, if we’re doing introductions.” She pulled back the chair and dropped into the seat, pushing back the salad that very much did not belong to her. “Heather, you did not tell me you were sitting next to Shane Hollander.” She tsked at the character actress who was on the right side of Shane. “Were you hogging him all to yourself? You greedy woman.”

“I would never!” Heather (that was her name, he guessed?) laughed and shook her head. 

Dizzy was sitting there, eyes wide, mouth open. His bit crashed by one of the most famous movie stars just sitting down at their table like she belonged there. Shane had never seen him still or silent. 

“So, tell me, Shane Hollander… dogs or cats?” Rose had him pinned with her eyes. They were sparkling and clearly trouble. Shane could not look away from her. He could see why she was a star. he had the kind of personality that made you feel like the only person on Earth when she looked at you.

“Cats. Clearly.” Shane found his confidence, and smiled back at her. She didn’t seem troubled by his flat affect or short answer and laughed as she shook her head.

“And I thought we could be soul mates.” Rose sighed wistfully as the lights began to dim, and she stood up just as the owner of her seat returned. “Heather, I’ll be back. And you–” She pointed at Shane “I’m not done with you yet.” 

The speeches were boring, but the live auction was intense. Shane was confused by the way they kept calling it an auction. No one was bidding on anything. They were just raising their paddles to donate more and more money. It was a weird arms race of philanthropy that made his skin itch and his tux feel too tight. This was the one part of California that he couldn’t imagine ever getting used to. Everyone wanted everyone to pay attention to them. Ugh. He wrote a very large check and slid it in the envelope at the middle of the table and skipped the part where everyone ogled him and his generosity. 

Rose kept her promise and as soon as the dancing part of the night began, she appeared at his table and plopped herself down next to him. 

“But do you dance?”

“Dance?” Shane laughed. “No, I do not dance.”

“I’m afraid we may be incompatible, Shane Hollander.”

He shrugged at her, but couldn’t help smiling. Shane had no idea why Rose Landry appeared to care about him. Or know who the hell he was. But he also was not the best at asking questions like that, so he just stared at her for what was probably way too long.

“I’m kidding,” Rose clarified.

“No, no, I know…” Shane was flustered then. “I just… how do you know who I am?” He sounded so flabbergasted that Rose couldn’t help but laugh again. She laughed so easily and so brightly - it really did give her a quality of being the main character. Clearly all cameras should be on her.

“I’m from Michigan. I have three brothers, and they all played hockey at some point. So, I’m a fan. Of hockey, not you. You play for the enemy.” 

“Fair. That’s fair.” He softened up a bit then, turning to face her more fully. 

“But you are really good at hockey.” She shrugged. 

“Okay, Rose Landry.” Shane was a bit amused that they kept using each other’s full names. It felt like an inside joke that only they could share. It took a certain level of famous to have people always refer to you that way. It was something that set you apart from “normal people,” and Shane always hated it. He got the vibe that Rose did, too. “What are you doing in San Francisco?”

“I’m actually here for this,” she said with a shrug. “I went to college with the ED, and she asked me to come make a big flashy donation and give a little speech to get people riled up, and I figured, I could use some sourdough bread and a weekend bathed in fog.” 

“Wait, you know Brityn?” 

“Yeah, she’s from like Indiana or something. We were in the same dorm. And now we’re very fancy California people.” Rose preened in jest. 

“Would it surprise you to find out that she’s why I’m here, too?” Rose raised an eyebrow at Shane. “Her boyfriend, Jojo.. no, wait, James… Jordan. We’re friends.”

“Must be fate.” 

Rose and Shane chatted most of the night. At some point she convinced him to dance. Badly. At another he convinced her to give him her number. She insisted he text her immediately. It was flirty, and fun, but neither of them seemed to make a move, and in the end, Shane figured he’d never hear from her again. Which is why he was shocked when a few days later she texted him.

ROSE: So, I have another day in SF, want to go eat some seafood and look at a prison?

SHANE: I am not going to Alcatraz with you, Rose Landry.

ROSE: Why must you break my heart?

SHANE: We can have lunch.

ROSE: I’ll take it. Meet me at Scoma’s at 1pm.

SHANE: See you there.

Shane was painfully aware that he didn’t really own something you wore to a nice sea food restaurant in a touristy area of San Francisco for lunch, not dinner. But, he did have a blue linen button up and some boat shoes, so he would survive. He took a car service and got out about a block away, walking the rest of the way to the pier. Just as he got to Scoma’s, Rose got out of her car right in front. He smiled and waved to her as he approached on the sidewalk.

