Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander & Scott Hunter, Scott Hunter & Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander/Mexico Top

Additional Tags:

Blackmail, Extortion, Sex Tapes, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Bad Sex, Lube, Hayden Pike catches a stray, He's not even there, NHL All-Star Game, Rimming, Scott Hunter Finds Out About Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Hurt/Comfort, Protective Scott Hunter (Game Changers), Protective Ilya Rozanov, Coming Out, Shane Hollander Needs a Hug

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-04-11 Words: 16,621 Chapters: 1/1

Make Me Forget

Summary

After hooking up with a man in Mexico in Summer 2014, Shane Hollander receives an explicit video file and a request for $10,000. He pays the money, and hopes that is the end of it.

It is not.

At the 2015 All Stars, after months of pretending everything was fine, Shane's house of cards comes tumbling down.

Notes

This is my first foray into writing Heated Rivalry fanfic - you know I'm serious about it as I changed my spellcheck settings from British English to Canadian English.

If you have any concerns about the tags and whether this story is suitable for you, please see the end note for further clarifications on warnings.

September 2014

Montreal

It's a rest day, so Shane is home alone when the text that shatters his world comes through. A small mercy, really, because at least it's his own kitchen floor that he sinks down onto. His own wooden cabinets, too, which he leans against desperately as he tries to make sense of the text. The number is saved in his phone, but that is no comfort, not when the text is so strange.

A minute later, a video file comes through. Shane clicks the video, and a chill runs through his spine.

The video is 17 minutes long, and when it starts playing, the first frame shows a familiar Mexican hotel room in crisp HD. Shane remembers those sheets - scratchy - and the loud hum of the air conditioning. He remembers the man who is fiddling with the camera, too, though all that is in view is part of his thick beard. He doesn't remember a camera, though. It must have been on the dresser, hidden. The whole bed is in frame, and Mexico Hookup walks back to sit upon it in wait, and Shane's stomach roils.

Going there had been so stupid - a desperate attempt to wipe Las Vegas from his mind.

To wipe Ilya Rozanov from his mind.

He'd had a few beers with his teammates when the man had approached him in the bathrooms. The man was obvious about his attraction - obvious like Rozanov - and Shane suspects that is why he had gone along with it, had agreed to meet up that night. After all, Rozanov wouldn't even grant him a kiss, last time they met. They've patched things up a bit now, sent a few flirty texts back and forth, but that night in August, the radio silence from Rozanov had been deafening, and Shane had been grappling with the agony of moving on. 

So yeah. Maybe he'd fallen into bed with the first man to look his way.

On the video, there's a knock at the door. The sound of it rattles through Shane - he'd been hoping at least it was video only, but the audio is as clear as the picture. Shane watches the man let him into the room, watches himself fumble round to strip down to only his socks, watches how Mexico Hookup had fingered him with too little lube, the drag of rough fingertips in his ass making him squirm with discomfort.

He forces himself to continue watching, relives it in real time, even though the Shane on the video feels so alien to him. It’s not sexy, it’s not hot to watch, it’s just awkward. Too little lube had been a theme of the evening, even after Video Shane asked for more and was rewarded with a sad little dribble extra, leaving him a little too tight, a little too dry. 

Shane remembers wondering at the time if this was normal. If perhaps the care and attention Rozanov usually paid was strange and excessive. If perhaps he was weak for needing it.

When Mexico Hookup grew tired of prep and they finally started fucking, Video Shane was on all fours, Mexico Hookup rabbiting into him, abortive little thrusts that had done very little to stimulate anything at all. It was still so dry, Shane remembers, tensing and flinching at the memory of it. Video Shane tried to grind his hips, tried to thrust back and fix the angle, but Mexico Hookup held him still, hands on his hips and not roaming at all, as if he were little more than a Fleshlight.

Shane sees in real time the moment Video Shane gave up on Mexico Hookup. Video Shane closed his eyes, and gave himself over to memories, pushing his forehead into his bicep. Shane wishes he could remember exactly which Rozanov memory had been at the forethought of his mind that night - it would have been a good one. They were all good ones.

Shane skips ahead a bit.

Mexico Hookup was panting like he was getting close to the end, so Video Shane reached for his own cock. Mexico Hookup slapped Video Shane’s hand away. “Come on my cock alone,” he muttered, still bobbing away with his shallow, fast thrusts.

“I can’t do that,” Video Shane replied through clenched teeth - a lie, he’d done it for Rozanov before, but that hardly seemed important in that moment. He reached for his cock again, batting Mexico Hookup away when he tried to stop him again, and then stripped himself ruthlessly, muffling his moans in his elbow.

Mexico Hookup attempted to tug at Video Shane’s wrist and take his hand away - but hockey had blessed Shane with strong forearms, and so Video Shane kept his hand on his dick until cum was splashing across the bedsheets, and Mexico Hookup was crying out behind him, spilling himself inside.

Afterwards, they were both sitting awkwardly on the edge of the bed while Shane retied his shoes, and Mexico Hookup asked, “You do this a lot? Sleep with men?”

Video Shane shook his head. “Just one guy, before you,” he said. Just one guy, as if Rozanov was just anyone. “A bunch of times, but - just him. I don’t usually do stuff like this. I’m not really one for casual.”

Mexico Hookup nodded. “What did you say your name was, again?”

“John,” Video Shane said, and Shane winces - he doesn’t sell the name at all.

“Well, John, if you’re ever back in Mexico City…” Mexico Hookup said, leaning in.

Video Shane hesitated, then darted forward, pressing a quick dry kiss to waiting lips. His only kiss since a dirty Vegas bathroom in June, where Rozanov had taken him apart and promised him riches beyond measure.

As quickly as Video Shane had arrived, he was gone, leaving Mexico Hookup sat alone on the mussed bed.

Mexico Hookup stayed still a moment longer, then looked up, straight down the lens of the camera. “Shane Hollander. Four Seasons, Mexico City. August 22nd, 2014.”

The screen goes black. Before Shane can formulate a solid thought, another text pings through.

$10,000 is a lot of money, but it is far less than he’d lose in sponsorships if a video like this were to come out. Shane weighs it up, considers replying go fuck yourself, and then, instead, pings $10,000 to the bank account provided.

They send back a note that says “deleted”. And that, Shane thinks, is the end of that.

January 2015

Los Angeles

Shane sits on the bed and waits. His knee bounces a staccato beat, and his hands flex.

All Star weekend had taken its sweet time to come around, and it’s his first chance to see Rozanov all season. Shane’d had a thumb injury that kept him out of the first game in Boston; Rozanov had been suspended for the subsequent game in Montreal (and man, had Shane made him feel bad about that). They haven’t hooked up since the agonizing Las Vegas hotel room after the awards in June, and though they’ve sexted and flirted a lot since then, Shane’s chest still feels tight, wondering if today will be a replay of Vegas.

Maybe that’s what Rozanov wants.

Shane can admit - to himself at least - that Vegas left him empty. He felt like a shell after, hollowed out by crashing waves. What they had was reduced to something impersonal, stagnant. It was that hollow emptiness that lead him to Mexico Hookup. It’s an emptiness he can’t risk again.

Still. The pull of Rozanov is magnetic. Even if they never kiss again, Shane does not think he is strong enough to withdraw completely.

It’s been 7 months since he last saw Rozanov. 5 months since he slept with a man other than Rozanov for the first time. 4 months since that man started asking for money.  Half a year of various tortures, curdling in his stomach and leaving him to rot.