“We meet again, Shane Hollander!” She gave him a hug without pausing, making Shane go stiff and still for a moment. He relaxed as she let him go and fell in beside him as they made their way to the door. She was in a seersucker sundress with big sunglasses and her hair down around her shoulders. Effortless was the word Shane had come to associate with Rose. Everything about her and everything she did seemed effortless.

He found himself drawn to her because for him everything took so. much. effort. Every interaction, every outfit, every single decision he made on every single day was debated and plotted and contemplated. But Rose just rode the moment. And he didn’t mind getting swept up in it. They got inside and were seated by a window, away from most of the other guests,so that they could eat without too much attention coming their way. 

Rose took off her sunglasses and picked up the menu, looking at it while chatting over the top. “Have you been here before? I have not. There is this idea that people have that popular or touristy things are bad somehow, but honestly, I’ve found most of them to be a pure delight.”

Shane laughed and nodded as he scanned the menu that actually had more than a usual restaurant that he would eat. Food was tricky for him.Textures, smells, and surprises just weren’t his jam. It was much easier to have a carefully curated set of rules around what he did and did not eat that was based in hockey. No one asked many questions if he said it was for hockey. 

“Honestly, when I get a day off in a city, I’m looking for the biggest tourist trap. If it wasn’t great, people wouldn't do it!” 

“EXACTLY!” Rose clapped once. “You get me.” 

“I guess so.” He put the menu down. There was a perfect salmon dish that he was going to very much enjoy. Mission accomplished. “Is that why you texted? You needed someone to confirm you weren’t a snob?”

“Actually, kinda.” She shrugged and put her menu down now, too. “I liked you and I wanted to see you again, and I’ve found in this life that if you want to do a thing, it’s best you do it.” 

“Hey, Rose.” Shane cleared his throat, looking around quick. He started pulling the sleeves of his shirt down, first one than the other. He was trying to even them out pulling back and forth eyes turned down as he spoke,  “I’m not really… I like you, but I’m not…” He couldn’t find the words he wanted to. Spending the last 4 months in homophobic exile had cemented some things for Shane, at least about what he wanted, if not necessarily about who he was. And he did like Rose. He wanted to spend time with Rose. But also… he didn’t want to do what he had done every other time he had felt this way about a woman.

It was a frustrating pattern that left Shane gutted every time. He loved talking to a woman he met. They would have fun banter. She’d be funny and that would make him funny. They somehow would always be extremely smart and technically beautiful. 

He can tell they are beautiful. But he never wants more. He wants to banter and hang out and maybe hold hands. To share secrets and learn about everything they are thinking. To just be together with someone in a way that is not bordering on violent competition. It’s nice.

But they always wanted more. Of course they did. He was in his mid-twenties, he was a famous hockey player, and he was (apparently) very attractive. These brilliant funny women eventually wanted to kiss, to touch, to fuck. And that was not what Shane wanted from them. And after just a few months of no longer spending every day doing being compelled to do things he didn’t want to be and portraying himself as someone he wasn’t, Shane thought that maybe he just wouldn’t anymore. It hadn’t ruined hockey, and hockey was much more important than disappointing a woman he just met. So, rather than do the same disappointing embarrassing dance again, Shane figured…he’d just tell her what he wanted. And didn’t want.

She raised a hand to stop him. “Oh, honey, we’re good.” That was all she said about that, and honestly that was all he wanted to discuss it. Effortless. She was just completely effortless. And just like that she went back to their conversation. 

“So, I was always told to get the cioppino here or really anywhere in this neighborhood, but it’s going to be a complete mess. I think I’ll have to wear a plastic bib to save this dress. And I do like this dress. Do you promise, Shane, no pictures? I cannot survive a TMZ article that has me wearing a plastic bib next to Shane Hollander. The indignity.” 

“You got it. No pictures.” He held his phone up, wiggled it, and then put it firmly in his pocket. “Scout’s honor.” 

They chatted for a bit more, Shane eating his very fancy salmon, and Rose navigating the bowl of seafood smothered in red sauce. Their hometowns, their families, those easy get to know you topics that lay the groundwork for a relationship. 

“And that’s how I ended up in New York…” Rose was finishing a story, explaining how she had somehow gotten herself from Michigan to NYC for college. “I liked NY, but NY didn’t really like me,” she admitted. “I’m not actually the most talented actress, or that’s how it all felt, you know? Theater acting is so serious and so intense and I just… wasn’t cut out to be that way. It was too much and I wanted to have fun. Acting to me is about imagining a world where I am entirely someone else, but I don’t think it has to be defined by suffering. So much of that NY acting is suffering, you know?”

Shane, in fact, did not know. He knew nothing about theater at all. He did, however, know quite a bit about action movies and feeling too much pressure to be great.

“I think I get what you're saying about the intensity,” he answers. “Montreal was like that. It’s hockey, and I love hockey. I never feel more me than when I’m playing hockey, but there it was just… heavy. To be great I had to be perfect and I started at like 19. It did take the light out of it, sometimes.”

“And has California given you a little sunshine?” Rose smiled softly. “It sure did for me. I may not win an Oscar for the work I’m doing, but I’m having fun and the money doesn’t hurt.” 

“Yeah, it’s just fun out here. I don’t know if it’s the place or the guys, but I feel less… heavy. The Bell Center, it’s a lot. Playing in it is a lot. The franchise is 120 years old. The fans expect a lot. But here, the team started the year I was born. The fans here just love watching hockey. They don’t boo you for not being perfect… and the money… not like they can pay me any less.”

Rose laughed as she nodded, stopping to slurp up some pasta and try to crack open a sauce soaked crab leg without completely destroying her clothes. “That is why I got your number, Shane Hollander. You had the look of someone who got it. Plus, you’re not bad to look at.”

“Rose…”

“LOOK at, LOOK at. No touchie.” She raised her messy hands and wiggled her fingers causing Shane to absolutely lose it. He was laughing harder than he had in years, most likely, and just could not regain composure. 

“Oh my GOD, Rose.” Shane’s face flushed and his freckles popped against the red.

“You are cute, Shane. Like completely adorable.” Rose stated matter of factly.

“I’m starting to think you are about to ask me for money,” Shane quipped. “That’s the only reason for all these compliments.”

“Well, actually… I have this business investment to ask you about….” 

They chatted for an hour, maybe more. And Rose did, in fact, get Shane to get on a ferry boat and take her to Alcatraz. Shane found that she was completely undemanding. She’d taken his hand when he offered, but never looked at him with any heat or expectation. She understood the boundary and didn’t even poke at it. He respected that. That was the kind of trust he needed to feel at ease. 

He learned about her brothers and how she had always wanted to play hockey, but it was the nineties and her town didn’t have a girl’s team until she was fifteen and by then she was already booking real roles. He learned that she was weirdly obsessed with horses until she was twelve but has actually never even met a horse, let alone rode one. He was treated to an entire thesis on how you could NOT be both a Titanic girl AND an Egypt girl but you COULD be a Titanic girl and a HORSE girl. And how she was deeply weird and disliked as a child because most actors are.

“I like acting,” Rose admitted, “because I don’t have to show anyone that I’m weird, or sad, or lost. I have a professional level understanding of how to just be. I don’t always want people to… perceive me, you know? It’s not their business.”

“Yes!” Shane completely understood. “It’s harder for me. There’s expectations… I’m Asian, I’m a jock, I’m a role model… and none of those things are sad, or scared, or unsure. And so I’ve learned to just… embody what I need to be when I’m around people, but…

“It’s exhausting.” She finished for him.

“Yes. It’s exhausting.” He nodded. There was a long silence. They had gotten off the ferry and were walking around the pier again. The sun was about to set, and Shane knew that Rose’s car was scheduled within the hour.

“Hey, Rose, can I tell you something I haven’t told anyone yet?”

“What? Sure. Yeah. Of course.” She paused their walk, turning them so that they were facing each other. Shane was looking at her forehead, a place she knew was meant to simulate eye contact.he had noticed him doing it all day. She didn’t say anything or correct him. 

“I’m gay.” He said it simply, quietly, but not whispered. No one was around, and if they were, who would believe this story? Shane Hollander comes out to famous actress Rose Landry while watching a romantic sunset on the pier? Honestly, he’d pay to read that, so maybe he was wrong there, but… it was all done now.

“Thank you for trusting me with that.” Rose squeezed both his hands, and turned them back so they were facing the water. She rested her head on his shoulder. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Nah,” Shane shook his head. “I just wanted someone to know that wouldn’t hate me for it.”

“I could never hate you, Shane Hollander.” And it was as he leaned down to put a little kiss on her forehead that someone, somewhere, snapped the photo that would appear in that week’s Star magazine with the headline “Rose Landry and Shane Hollander in Love in San Francisco.”

Chapter End Notes

For the next stretch of things it's more likely to see one POV per chapter. I am outlined through 20 chapters now, but reserve the right to revise as we go. I've already had a few rewrites. I'm normally a pantser, so this is new for all of us (okay, maybe just me).

Chapter 7: who am I that I should be vying for your touch?

Chapter Summary

“ENOUGH.” Ilya stood up, slamming what was left of his gear into his stall, pulling his tie over his head to start tightening it. “We spend too much time talking about fucking Hollander. Do you think they are sitting in the San Francisco locker room right now discussing who I am fucking?”

The men in the locker room all shared a look. Temperamental Roz was not an uncommon occurrence, and there was a whole protocol. Which mostly consisted of shutting the fuck up till he took his sour ass out of the locker room. 