Shane’s last game pre-All Stars was against the Admirals. A blessing - the options for travelling from New York to LA were endless, and the tight fizzle of want and worry had made him desperate enough to suggest to Rozanov they both fly in early. As soon as he sent the text, he had cringed, for he suspected it was far too clingy, but minutes later Rozanov had agreed to it, sending flight options.

Shane arrived in LAX for mid-morning, and he checked in early to the hotel - room pre-booked for an early arrival. Rozanov’s flight from Boston arrived not much later, and so he was due to arrive to the hotel any minute. Crucially, at least a few hours before the next wave of All Stars arrive.

They will have time alone. Sweet, blessed time alone.

It isn’t fair to ask Rozanov to wipe away the memories of Mexico hookup. Then again, Shane knows he doesn’t even have to ask. Rozanov will fuck his brains out without Shane ever having to whisper make me forget.

It had been a constant fission of tension, the last 4 months. The short buzz of his phone whenever a new text came in was a harbinger of doom or of pleasure, and until Shane looked at that bright screen, there was no way to tell whether it was Rozanov sending filthy messages, or Mexico Hookup asking for more money. The fear and desire whirled in his gut constantly, but now, at least for a few hours, he could let the fear go - put his phone aside and let himself be desired by Rozanov, in whatever form that might take.

There’s a knock at the door. Shane answers. Rozanov has no bag, and his curly halo of hair is a damp at the ends - he must have checked in early too, to drop his things in his room and shower off before coming. Considerate. He wonders if Rozanov had pre-booked early check-in like Shane, or if he'd sweet talked the receptionist into giving it to him without pre-booking - that seems more like him.

Shane had showered, too, and prepped for what they'd no doubt get up to in the room. He'd redressed after, in an attempt to not seem so eager. It seems silly, now, with Rozanov leaning against the doorway. 

Rozanov steps into the room, where he is brightly lit by the noon sun. It’s so strange to see Rozanov’s sultry eyes by the bright light of day. Shane could get used to it.

“Hello, All Star,” Rozanov teases, shutting the door behind him. “Did you miss me?”

Shane snorts a laugh. “Fuck off,” he says, even as he is stepping forward, crowding Rozanov against the door. He gets close, then hesitates, wondering if he's allowed to close the distance, but before he can freeze for long, Rozanov’s hand curls around his jaw, guiding him in, and then they are kissing, the hot slide of their tongues against one another coiling in Shane’s belly, even as the rope around his heart eases loose.

The kiss echoes down to his toes, Rozanov's lips working their magic as always. His kisses are mind numbing, spreading into each knot in Shane's back and coaxing them lax, wiping away every stress and leaving him limber and wanting. 

Shane tries to drop to his knees, but Rozanov catches him, holds him up by the armpits. “Your mouth is nice, but not what I want.” If there was any ambiguity, it is wiped away by Rozanov’s hands, which knead at his ass. It's a shame - back when blowjobs were merely theoretical, Shane had thought he'd find them an unpleasant means to an end, but in truth he's always loved sucking Rozanov's cock, the weight of him on his tongue, the power he feels. That said, any longing is wiped away when Rozanov dives in for another kiss, and then, without separating, walks them back to the bed, pushing Shane down upon it. “Strip.”

Shane makes as much of a show of it as he can, even as he folds his clothes and places them beside the bed. Stood over him, Rozanov strips too, his clothes falling into a haphazard pile until he is fully naked and waiting for Shane to finish. In truth, it slows Shane down, for he can't help but stare at Rozanov's cock, hard and dripping, but Rozanov gives him a little chop chop and he returns to business, until he is left only in his socks. 

A cold shiver runs down his spine as he remembers the video for a moment. How he'd lain on that bed, socks on, looking like a fool.

He shakes the thought away and reaches down, removing his socks. 

Rozanov frowns. He kneels down, lifting one of Shane's feet up and wrapping it in both hands. “Why no socks? Your feet are always cold.”

Shane huffs and tries to remove Rozanov's grip. His warm hands are pleasant, and in truth Shane's feet are already chilled. “Socks aren’t sexy.”

Rozanov snorts. “Who tells you this, Cosmo magazine?” He asks, looking at the socks, where they rest atop the pile. “I think socks are sexy.”

Shane raises an eyebrow. “Is now the time for this argument?”

Rozanov laughs. “No, it is not.” He lets go of Shane’s foot, and Shane takes the opportunity to roll onto his knees and elbows, chest dipping low. He’s rewarded by a sharp inhale by Rozanov, and then a gentle hand, resting against the curve of his ass. “So pretty, Hollander.”

Shane reaches to the nightstand, grabs the lube and condoms there, slaps them backwards. Rozanov laughs again. “So prepared, Canadian boy scout.” Rozanov climbs up and spreads himself across Shane’s back, kissing wetly at his spine. “You are rubbing off on me, for I brought lube too. A big bottle, none of these sad tiny packets.”

“Great, we’ve got enough lube for a porno,” Shane quips, and then doesn’t say much more for a while, as Rozanov’s big fingers are stretching into him, copious lube making it a fun stretch as opposed to an irritation.

Rozanov’s spare hand is everywhere. Squeezing his chest, fondling his abs, teasing his cock. It’s like a tidal wave, moving up and down every inch of his torso, and Shane arches into the hand. He’s rewarded with more wet kisses to his shoulder blades, the heat of Rozanov’s mouth and the wet chill he leaves in his wake both making Shane feel more alive than ever.

“Is this good?” Rozanov asks.

“Fuck me, please.”

“Please." Rozanov echoes, a smile in his voice. "I have missed your Canadian manners.”

Before Shane can snip back, Rozanov's fingers pull out, and Rozanov moves forward, sinking into Shane as if he were lowering himself into a hot bath. "Fuck, Hollander."

Shane clenches down, and is rewarded by Rozanov kneading his ass greedily. "Again," Rozanov mutters, and Shane repeats the move, staying clenched as he shifts forward a little, then relaxing as he pushes back. Rozanov groans at the move, pushing his own hips forward into it so that they smack loudly against Shane's ass and make him moan. 

It takes a minute for them to find their rhythm, but once they do, they are hypnotizingly good together. The angle isn't right for Shane's prostate, and he's quite happy to ride it out without, but then Rozanov starts shifting, finding the right angle, and soon enough Shane's prostate is being hammered thoroughly, him grinding back into the pressure like a common whore. 

The thought removes all pleasure from the moment.

Shane wonders if he’s too much - maybe that’s why Mexican Hookup had held his hips still. He stills them of his own accord this time, letting Rozanov do whatever he pleases.

Unfortunately, it has the opposite effect. As soon as Shane’s hips stutter to a halt, Rozanov’s do too. “Why do we stop? Is okay?”

“I thought maybe I was doing too much.”

Rozanov is silent and still for a long beat. Shane wishes he could see Rozanov’s face. “Too much?”  Rozanov asks. He sounds incredulous, and then is pulling out, leaving Shane bereft.

“Wait, what?” Shane asks, indignant, reaching back to try and lead Rozanov back inside. “Rozanov -“

Rozanov is pulling at his hips, rearranging them until Rozanov is propped up at the pillows, and Shane is straddling Rozanov’s thick thighs. “Your mind is being strange. I would like to see your face today,” Rozanov says, no room for argument. He leads Shane in, kisses him thoroughly as Shane lowers himself down, until he is fully seated on Rozanov's cock.