Chapter Notes

A shorter chapter to set up a longer one after this. Enjoy the angst and more time in the Boston locker room.

“This fucking guy,” Felix Bellerose sat in his stall shirtless but still in his hockey pants, skates untied but not yet pulled off. He was shaking his head as he looked down at his phone. “Look at this shit, Roz.” He held the phone out to Ilya who was just unstrapping his shin guards. 

“What now, Bells?” Ilya reached over and took the phone. He looked at it for a moment, furrowed his brow and leaned in as if he was struggling to read it. “What the fuck is this shit?”

“It’s Hollander and that movie star, what’s her name…”

“Rose Landry. It says it right in the headline. You can’t read?” Ilya sniped. He started scrolling on Bells’ phone, pursing his lips into a tighter and tighter line as he did. The comments were full of very excited fans. Cute memes. Many, many, many exclamation points. Theories about when they met. Close ups of every part of the photo. Feral and unhinged commentary.   Links to something called fanfiction about them? Ilya was getting more and more drawn into the intense deluge of internet reactions. It was overwhelming. 

“Dude, give me my phone.” Bells grabbed the phone from Ilya’s hands and stepped back as Ilya rose to try and snatch it back. “Fucking weird, though. Considering what they were saying in Montreal about him sexting a guy like what? Three months ago?” Bells shook his head as he tossed his phone back into his bag and pulled his skates all the way off. “You think he paid her?”

“Listen to yourself, Bells. Do you think a hockey player has pay off movie star money?” Declan Murphy called over to the pair. 

Cliff Marleau came out from the showers then, sitting in his stall with a towel wrapped around him, starting to pull on his suit. “What are you hens clucking about?”

“Hollander is dating Rose Landry,” Murphy offers, “Bells thinks he paid her.”

“You think Hollander has Rose Landry money? She made his entire contract just last year. I saw it on E.” Marlow asks Bells.

“Dude, he reps like every brand! His contract is pocket money.” Bells holds his hands up in surrender. “Plus, maybe she felt bad for him.”

“I dunno… looks like he’s the one doing the feeling.” Marlow had his phone out now and was looking at the picture. 

“ENOUGH.” Ilya stood up, slamming what was left of his gear into his stall, pulling his tie over his head to start tightening it. “We spend too much time talking about fucking Hollander. Do you think they are sitting in the San Francisco locker room right now discussing who I am fucking?”

The men in the locker room all shared a look. Temperamental Roz was not an uncommon occurrence, and there was a whole protocol. Which mostly consisted of shutting the fuck up till he took his sour ass out of the locker room. 

When Ilya got home, he found himself slamming doors and stomping around his house. He was restless and angry and generally unsettled. He hadn’t heard from Hollander since he unceremoniously tossed him out of his apartment two months ago. Ilya hadn’t reached out, either. He wanted to, but his at first his pride couldn’t handle another rejection, and then when he heard the gossip about their text thread getting outed, he was too guilty to dare. 

But he was not expecting this.

If he was being honest, Ilya wasn’t even sure if Hollander liked girls. He had never seen him with one or heard a rumor about him dating one. He had never been able to get a read or an answer about it. But then, until this, there hadn’t been any news about Hollander and anyone. It was reasonable that he dated. Who could subsist on eight hook ups a year? Ilya certainly couldn’t. Hadn’t. And really, Ilya knew almost nothing about Shane’s life. 

He dropped on the couch, and put his head in his hands. Discontent simmered in his chest, making his hands feel hot and his skin feel small. Ilya was facing down the very real possibility that there wasn’t any more time. To figure this out. To make it right. He had taken Shane for granted. Assuming they would do this thing until when? Forever? Ilya hadn’t considered an end game. He hadn’t been able to picture one, but he knew he didn’t want to stop. Well, that was untrue. e wanted to stop because he wanted to stop feeling anxious and scared and desperate. But then he’d see Shane standing in the entryway of a hotel room or his house, and he knew there was no stopping. And then Shane was gone, and Ilya didn’t call, and now there was no more time.

Because if he were Shane Hollander, he would lock down the hot movie star. Maybe have a large wedding as soon as next year, and then what? Have a couple of kids and live an idyllic life for as long as it worked? At least till he retired. There were worst ways to silence rumors you’re gay than marrying the biggest fucking movie star in Hollywood. 

And there. That was what was really bothering Ilya. That was lodged in his chest between his ribs and against his heart. That it wasn’t Shane choosing between him and her. It was Shane choosing between being on the cover of magazines and getting traded for a text message someone read over your shoulder in a locker room. It was Shane choosing a fancy wedding at a villa in France over hooking up in a hotel room three times a year, four if they’re lucky. It was Shane choosing a life without constant fear and that constant nagging emptiness that came with longing. Missing. Needing someone you cannot be near. 

If Ilya was honest with himself, he’d choose it, too. A calm life with a good woman. Eating on cafe patios and watching the sunset over the Pacific Ocean on a wharf on a warm evening. If he was choosing. If he had felt like he wanted a choice… or, no, if he felt like he’d had a choice. Which, he figured, he did now. 

The realization was heavy in his chest, and caused him to slump further. Ilya felt tears burning in his eyes. He didn’t cry, but somehow ever since the Metros put Shane Hollander on a plane to San Francisco, it had been happening more and more. He was trapped in a prison of his own feelings. Unable to expel them entirely, but equally unable to express them. He hated feeling so fucking out of control. 

—

“I am so sorry,” Rose started talking as soon as Shane picked up. “I should have realized something like that would happen. Sometimes I feel like a totally normal person, and you treat me like a totally normal person and then I’m acting like I’m a normal person and this happens.” 

“Rose–” Shane was trying to get a word in, to reassure her. He wasn’t upset, not even a little. Something like this could only help him. It would keep the Metros from leaking anything, could build both their brands. He’d never do it on purpose, he’d never encourage it, but why look a gift horse in the mouth, right?

“And now the internet is going crazy. I haven’t looked, but my PR manager called this morning to ask me what I want to do about it, and I don’t even think I should dignify it with a response because that will just make the whole thing worse, but–”

“Rose–”

“She told me I should ask you and then I realized that you probably weren’t expecting this or had a plan for this and it makes your whole situation more complicated, because if I deny it, then it could add fuel to the Metros debacle, but if I don’t–”

“ROSE!” She stopped talking. “Rose, it’s fine. Leave it alone. They’ll forget in fifteen minutes. Some people on the internet won’t, but as soon as some other celebrity does something unhinged, TMZ will move on and the rest of them will forget. It’s fine.”

“Oh my god, thank you, Shane, really. But maybe we shouldn’t go to lunch today.”

“No, it’s fine. And look, it’s not the kind of rumor that’s hurting me right now. I won’’t lie. I don’t want to lie. But also, I don’t need to change my life, either. If you’re okay, I’m okay. We’ll go to lunch. You’ll go back to LA, and everyone will forget about us because someone will cheat on someone else while they’re in rehab, and that is a much more juicy story than “movie star and hockey player stand next to each other.””

“Allright, Shane Hollander. I’ll see you at two, then.” 

—

All Star Weekend was approaching and it appeared that Shane Hollander had gone on another public date with Rose Landry. They hadn’t held hands, and they hadn’t kissed, but they sat in a brightly lit restaurant in San Francisco and openly chatted as people took secret photos of them from every angle. Neither had made any kind of statement about the last photo, but Ilya knew that they’d seen the hubbub and still hadn’t denied it. This sucked.

Sadness and rage were dueling inside him. On the one hand, he was still stewing in the deep regret he was feeling of not doing more. Saying more. Pushing past the weird parting they had in November. And on the other hand, he was furious. That he was so quickly and easily replaced. That Hollander would use this to move away from the secrecy about his own life. And that for the second time in as many months, he found out such huge news about his relationship (was it that?) with Hollander from locker room gossip.

The sadness clawed at him, burrowing into his chest, and curling up to rest, leaving him to frown in it. He considered texting Hollander about meeting up in Detroit. They would both be there and the chaos of the weekend always made it the easiest place to get away, even if the players were all right on top of each other. But he wasn’t sure what he would say. The idea of asking Hollander to cheat on his girlfriend sat wrong with Ilya. But texting “Do you have a girlfriend or do you want to fuck?” seemed too pathetic to even consider. He didn’t want to be mocked, and he had this fear that he would be mocked.

So, the anger won.

The rage wrapped itself around the sadness, around the affection, around every part of him. He was angry and surly and hard to be around. Every picture, every Tweet, every time he had to sit through chirping and gossip, the rage grew. Two weeks into the Rose Landry frenzy, Ilya was not only a monster on the ice, but also in his own room, at his own tape review, in his own practices. He needed an outlet, a place to aim the rage.

This year the league went back to the three on three tournament model for the All Star Weekend. Four teams would play in a little single elimination tournament. Ilya and Hollander were both given their own teams to draft and captain. It means that they would play each other, yes, but none of the team events or get togethers would have them in the same room at the same time. Ilya was annoyed at himself for not being relieved.

He had drafted a team full of big Europeans who liked to play a physical game. And Hayden Pike. Did he like Pike? Absolutely not. Was it baffling that somehow after Hollander left Pike was both the captain and star of the Metros? Entirely. Was he petty enough to use his first draft pick to go for a middle of the pack player that would irritate the hell out of Shane Hollander? Also yes. Yes, he was. 