Rozanov pulls away. "Give me a show, Hollander," he commands, and though a blush stains Shane's cheeks, he obeys, riding Rozanov like a prize bull. Rozanov plants his feet and thrusts up a little, but Shane is in the driving seat, leading them both crashing towards pleasure. Rozanov kisses at his mouth, his chin, bites at his lips, plucks at his nipples, rubs at his thighs. It's the strange kind of perfect that only they find together.

“Too much?” Rozanov repeats again into his lips, panting against them. “I will take everything you give me, Hollander.”

Rozanov's hand drops down, wraps around Shane’s cock. His gaze drops, too, and Shane follows, watches as Rozanov’s hand coaxes the pre-cum from his tip, his thumb spreading it round the glossy head. “Fuck, Rozanov.”

"Work for it, Hollander," Rozanov replies, angling his hand to match the cant of Shane's hips, so that Shane is thrusting into Rozanov's hand with every lift of his hips. It drives Shane wild, and before long he is thrusting with abandon, smiling into Rozanov's lips as he feels Russian hips stutter in their rhythm. "Oh God, Hollander..." Rozanov cries out, and it's enough to tip him over too, his spend making a mess of Rozanov's hand. 

Shane raises his hips, lets Rozanov slip out of him. He watches idly as Rozanov wipes his hand on the sheets and ties off the condom, throwing it in the waste bin, and then Rozanov's clean hand is reaching out, leading him in for another kiss. It's languid with release, and Shane's bones feel empty and light. 

It's not what they are, and Shane shifts from the bed, heading for the bathroom. "I need to clean up," he mutters, and Rozanov nods. Strangely, Rozanov makes no move to leave, and it gives Shane pause.

“I could go,” Rozanov says. “Or…”

Shane leans against the bathroom door. “Or…”

Rozanov shrugs a shoulder. “Four hours before next All Stars arrive. Do you have any other plans today? Parents to entertain?”

“They don’t arrive until tomorrow morning.”

“Good.” Rozanov says, making himself comfortable. “Give me half hour. We will go again.”

Shane's spine heats at the idea of more time together, but his brow creases. “I might need more than half an hour,” Shane admits. “I think you fucked my brains straight out of my head.”

“I do not think you will need more time. I am very convincing.” Rozanov replies, widening the stance of his legs. It frames his cock perfectly, and Shane feels his stomach swoop to see him like this. Even soft, he is magnificent.

“I’m going to shower.”

"Washcloth first?" Rozanov calls, hopeful, and Shane wets one and throws it straight at Rozanov's head, ignoring the indignant huff as he closes the bathroom door.

When he comes back, Rozanov is still lying on the bed naked, hands behind his head. The TV is on, volume low. Shane climbs on the bed, lies down parallel to Rozanov. There’s a soccer match on the screen, and he glances to Rozanov questioningly.

“Roma versus Palermo.” Rozanov uses his best Italian accent. He still sounds Russian. “Palermo are winning. Is good. Roma knocked my beloved Koni from Champions League. I am rooting for their downfall.”

Soccer’s never been Shane’s style, so he reaches for his phone, where it sits on the bedside table, content to scroll the internet for a while until they’re ready to go again.

He only manages to read a few tweets before his phone begins pinging with new messages, one right after the other.

They rattle in his brain. His stomach roils. 

He is everywhere and nowhere at once, like the world is too big and too small.

There’s a hand on his shoulder, and suddenly he comes rushing back to the present. “Hollander,” Rozanov says. From his tone, Shane suspects it’s not the first time Rozanov has said his name. There’s a crease between Rozanov’s brows, and his spare hand is outstretched across himself. They’re both sat up, though Shane has no memory of moving. “Show me your phone.”

“What? No.” Shane holds his phone tighter, clutching it against his bare chest. Rozanov reaches over, and Shane slaps him away. “Fuck off.”

“You are having panic attack. I cannot help if I do not know what it is.” Rozanov waits, palm up, to receive the phone. His brows are raised, impatient, and he gives his hand a little shake, as if to hurry Shane along.

Every fibre of Shane’s being tells him to run. No one gets to see him this vulnerable, least of all Rozanov. There’s not an inch of his body that Rozanov hasn’t kissed, sucked or fucked, and yet having him know that Shane was so stupid, hadn’t checked for cameras, had let himself fall into a cycle of blackmail, is all too much to bear.

And yet. The longer he stares at Rozanov’s outstretched hand, the more he yearns for someone to know. No one could possibly understand like Rozanov could.

Against his better judgement, he places his phone in Rozanov’s hand.

Rozanov scrolls through, face unreadable. There’s not all that many texts, really, and so he reaches the top in only a few minutes, finger lingering over the video. “Can I…”

Shane nods, and Rozanov clicks play. He doesn’t watch it all - just skims through, brow lowered. As Rozanov watches, his hand finds Shane’s back, and he sweeps along its length, firm movements, like a metronome.

“Oh Hollander,” he mutters when the video is done. Rozanov leans over and kisses the ball of his shoulder. “Am I allowed to make joke about how this horrible man was bad lover?” He says, and Shane laughs wetly, nods, because he needs this. Needs it to feel less all-encompassing, just for a moment. “This is why you worry about doing too much?” Rozanov asks. Shane does not answer. “Was there national shortage of lube that month? Even when you ask for more, he only gives tiny teaspoon? Is a miracle you came at all.”

“I remembered us,” Shane confesses, looking over to Rozanov, whose face is unreadable. “To get me across the line. I thought of us together.”

Rozanov nods, kisses his shoulder again. “You told him you could not come hands-free.”

“I couldn’t. Not with him,” Shane says, and then Rozanov’s hand is cupping his chin, and they’re kissing, fleeting but fond. Shane leans back, scrapes his hand down his face. “God, I have to go.”

“To him?” Rozanov asked, and Shane nodded. Rozanov sucked his teeth. “Hm. No.”

“What do you mean, no? You read the messages. That video cannot come out,” Shane argues back, reaches across Rozanov to grab his phone. Rozanov rolls back, wraps a hand around Shane’s waist, and holds the phone far out of reach, where all Shane can do is grasp Rozanov’s wrist desperately. “I will fight you.” Shane spits out, and he means it.

Rozanov gives a little smile, and it makes Shane want to fight even more. “I will give your phone back if you listen to me, just for a moment. No fighting needed.” It doesn't stop Shane's struggle, and Rozanov continues with a single word. “Please.”

Something in the please, its gentle sincerity, breaks his anger, and suddenly Rozanov’s hand on his back feels grounding. In spite of everything, he trusts Rozanov, and so nods, lets the fight leave him for now. "Be quick."

Rozanov nods, looks at the texts again. “You have sent this man a lot of money. This man is not rich like us,” Rozanov surmises. “You are good lay, Hollander. But I think this is empty threat. If you do not go, I do not think he will put video online. I think instead he will ask for money again.”

Shane sighs. “He could sell the video to a porn site.”

“He could. But is illegal video. What he did to you was a crime, Hollander,” Rozanov counters. “They will give money, but not as much as he could get from you, as there is legal risk, and then he could go to jail. He would not sell video for porn site money unless he was sure you would not give him more money.”

“It is a risk to not go.”

“It would be a risk to go to him, too,” Rozanov says. His hand trails down Shane's spine, until it is resting over his crease - as if protecting his ass from unwelcome eyes. “He was too rough, last time. You ached the next day, no?” Rozanov asks. His fingers curl, stroking Shane's entrance, almost protectively. “If he is rough again, you will play badly tomorrow. And what if, this time, he is rougher?”

“I’m stronger than I look.”

“And he has video to blackmail you,” Rozanov says. “Could threaten to release it, tie you up, take worse video. Could invite other men.” The hand leaves his ass now, coils around his waist instead. “Could hurt you in ways that cannot be fixed.” Rozanov kisses him once, gentle. “Please. Do not go.”

Shane sighs. “What do you suggest?”

“I suggest we do not respond to this message. If he asks for money today, we say bank is suspicious, so we need to speak to them tomorrow before sending anything.” Rozanov pauses for a suspiciously long time. “Then, tomorrow, we speak to your Mother.”

“No.”

“Hollander…”

“Rozanov. No.”

“Ok, then tomorrow we send him money. And then next time he asks, we send him more. And more. And more,” Rozanov argues, voice climbing with every sentence. “And then next time he asks for sex, we fuck him.”

“We?”

“Yes. We,” Rozanov replies slowly, as if Shane didn't understand. “You think I am letting him be alone with you again?”

It stabs the wind from Shane's sails. “It’s just….” Shane trails off, burying his face in Rozanov's chest for a moment. It muffles his next words, but he doesn't pull away. “I don’t want to come out.”

“Yes, is too soon.” Rozanov agrees, and Shane shakes his head.

“No, I don’t want to come out at all. Maybe when I’m retired, if the world gets better? But not while I’m playing.” Shane says, turning his face to rest his cheek on Rozanov's chest instead.

“Hollander…”

“This is too much, Rozanov,” he says, scrubbing a hand over his eyes. “I don’t want to talk about coming out any more.”

“OK. What is the word, when there is a pause in fighting?”

“Armistice. Ceasefire.”

“Hm, that. We do not discuss coming out for rest of day. You do not respond to him, and if he asks for money, you send it. Tomorrow, once All Star game is done, we will discuss again.” Rozanov agrees. He looks at Shane, sees too much as always. “Is there something else?”

The other fear is less important, and yet more embarrassing to admit. There is no one else - literally no one - that Shane would admit it to. “I don’t want the world to see that I’m bad at sex.”

Rozanov tilts his head all the way back, lets out a small laugh. “Hollander,” he mutters, and then rocks them sideways, until he is spread over Shane, thick thighs splayed across Shane’s own. “Is quite clear that you were not issue,” he continues, and then kisses at Shane’s pec, his tongue grazing the skin. “Though the world will know that you keep socks on for sex, which according to Cosmo is very embarrassing,” he mutters, and Shane pushes him away with a laugh. Rozanov doesn’t go far, still straddling him, and looks over to the cheap hotel alarm clock. “Oh look! Has been thirty minutes.” He looks to Shane, looks down between their bodies. “You want?”

“Is it bad that I do?” Make me forget. 

“No,” Rozanov responds, certain. He grabs the lube, then folds Shane near in half, so his knees are near his shoulders. “Hold, please,” Rozanov directs, pushing at his left thigh again a moment later. “Hm. Wider,” he mutters, smirking when Shane widens his legs. "Yoga." 

"Fuck off," Shane huffs, and then Rozanov pours the lube over and into him, putting even more on his own hand. “Fuck, Rozanov,” Shane mutters, arching as Rozanov slides 2 fingers in easily. “If you keep going like that, two bottles of lube won’t be enough for the weekend.”

“Los Angeles has pharmacies. We can get more,” Rozanov promises, and then lowers down, licking around his fingers and coaxing another moan from Shane's lips. His spare hand rubs firmly up and down the back of Shane's thigh, holding it steady, and so Shane lets that leg go, gripping the headboard firmly with one hand. 

"Fuck," Shane whispers, and then freezes. "Fuck, wait," he says, and Rozanov pulls away, brow creased. "Is the lube edible?"

The crease disappears, and Rozanov smirks again. "If it is not, I am willing to die for the cause," he replies, lowering himself back down and lapping around his fingers. 

Shane moans again, decides his due diligence is done, and lets his head fall back, lets himself sink into the pleasure. Rozanov's good at this - Rozanov's good at everything they do in bed - and it's hard to not grind into his face. 

Rozanov would probably like that. Still. Not today. 

His tongue is warm and merciless, and his fingers smart and dextrous, and he plays with Shane like Shane's his own personal instrument, fine-tuned. It's an orchestra of sensation, and Shane can't imagine there is any better feeling in the world.

Rozanov's mouth moves higher, sucking at his perineum, and Shane thinks maybe he might die of pleasure. 

Have fun explaining that to the press, Rozanov. 

Rozanov lowers his mouth again to his entrance, but this time, he presses in, the wet hot slide of his tongue joining his fingers. It's somehow even better than before, and Shane can't help but flex into it. Rozanov moans, and it reverberates through Shane, making him flex again. 

Shane can't see Rozanov's face, but he can see lower. Rozanov is grinding on the bed, hips undulating, and it's even hotter than Rozanov's tongue. Shane's a hair's breath away from coming already, if only there was a hand on his cock -

Oh.

Shane looks at Rozanov's spare hand, which is still flexing and holding the back of his thigh. Rozanov's hands are usually all over his cock, unrelenting, and yet today - 

Shane suddenly feels like he might cry.

"Are you - do you want -" Shane says, and Rozanov looks up, removing the wet heat from Shane's entrance. He looks at Shane's untouched cock, precum seeping generously onto his stomach with every press of fingers.

"Do you think you can?" Rozanov asks, fingers still pressing insistently at Shane's prostate. Shane nods, blinking back tears. "Then yes." 

He lowers down again, spearing his tongue into Shane and rolling his fingers inside. Shane bites at his own bicep to keep praise spilling from his lips. It's too good to last much longer, especially now that he knows Rozanov wants him like this.

He hovers on the edge for a moment, just needing that one - little - thing - to tip him over - 

And then Rozanov's nose is pressing on his perineum, and Rozanov's tongue is deeper than it's ever been before, and Shane falls off the cliff, sparks ricocheting through him. 

Shane looks down, his untouched cock coming in streaks across his abs and chest, the pleasure undulating through his core. Rozanov doesn't let up for a minute, fingers and tongue working him through the aftershocks, his hips still grinding down into the bed, until Shane pushes him away, pulling him upwards towards his face. 

Rozanov resists, just a little. “My mouth has just been on your ass, Hollander.”

“Just kiss me, will ya?” He says, words slurred with pleasure.

As soon as he finishes the sentence, he frowns. Wonders if Rozanov heard it too, how close Kiss me, will ya sounded to Kiss Me, Ilya. He doesn’t have time to dwell on it, because then Rozanov is kissing him, deep and dirty. Gods, but something in that orgasm knocked his brain loose, because Shane is floating, Mexico Hookup a distant memory. 

They break the kiss eventually. “Come on, up,” Shane says, scooting down the bed as Rozanov scoots up. The angle’s not the best, but they make it work, Rozanov thrusting gently as Shane gives the wettest blowjob he’s ever given.

“Fuck, Hollander,” he groans, hand fisting the base of his cock. Shane wishes he wouldn't hold back, wishes he'd let Shane choke on it. “I’m there. I’m there.”

Shane doesn’t pull off, lets Rozanov come down his throat. Rozanov pulls out a moment later, before the tingly glow of after can grow into the aching throb of too much. Rozanov passes him a towel, and Shane wipes himself. Wipes Rozanov too, and enjoys the shiver it sends through the Russian.