Ilya knew that Pike would have been Hollander’s first pick. They were close friends. Pike wore the A under Hollander’s C. And they had likely spent less than 2 hours together since Hollander’s trade. Hollander would be desperate for the time together. To play together on the ice. To have fun being back in the same room as the buddies he left behind. And Ilya ruined it. On purpose. In a way that made it very clear to Hollander that that was exactly what he was doing. 

Hollander hurt him and he was going to hurt Hollander back.

Chapter End Notes

We're headed to Detroit next! There we will find WHL players, a 3:3 tournament that may set off some Hollanov fireworks, the league's best personalities, and perhaps some Shane pining this time.

Stay tuned to find out!

(We're looking at the weekend for this one, I think, so see you soon!)

Chapter 8: too bad you had to have a better half

Chapter Summary

Most players looked forward to two things at the All Star game. The arrivals reception on Wednesday night, and the Friday night parties.

Chapter Notes

We're heeeere. This is a little longer than I usually post, and the rest of the weekend is even longer, so I split it up. Outline is being adjusted, and you get this 2600 words ahead of expectations.

Most players looked forward to two things at the All Star game. The arrivals reception on Wednesday night, and the Friday night parties. Shane entered the bar at seven on the dot. Never early, never late, just like his mama taught him, when responding to an official invite, Shane Hollander was reliably right on time. The room was mostly empty. Many of the players arrived that afternoon and were taking time to freshen up and make their way down. The room was a dimly lit lounge with windows on all sides. It looked out on Detroit, bright in the clear winter night. It was snowing causing the sky to have a light orange glow.

The party met the mood of the quiet calm night. Live piano music wafted through the room as cater waiters offered fancy looking snacks on silver platters. The players who were there were dressed fashionably in blazers and slacks, hair done and jewelry on. It wasn’t a tux party, but the press was there and loved to take photos of the most fashionable players. Many of them had been stepping up their style game, hoping to rival the MNBA players. It wasn’t even close, though. 

Shane was wearing fitted black pants, a white tee and an open, well tailored black blazer. It was understated, but more elevated than his usual look. Rose had insisted he wear something she called a “luxury loafer” in beige suede. He felt like he looked ridiculous, but he’d gotten two compliments before even making it to the reception, so she was probably right about them. And, of course, he was wearing a Rolex. Rose went with him to the LA showroom and helped him pick a Datejust 41 in stainless steel with a black dial. She cooed at it when she saw it in the case and was very insistent that it was classic but luxury and not at all ostentatious. Shane felt like every Rolex was ostentatious, but he had blind trust in Rose, so on it went.

He made his way towards the back of the bar and leaned against a booth that he would claim as soon as he found who he was looking for. A waiter stopped by and he ordered a light, low ABV beer. In a glass. His intent was to take tiny sips and make it last all night, a trick for events like this that he’d picked up over the years. Turning his attention to the door, he caught Hayden just as he walked in. With a wave, he called him over and they slid into the booth together.

This was Hayden’s first All Star weekend, even though he’d been in the league longer than Shane. The Metros were hard up for a star, and he’d stepped into the role well enough. He got a ticket here, anyway. Hayden was wearing blue trousers, a white button down shirt with the collar open and a maroon blazer. It was basically a more colorful version of Shane’s outfit. In fact, they had on almost exactly the same shoes. 

“You look good,” Shame smiled at his friend. 

“Jackie dressed me. She’s been reading Vogue lately, or something. Very expensive hobby, but I think I look good.”

“Oh, you’re for sure going to show up on a fashion blog with that jacket. And a pocket square? Tell Jackie she has a future as a stylist.”

“I’ll let her know,” Hayden was laughing now.

“So, man, how have you been?” Shane spun his beer on the table slowly, keeping his fingers pressed to the bottom of the stem of his fancy glass.

“Good, good. I mean, we’re hanging in there without you, I guess. They let me play here, so…”

“Yeah,” Shane got quiet at the mention of the Metros, shrugging a bit as he looked down at his slowly turning glass.

“Things with me are great,” Hayden picked up on Shane’s discomfort. He was always good at knowing what Shane was thinking, something that had cemented him as Shane’s best friend. He hoped to stay there. “Jackie is good, the kids are good. Thinking about maybe another one soon.”

“Another one?” Shane gaped at him.

“Hey, Jackie likes it. She can’t really work right now with my schedule and the kids are fun for her. When she’s not studying to be a fashion icon.” Hayden smiles fondly as he thinks of his wife.

“How are your kids? The twins must be like three by now. Damn.”

“Yeah, Ruby is a beast. She’s impossible. But Jade balances it out. And Arthur is just being a baby. They keep trying to walk around with him, and I have to stop them from dropping him straight on the ground.” 

“You should get them on skates. Ruby in particular. She’d be great…” Shane looked off over Hayden’s shoulder thoughtfully. There was a plan brewing there for Ruby. A ten year plan. One that ended at the University of Minnesota Duluth and then being drafted into the WHL. 

Hayden knew that look and waved a hand in front of Shane’s face. “Hey, Hollander. She’s three. How about we start with going to the rink when you’re in town, eh? She’s not ready for the draft yet.”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re right.” Shane laughed to himself. “But I’m serious. You have to get them on skates, like, now.”

“I promise, I promise.” Hayden took a sip of the beer he had been ignoring. “Hey, look, it’s my esteemed captain.” He rolled his eyes as he up-nodded at someone coming in the door.

Shane turned around to see Rozanov entering the lounge. He was wearing a black and red jacket that was printed with roses, black tailored pants, and a tuxedo shirt opened to the third button. His gold cross was on display, along with the top of his very pretty, very firm pecs. His shoes were black leather loafers, and he had a much more flashy Rolex on (the Skydweller, to be exact. Shane would know). He was wearing sunglasses inside, but they were pulled down his nose a bit so he could look over the top of them. And he had a cigarette tucked behind his ear. He looked expensive. He looked good.  

To watch Rozanov approach, Shane would have to remain turned entirely around in his seat, , so he turned back to Hayden instead. Lifting the glass he was ignoring, he took a sip and steadied himself, sure that the Russian was headed their way. Shit. Fuck. 

Rozanov was a problem Shane had decided to ignore. After their weirdly emotional and very disastrous last meeting, he just… pretended he didn’t exist. It was much easier for Shane to do that now that they never saw each other. And after Rozanov’s little stunt at the LA game in November, he hadn’t tried again to get Shane’s attention. Well, except maybe drafting Hayden in the first round when he was very clearly not the best player, and very much Shane’s pick. Maybe. But probably not.

Now, however, Shane was forced to acknowledge the very attractive blonde man sized elephant in the room. When considering this moment in the days and weeks before, he had come to the delusion that he wouldn’t ever run into Rozanov in a place they’d be compelled to speak to each other. And that he would politely ignore Shane and Shane would politely ignore him. They weren’t friends as far as anyone was concerned even if they weren’t really rivals as much anymore either. Shane realized now that he had, in fact, been very wrong.

“Ah, yes, Pike.” Rozanov stopped at the end of their table, nodding at Pike before turning his eyes on Hollander. He was peering down at him over the top of the sunglasses and smiled wide and unguarded, but it wasn’t in his eyes. Ah, Shane thought, okay, he could play this game. “Hollander.”

“Rozanov. Would you like to join us?” Shane slid in to make room on his side of the booth, but Rozanov instead slid into Hayden’s side, forcing him to slide over. 

“Given as this is a mixer, I will mix.” The waiter appeared and Rozanov ordered an old fashioned. Shane raised his eyebrows at the order. “It matches the jacket. Very Don Draper,” he explained. 

“You watch Mad Men?” a very confused Hayden Pike asked. 

“And you do not?” He leveled a look at Hayden with a totally straight face.

Hayden blinked and looked back to Shane, who was sipping the warm, flattening beer he was still barely a quarter into. Shane shrugged in return. The trio exchanged pleasantries and were chatting a bit about the upcoming games. 

“I am glad to have gotten both my best friend and yours, Hollander. I believe it will give me advantage to have expert on hitting you, and expert on your plays.” Rozanov met his eyes, then.

Shane realized at that moment that this was aimed at his attention. The look Rozanov was aiming at him was hard, but not dispassionate. It wasn’t angry, not really, but it wasn’t not angry either. Challenging, for sure. A touch of a dare to it. It sent a jolt through him. Oh. We’re playing.

“Mm. We’ll see how that works out for you.” They sat in silence looking at each other for a long moment. Maybe a minute. Hayden then tapped Rozanov.

“Let me out, I’m going to the bathroom. Shane, you wanna–” He tilted his head to give Shane the opportunity to leave. He shook his head no. Rozanov stood to let Hayden out and then sat back down.

“So,” Rozanov spoke first. 

“Look,” Shane was looking back down at his drink again, the slow spinning restarting. “I’m sorry about last time–”

“Eh, no. Hollander. It is fine.” But it clearly was anything but fine. Rozanov looked a little lost, if Shane was being honest. Like he wasn’t sure what he was doing in the booth and what he wanted to happen next. He had once again gotten Shane’s attention, but appeared to have no plan for it. Shane couldn’t help but feel a little protective of him in that moment. He seemed like a lost kid who desperately wanted to be remembered. “We do not need to talk about that.” 