They find each other at the pillows again, but this time, Rozanov pulls him in, bringing Shane’s knee across his body so that Shane has no choice but to sprawl across him. Rozanov reaches for the remote and unmutes the soccer, lets out a boo when he realises Roma have equalized.

Rozanov’s hand is curling through Shane’s hair, almost mindlessly. It is soothing. Shane lets it settle him, lets himself pretend the terrible texts from the last four months were not real. Lets himself pretend that Rozanov cares.

Shane dozes while the soccer is on - wakes to hear the final whistle, it finishes as a tie, yet another way hockey is superior - and expects Rozanov to leave as soon as the match is over.  Instead, Rozanov turns the channel to Golden Girls reruns and drops his head, nose resting in Shane’s hair. It’s unfamiliar, but warm and welcome, even when the soft rattle of Rozanov’s snore echoes in Shane’s ears.

There’s only a few hours, now, until the All Star press events begin. The window to meet up with Mexico Hookup is closing. If Rozanov had left, Shane suspects he would’ve caved to the pressure by now - would’ve gone and met up for uncomfortable, unpleasant sex, anything to keep that video private - but Rozanov’s heavy arm keeps him pinned.

Shane lets himself rest.

When the world comes back into focus, it is almost time to leave. The window for meeting Mexico Hookup has closed - he’ll not be seeing Mexico Hookup this afternoon. It’s a sweet relief - made even sweeter when he looks at his phone and realises that Rozanov was likely right. There’s no breaking news about his sex tape, and no further cajoling from Mexico Hookup. No requests for money, either, which is a surprise, but Shane is not about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

“Rozanov, it’s time to get ready,” he whispers, tapping Rozanov on the cheek. Rozanov turns into the touch, kisses his palm. He opens his bleary eyes, looks at Shane, and tilts for a kiss.

It’s so domestic that Shane’s stomach flips, and for one delirious moment, he wonders if this is what marriage to Rozanov might look like. He shuts the thought down, and places a dry peck on Rozanov’s lips.

He’s unsurprised when Rozanov reaches forward, pulls him in for another kiss, wet and enticing. Rozanov sighs, and then climbs from the bed, heading for the shower.

Other than Hayden, Shane can’t remember the last time he got ready with someone in tandem, and it’s strange but pleasant. Rozanov borrows his aftershave, and Shane can’t help but feel possessive about it, like everyone there will know Rozanov belongs to him.

They won’t, of course. It’s a popular aftershave - at least 3 other guys will likely be wearing it - but still, Shane lets himself have this. After all, it’s been a hard day.

Shane checks the corridor both ways before they both head out to the elevator bank. Rozanov reaches out and picks lint off the back of his shirt, and the brush of his hand sends hot sparks through Shane’s brain.

“Tonight,” Rozanov says. He doesn’t elaborate. He doesn’t need to.

“My room again?” Shane asks.

Rozanov shakes his head. "No. We have made a mess," he says, and Shane smiles, because truly they had. "My room. 1134."

They stand apart when they reach the elevator bank, though Shane can feel Rozanov’s gaze upon him. He’s glad they’re separate, though, as when the elevator pings open, Scott Hunter is already inside, looking between the two of them curiously.

“Hey, man,” Shane greets warmly, stepping inside. Rozanov follows a beat later, no greeting on his lips, and steps to the back of the elevator - Hunter’s blind spot. It’s the move of a predator, and when Shane glares at him, Rozanov mouths Hey man back, rolling his eyes. Shane ignores him, turns back to Hunter.

The All Star split is Europe vs North America again, so once more Shane and Hunter are on the same team - only this time, Shane’s wearing the C, Hunter has the A. If Hunter’s smarting about playing second fiddle, he doesn’t show it, as affable as always. The elevator pings open to reveal the foyer, with the left side decorated in American and Canadian flags, and the right side in European bunting.

Shane doesn’t look back as he and Hunter step to the left, to the cheers of his temporary teammates. He hears the cheer echoed on the right for Rozanov, and smiles to himself.

Ever since coming to America, Ilya has spent the first half of each season looking forward to the All Star game.

He’s been picked every year he’s been eligible - after all, why would you not pick best player in the league? - and it is a chance to show off, a chance to compete with the cream of the crop, a chance to cram his competitiveness into a one-off game.

It doesn’t hurt that he’s always against Hollander. The sun to his moon.

This year had him thrumming with added anticipation. The Montreal-Boston games were heavily stacked towards the end of the season, and so through suspension and injury, he and Hollander had not hooked up in 6 months - not since Las Vegas and the NHL Awards, where they’d parted on a stale note that had left Ilya itchy and unmoored.

Hollander suggesting meeting up early for All Stars was a surprise, and a welcome one. Stepping into the suite and kissing Hollander felt like how home looked in the movies, where polished actors stepped into polished kitchens and sighed, as if the weight of their day was removed from their shoulders. He shouldn't have kissed him - had promised himself, in the elevator to the suite, that he'd resist the temptation to make things so sweet - but then Hollander had leant to him and hesitated with big, sad eyes, and he'd been lost.

He’d been so caught-up in the kisses, he’d even stopped Hollander dropping to his knees - a pity, for Hollander was beautiful when he stared up at him through lowered lashes.

The sex had been perfect. What followed, less so.

Ilya’s worst nightmare was being outed. After every alcohol-fuelled encounter, he would rub at his forehead and wonder if this would be the time that someone sold their story, or a photo, or a video, and his house of cards would come tumbling down.

Now, here, in Los Angeles, someone he begrudgingly cares about might have to live his hell.

Watching the video hurt - the strangest pain that Ilya can imagine, a curdling mix of jealousy and outrage and rage and despair, rotting in his gut. Mexico Asshole was so rough with Hollander, and not in the fun, tweak a nipple on the edge of too much way. He doesn’t understand why Hollander didn’t stop.

Does he think that is how sex was meant to be?

Is that what sex with Ilya was like for him?

In that room, he had wanted to cover Hollander's body with his own, kiss at his cheeks, say what they did to you, my love, it is a crime, let me hold you. It's not who they are, but it hadn't stopped his traitorous heart from wanting it. He wants to hold Hollander now, even in this stupid American lobby with its chintzy decorations. 

Ilya remembers what Hollander had said at the end of the video, when the asshole had asked about his past lovers. Just one guy, before you. A bunch of times, but - just him. I don’t usually do stuff like this. I’m not really one for casual.

And fuck if Ilya didn’t feel guilty about that. I’m not really one for casual. The words claw at his gut, because what they have has never been casual, no matter what they both might pretend. He wonders, too, if Vegas had pushed Hollander towards the guy in Mexico - if the strange itch that had followed Ilya home had travelled with Hollander too, if he’d tried to wipe the slate clean with the first obvious top he could find.

Well, tonight Ilya will wipe the memory of Mexico Asshole from Hollander’s mind and body. He just has to get through 5 hours of the most boring press known to man.

The afternoon events go quickly enough. After, they move to the hotel bar for the evening press event. It’s a bland affair on one of the mid-floors of the hotel - a bit of schmoozing with reporters, a few little vox pops for the league’s social media.

It is terribly uninteresting, and the vodka is little more than water, and Ilya wishes he had convinced Hollander that they should skip it entirely and spend the evening in one of their hotel rooms. Hollander wouldn’t have done it - he is too boring for such rule-breaking - but it is fun to imagine them playing hooky.

The two teams are split across the bar, a velvet rope separating them, the press passing through a small gap in the stanchions to interview players from each side. Ilya stands near the rope, hopes Hollander might join him so they can whisper together, but alas, Shane is not on the same page, and stands far away.

They are so often on different pages.

Ilya lets his eyes scan the room idly. He’s alone - it’s a rare pause from the press, a chance to get a little air. His teammates are all holding court admirably, as are the opposition. The event was supposed to finish at ten, but it runs long - as these things always do - and so the bar has reopened to the public. A few hotel guests sit at the bar, watching the melee, clearly enthralled by the spectacle, and for a moment, Ilya wishes he were them, on the outside looking in.

His eyes trace the whole length of the bar before he sees him. Mexico Asshole. The man from the video. 

There’s about fifty emotions that run through Ilya at the sight of him, none of them good. How dare he be there, how dare he be so brazen? The man is grotesque in his attractiveness, all bravado and solid tan lines. He looks like he tops, but not in a good way - more that he looks like he’d throw slurs at anyone who might suggest he was a bottom.

He’s looking at Hollander like he wants to swallow him whole.

Ilya’s first instinct is to go over and throw Mexico Asshole over the bar, into the wall of alcohol bottles. Maybe smash a bottle of the awful vodka over his head. He would leave the man bruised, but not dead - he’d leave the death to Yuna Hollander, who he’s sure could arrange such things without going to jail.

The fantasy is short-lived. Hollander would hate so public a spectacle.

There’s nothing separating the guests at the bar from the hockey players. It would take so little for Mexico Asshole to reach Hollander. Ilya considers going over to Hollander, but if he crosses the room, that would only draw more attention - something Hollander desperately does not want.

Ilya looks around, trying to think of another plan. It is only when he looks behind him, spotting another player taking a well-earned break near the stanchions, that he finds his solution.

“Scott Hunter,” Ilya greets reluctantly.

“Rozanov,” Hunter says in return, bland. God, he is a bore, but he is on Hollander's team, this weekend, and so he is useful.

“I need a favour.”

Hunter snorts. “Fuck off, Rozanov.” He tries to walk away, but Ilya reaches over the velvet ropes and stops him with a hand to the forearm.

“Please,” Ilya asks. Hunter looks at him sharply, but must see something in his eyes, for he stops, and nods. “You see man at end of bar?” He asks, and waits for Hunter to find the man. “He cannot get close to Hollander.”

Hunter hesitates, but nods reluctantly. “Can I know why?” Hunter asks, and Ilya shakes his head.

“That is Hollander’s secret to tell.”

Hunter looks at the man again. Discerning. Ilya can’t tell if Hunter can see that the man is rotten to the core. Ilya looks at the man, his lip curling involuntarily at the sight of him.

Then, the man stands. Ilya looks across - Hollander is wrapping it up with one of the reporters, about to be alone. The man is moving, and Ilya shifts forward unbidden, decides making a spectacle would be better than this. Hunter stops him with a hand on his arm. “I’ve got this,” Hunter says, and Ilya relaxes.

Hunter moves through the throng of players as if they were on the ice, weaving through to get to Hollander.

Ilya can see the moment Hollander spots the man. The swift kick of fear is written all over his face. Ilya wants to yell, to tell Hollander help is coming, but he can’t, not without making things worse.

The man is reaching out - a handshake. It’s grotesque. He’s so close to Hollander now, fingers reaching out like tentacles. And then -

Hunter is there. A friendly, oh so macho arm over Hollander’s shoulders. His free hand stealing the handshake, saving Hollander from the man’s touch.

Hunter puts on his million dollar smile, the one he wears on the ice when he wants the cameras to think he’s a good guy, even as he’s telling Ilya to fuck off. It doesn't reach his eyes, it never does. It’s a relief to see.

It shows that Scott Hunter means business.

Scott had thought Rozanov was being dramatic when he asked Scott to keep the man at the bar away from Hollander. The Russian had a flair for drama, and this would likely be no different. After all, what did Shane Hollander have to be afraid of? The guy at the bar was big, sure, but Hollander was a pro athlete, and no waif himself. He was surrounded by other pros that would no doubt stand up for him if anything happened - and really, what would happen in an upscale hotel bar?

But then Scott had seen Hollander's face, when he spotted the man. He wasn't afraid of being yelled at, or afraid of being beat up.

Hollander looked like he was afraid his world was about to end.

Scott can't exactly call Hollander a friend, but he's always had a soft spot for the kid, always looked out for him from afar, even after their tussle on the ice. After all, he remembers what it was like to be America's Rising Star; he imagines the pressure on Canada's Rising Star wouldn't be any less. Hollander would probably chafe at being called a kid now, but he's only 23 years old, and with that fearful look on his face, he looks even younger, and it sets Scott into big brother Captain mode, even if he is - begrudgingly - wearing the A this weekend. 

So Scott steals the odd man's handshake and squeezes his hand a little too tightly as he greets him, gives him a smile that never reaches his eyes. “Scott Hunter. I don’t think we’ve met. Are you with The Star?”

Hollander, beneath his arm, is barely breathing. Scott squeezes the man's hand harder.

The man laughs, self consciously. He doesn't wince, but Scott can tell he wants to. “I’m no reporter. Craig Smith. I’m a big Metros fan.”

“Well, sorry to interrupt,” Scott says, dropping the man's hand. Craig doesn't reach for Hollander again, a small mercy. “It’s getting late. Time for us to turn in, big day tomorrow. Hollander, you coming?”

“Yeah. Yeah,” Hollander replies. The words sound hollowed out, like there's no breath in his lungs. 

“I should get to bed too,” Craig adds, and follows them to the bank of elevators. When Scott glances over, he’s unsurprised to find Rozanov following them too, dialled in like a honing rod.

Scott holds Hollander back a little bit, lets Craig go ahead. Craig presses the down button, and Scott breathes a sigh of relief. Hollander’s room is down from the mid-level bar, but Scott’s is up, and he’d rather bring Hollander back to his own space for now.  He presses the up button, then nudges Hollander with his side. “Glad to see you’re not bringing any women back to our room, Hollander.”

That gets Craig’s attention. “You’re sharing?” He asks. Scott can't put his finger on it, but he had wanted Craig to know Hollander won't be alone, and the man's strange reaction only confirms Scott's concerns.

“League’s run by cheapskates.” Scott shrugs. The elevator going down arrives. Craig doesn’t move. “Your elevator’s here.”

“Right,” Craig says. He stays still a moment longer. “I might get another drink. Shane, would you like to join me?”

Scott interrupts, answers for Hollander. “Absolutely not, man. We’ve got a game tomorrow, I’m not having Hollander rock up to our room after midnight.” The elevator going up arrives, and Scott hustles Hollander inside, unsurprised when Rozanov follows them in.

Craig takes an abortive step forward. Rozanov tenses. Scott mashes the “door close” button. Before Craig can move again, the doors are shutting. Craig steps forward for real this time, but not in time to stop them closing, his hand thudding dully against metal door.

As soon as the door is shut, Hollander ducks under Scott’s arm, retreats to the back of the elevator, breath loud and wet. Scott and Rozanov remain at the front of the elevator, side by side, resolutely staring forward as Hollander tries to gather himself together.

Scott risks a glance at Rozanov. He looks like a sprung coil, hands, shoulders, face all tight. Rozanov glances back at him, and the muscle in his jaw twitches, hands flexing. “Keep your eyes forward,” Rozanov mutters, and Scott nods.