“I know, but I wasn’t–”

“I said no.” Rozanov dipped his head low to try and get eye contact with Shane again. Their eyes met and Shane raised his gaze to more clearly look at him. Rozanov removed the sunglasses he had been peering over by pushing them up onto his head. “I am not here to extract an apology. You are not sorry and I am not interested in a polite lie, yes?” 

Shane bit his bottom lip. He was sorry, but forcing his apology felt like it would make everything worse. He shrugged slowly, holding his shoulders up by his ears for a moment longer than he needed to, and shook his head no once before lowering his shoulders and looking away. His fingers itched to grab Rozanov’s hand. It was sitting on the table unmoving. Shane felt like maybe the contact could ease the tension, get them to a place where they were communicating on the same wavelength, but they were in public and Shane got the distinct impression Rozanov wouldn’t even welcome the touch. He didn’t reach. 

They stared at each other in silence for what seemed like an hour. It was the longest eye contact Shane had held, maybe ever, but he couldn’t bring himself to look away from the blue-green eyes that had him pinned to the back of the booth. Then the waiter appeared with Rozanov’s drink and left it in front of him, breaking the spell. He thanked the waiter and raised his drink to take a sip.

“You look good,” Shane could finally talk, get a whole sentence out. It erupted from his mouth without his approval and he wasn’t sure he’d have chosen the compliment if he had time to review what his brain was sending to his mouth, but he didn’t. So there was the compliment. Unguarded and honest.

“Mm. Thank you, I chose it myself.” He was fishing, but Shane wasn’t sure what for. Was he making fun of Shane’s stylist? How would he have known about him, anyway? Rozanov kept looking at him as if he should understand the reference and Shane… didn’t. He didn’t read the tabloids, he didn’t have social media, and so he didn’t know that EVERY time he spent a moment with Rose Landry a picture of them appeared. 

The public had started to get invested in the idea they were together. And though they were not, Rose’s PR person had said that if they deny they are dating and continue spending time together in public, it would probably get worse. Shane’s crisis manager (on retainer) had asked him how he felt and when he was agnostic about the whole thing, he agreed they should just do nothing. So while he knew the internet was shipping them on the bird app (whatever that meant, Rose kept saying it), he didn’t realize how ubiquitous it all really was. Shane just didn’t pick up that Rozanov was snarking about his girlfriend.

Shane pinched his eyebrows together and tilted his head to examine Rozanov. His heart was pounding and his hands were clammy and he realized that he was nervous. He couldn’t see outside the booth, but plenty of people could see in. He wasn’t sure what his face looked like, what this interaction looked like, but he was sure it would evoke gossip of some kind if someone had a clear view of his face. 

He needed to get them alone. Actually alone. Where they could touch, and maybe talk. Probably. They should talk. But Shane could smell his aftershave and feel the warmth radiating off his knees under the table, and really he was fine if maybe they didn’t talk much. Or at least first. Maybe all the talking was what made this harder. What made this a mess. It felt like an impossible mess right now. 

He’d never had a relationship that was so strained. Being agreeable and quiet and almost invisible had always been Shane’s way. No one could make fun of you if they didn’t remember you. No one would reject you if you never offered them an invitation. So he blended into the background. Until hockey. And then his skill outshined him and his friendships could be about hockey. Safe and calm. So Shane was not equipped for whatever was happening now. The strained quiet. The anxiety of saying something, but the pain of saying nothing.

The silence had stretched on again. Rozanov sat incredibly still. Almost statue like. Just looking. Shane was squirming under the gaze, twirling his glass, tapping his leg under the table. Neither spoke. The hot burning feeling that only accompanied Ilya Rozanov started expanding in Shane’s chest. He couldn’t look anywhere but at Ilya’s hand sitting stationary next to his glass. 

“What room are you in?” Shane asked it first this time. A dance they had done so many times. For years. And most of the time, Rozanov went first. But today Shane knew that if he did not, neither of them would. He wanted to be alone, together. He wanted to be closer. He was flooding with regret for breaking the tenuous thing between them, so he offered an olive branch. Eyebrows raised in question, breath catching in his throat as he waited for the other man to answer.

“No. You cannot do that,” Rozanov’s voice was hard, irritated. Shane sat back in his seat, shocked by the denial. “I will not be that for you.”

“What?” Shane’s voice cracked as he responded, his cheeks flushing immediately. The sting of rejection flooded through his body as if his blood had been replaced with lava. Eyes immediately falling to the beer in front of him. 

“Go back to your girlfriend, Hollander.” And Ilya stood and moved into the crowd of rowdy hockey players, leaving Shane alone in the booth reeling.

Chapter End Notes

So, I promise you it's going to get better. We're about 2-3 chapters off of the payoff you all want. So please hang in there with me. Your comments give me life, as does your kudos. Every read makes me so happy.

Good job, I love you.