The coil releases, and Rozanov steps back. In the well-buffed metal of the elevator door, Scott can’t help but see Rozanov encompass Hollander wholly, their hazy outlines merging into one, Hollander’s hand fisting into Rozanov’s jacket. Rozanov is muttering - broken French that would make the Duolingo bird weep - and though Scott cannot understand the words, he can understand the soft tone behind them, and his mind reels.

It's the same tone Scott'd taken with Kip, when he woke from a bad dream. A tone that says I'm here, do not worry, I have you.

A fission of jealousy passes through Scott, fleeting - it cannot linger, not when Hollander looks so devastated - but there. God, he wants someone to speak to him like that again. He and Kip haven't been like that for a year now, not since Sochi, and he wants, desperately wants to find his way back to Kip. 

The way Rozanov and Hollander may be finding their way to one another. 

When they reach his floor, Scott coughs, and the singular form in the metal reflection splits into two once more. Rozanov guides Hollander into the penthouse, lowers him to the couch, and then beelines for the minibar, crouching down to peer into it.

“Why do you get penthouse?” Rozanov asks, outraged, as if that were the most pressing issue here. “We are in normal rooms.”

Scott files away that Rozanov knows which room Hollander is staying in. “The beds they have in the normal rooms are bad for my back.”

Rozanov stands, a few drinks and snacks in his hands. “Ah, you have bad back as you were alive for the Big Explosion.”

The chirp doesn’t quite make sense, and so Scott thinks on it for a moment. “The Big Bang,” he corrects.

Rozanov nods absently. “Yes, you were alive for the Big Bang,” he replies, as if he made no mistake at all. He rips the cap from a gatorade, hands it to Hollander. “Drink.”

Shane looks at it, then up at Rozanov. “This is all e-numbers.”

“Yes, delicious.” Rozanov says, deliberately obtuse. “Scott Hunter pays for it.”

“You don’t drink gatorade for games?” Scott asks, curious. 

“Coconut water has just as many electrolytes -”

“- Coconut water tastes like ass,” Rozanov interrupts. It sounds like an argument Hollander and Rozanov had before.

“Yeah, well -“ Hollander starts, then cuts himself off. Glances at Scott, and the wind falls from his sails. “Fuck off, Rozanov.”

Rozanov looks smug. The two biggest rivals in the league have inside jokes. None of it makes sense.

It's very curious, but it's not why they're here. Scott coughs, scratches the back of his head. “So. Want to tell me what that was about down there?”

Rozanov tenses.

“Calm down, Rozanov,” Hollander says, as if he has the power to control Ilya Rozanov. Hollander releases a shaky breath, then meets Scott's eyes, defiant, in spite of his red-rimmed eyes. “I slept with him. Craig.”

Hollander admitting to sleeping with men should get more of a reaction, but Scott is still reeling from how tenderly Rozanov had comforted Hollander in the elevator, and so it glazes over him like water. “Okay…”

Shane sighs, and gets out his phone with shaky hands. He presses a few buttons, then hands it over to Scott.

Scott doesn’t watch the video. He doesn’t need to - the tone of the messages is enough. His stomach drops further. “Hollander,” he says, gutted. “Are you out to anyone?”

“No one.”

“Well, not no one,” Rozanov says, because he can't just let things go. “I know. Scott Hunter knows,” Rozanov pauses, as if scratching his mind for anyone else.

“Your other hookups will know,” Scott adds, because two people and the blackmailer is too few.

Hollander shakes his head. “There are no other hookups.”

Sadness pools in Scott’s gut, overwhelming. “Shane,” Scott starts gently, for this is no time for last names. “Craig was your first -“

“No.” Shane and Rozanov say back in unison. They look at each other, Shane’s glare scalding, and then back to Scott. Shane is turning red, but Rozanov looks defiant.

“Ah,” Scott says, because really, what can you say to that? Questions for Shane spiral in his mind - Since when? Only him? Is he learning French for you? Why do you have such poor taste?  - but he keeps them to himself for now. "Well. Wow."

"Wow." Rozanov echoes, brows raised. Scott rolls his eyes, as he's sure he's about to be chirped mercilessly, but then Shane groans, covering his eyes, and Rozanov is distracted, sitting beside Shane and letting his hand hover over his back.

“I don’t see a way out of this,” Shane says.

“Maybe it’s better you tell the world yourself,” Scott suggests, gentle. “Not about -" he waves his hand between the two of them, because he can't put into words what that is. "But about your sexuality. If it’s going to come out anyway…”

“You don’t get it,” Shane says. His eyes are still covered, but his voice is wet. “Neither of you get it.”

“Because I am bisexual?” Rozanov asks, and Scott files that away too.

“You could fall in love with a woman, build a life, and no one has to know you ever thought of anything else,” Shane says. He pulls his hand from his eyes - they're glistening with unshed tears - and looks to Scott. “And you! Mister America! If you could take your eye off hockey for five minutes, you’d have a wife and two-point-four kids and everyone would be fucking happy for you!”

Rozanov looks at Scott with a raised eyebrow, and Scott feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Rozanov knows, then.

“This isn’t about me or Rozanov,” Scott deflects. “What are you going to do?” He asks, reaching over and putting a hand on Shane's shoulder. “You can’t keep sending him money, and you definitely can’t sleep with him.”

Shane leans back, until Scott's hand falls away. “Why not?”

Scott pauses, looks at him seriously. “Do you want to sleep with him?”

Rozanov scoffs. “He is terrible lover. Uses only thimble of lube.”

Shane's head drops. “I don’t want to. And I know you don’t want me to.” The last part is directed at Rozanov. “But I could. It’s just my body. Maybe in the off-season, when any damage done doesn’t affect my game as much,” he says, as if it's some casual thing, as if he's not cutting directly into Scott's soul. “I could close my eyes and think of Canada.”

“Fuck, Hollander,” Rozanov mutters, sounding gutted. “Gatorade is not strong enough for this.” He goes to the minibar, comes back with 2 beers and all of the mini vodkas. He keeps the vodkas for himself, and hands Scott and Shane a beer each.

They drink in silence. Scott looks to Rozanov - he looks like he might cry. 

That's an eventuality Scott refuses to deal with.

Scott leans forward again, placing a hand on Shane's knee this time. “If he’s capable of blackmail, he’s capable of hurting you,” he says. “I get it, your body is a commodity, but Shane, you have to live within it.”

“What would you do, Hunter?” Shane asks. The words hit like an attack, and Scott’s stomach clenches. It must register on his face, because Shane continues, “I’m not asking to be a dick. I’m asking sincerely. If a video existed of you being fucked by another man, what would you do?”

Scott thinks on it, thinks about what it would be like if his worst fucking nightmare came true. It’d be different for him - after all, in his flings, he was more likely to do the fucking than be fucked - and it shouldn’t make a difference, but in their bullshit sport, it would. People would make a big deal about Shane bottoming.

If he’s honest with himself, he’d find a way to disappear. He’d drop off the face of the earth, and live off his millions in the middle of nowhere, a hermit.

It’s not good advice, and so he does not give it.

“I would tell my loved ones what was going on,” he says instead. “I’d pour my energy into those who stood by me. I’d focus on my hockey.”

“And if I can’t play hockey anymore?” Shane asks.

Scott smiles, and decides that if Rozanov can be deliberately obtuse, so can he. “I didn't know that gay people can't play hockey,” he says, and Shane huffs. “You’re a generational talent, Hollander. You’ll play hockey.” Scott falls silent for a moment. He looks over at Rozanov, who is stock still and silent, and decides to deal with that later. “Did you get tested after?”

Shane shakes his head. “We used condoms.”

“Condoms need lube, kid, or they're no good,” Scott says, and Shane's shoulders shoot up to his ears. Scott immediately regrets mentioning it, the panic in the air palpable. "When did you hook up?"

"August," Shane says. His hands come up, covering at his mouth like he might be sick. 

Scott relaxes a little. "They'll have done a basic STI panel in your preseason medical," he says.

Shane nods, but his shoulders don't lower. He's sat here, but he's a thousand miles away. He lowers his hands, but he looks pale. "I'm gonna -" Shane motions to the bathroom, stands up.

"Don't lock the door," Scott says, and both Shane and Rozanov freeze.  

"I'm not going to hurt myself," Shane says, shoulders still up.

"Okay," Scott replies, without fight. "You looked dizzy earlier. If you fall, I don't want to break the door down."

He thinks for a second Shane will push it again, but he doesn't. "Fine," Shane replies, and then disappears into the washroom. Scott listens carefully, but there's no telltale click of a lock, and he relaxes. 

He looks over at Rozanov, whose eyes are rimmed with red. It's easy to forget, sometimes, that he's only 23 too. 

Scott hates being the responsible adult.

"C'mere," he mutters, hoisting Rozanov into an awkward half-hug, clapping him on the back. Rozanov shakes in the hug a little, but then shifts away, defensive, and so Scott pulls back, sits on the coffee table, ignores how Rozanov rubs at his eyes. "Shane's not going to be left alone with that man again, okay?" Scott promises, and finds that he means it. "We'll figure something out."

"You cannot fix all of the world's ills, Scott Hunter," Rozanov replies, his voice wet and tired.

The phone in Scott’s hand buzzes, and he checks the notification before he remembers it’s Hollander’s phone. Two messages from Craig come through in quick succession.

The texts are terrible. What they’re asking Hollander to do is disgusting, outrageous. They disgrace Hollander on a whole new level.

The texts are perfect.

Scott feels the smile grow on his face, and when he looks up, Hollander is in the bathroom doorway, looking back warily. Scott leans over and passes the phone to Rozanov first, who reads the new messages slowly. He doesn’t smile, but Scott can see how his shoulders relax, how Rozanov understands fundamentally how much the second text will change things.

Hollander approaches as if he's walking to the noose. Rozanov passes the phone up to Hollander, their fingers lingering over one another a beat too long.

Shane looks at the words at first as if they were in Cyrillic, their meaning indecipherable. Then, slowly, their meaning emerges, and any upset or worry in Shane’s face is replaced by rage.

Uninhibited, glorious rage.

“Fuck. Him.” Shane spits. “He wants me to fix a game? Fix a fucking game?”

“Technically is not game fixing,” Rozanov corrects, and Hollander glares at him as if he’d just said he eats children. “What? Is just a penalty.”

“And if you fuckers score while I’m in the penalty box?” Hollander asks back, incensed. “And what comes next? Asking me to miss shots? To injure someone? To throw a game? Fuck. That.”

Hollander keeps ranting, standing up and pacing the room as he loses his mind about the game fixing request.

Scott looks across to Rozanov, who is staring at Hollander like he wants to pin him against the window and rut against him like a dog. The sad, scared kid that had been sat there minutes earlier is long gone. Scott doesn’t look down, but if he did, he suspects Rozanov would be at least half-hard. Rozanov catches his eye and throws him a wink, then brings the drawstring of his hoodie to his own mouth, smiling around the aglet as he rests it between his teeth.  “What will you do?”

It brings Hollander’s pacing to a stop. “I don’t know, but he’s not getting away with this, that’s for damn sure,” Hollander says. A little of the fight leaves him, and he sits back on the couch beside Rozanov, their thighs pressed together. “I have to tell my Mom,” he admits. It sits heavy in the room. “I’ll tell her tomorrow. Before the match. She’ll know what to do.”

Rozanov looks strangely proud. “I can be there. For moral support.”

“There’s nothing moral about you,” Scott replies. He sighs and stands. “You should both stay here tonight. That asshole’s probably still prowling the corridors. The bathroom has spare toothbrushes, and I brought face wash you can use.”

“You are inviting us to your bed?” Rozanov asks, strangely giddy.

“Fuck off. There’s two beds in the bedroom. And the couch you’re sat on is a foldout bed,” Scott replies. He points a finger at Rozanov. “You’re sleeping on the foldout bed, Rozanov.”

“I can bunk with Hollander,” Rozanov says nonchalantly.

Scott snorts. “No you can’t.”

An hour after they call it a night, Ilya is unsurprised to wake from his light doze to find Hollander climbing into the pullout bed. Ilya's only in his boxers, but when Hollander presses against him, Ilya can feel that he's wearing socks, too, and it brings a small smile to his face. 

“Intense, hm?” Ilya asks, skimming a hand down Hollander’s back until he reaches his boxer briefs. He toys with the elastic there.

Hollander huffs, shifts away a little. “We’re not having sex. Scott Hunter is literally in the same suite as us.”

“Ok,” Ilya says. He hadn’t been considering sex anyway. “We can make out a little?”

Hollander relaxes. “I’d like that.”

It’s no heated make-out. They’re lazy kisses with toothpaste breath, minty and warm. It’s too sweet for what they are to one another, but they have already broken many boundaries that day, and so, so long as Hollander is not complaining, Ilya will not stop, for he likes Hollander best like this. There's still a fizzle of nervous tension in Hollander's shoulders, and Ilya coaxes him to relax, the kiss slow and warm.

Ilya turns them so that he is splayed over Hollander like a blanket. He cups Hollander’s jaw, the kiss remaining languid, curling through his limbs like hot cocoa. Hollander shifts back, and Ilya chases him a little, a gentle, unhurried peck before he lets Hollander escape.

Hollander smiles at him, eyes sleepy, the tension gone. “Hunter seemed ok about the gay thing.”

For someone so smart, Hollander can be remarkably stupid sometimes. Ilya lets it slide.  “We are making out and you want to talk about Scott Hunter?”

“I forgot that some people might be okay about me being gay,” Hollander continues, as if Ilya had not spoken. “I hope Hayden is okay with it.”

Ilya rolls his eyes. He lowers down so that his cheek rests in the hollow of Hollander’s neck. “Pike will be fine. He thinks sun shines from your ass.”

“I wish he was here.”

“If you want your best friend to be at All Stars, you must pick best friend who is good at hockey,” Ilya chirps, and Hollander shoves him half-heartedly, then yawns. “You are tired.”

Ilya means it to be an observation, but he suspects Hollander hears it as a suggestion. “I’ll go back to my bed.”

Ilya isn’t ready for this strange and gentle domesticity to end, nor for Hollander to be alone again, not after the day he has had. Ilya makes himself heavy, splays over Hollander as wholly as he is able. He tilts his head up so that he can see Hollander’s face. “No. You are more comfortable than couch springs.”

For a moment Ilya fears he has pushed too hard. Hollander’s face is confusing, as it often is, and Ilya can’t tell if he is annoyed or merely thinking. Eventually, Hollander nods, and lets his body go lax. “I guess I better sleep here then. I don’t want you to have any excuses when I beat you tomorrow.”

“In your dreams, Hollander.”

Scott can’t say he is overly surprised to wake and find the other bed in the room unoccupied. Shane had been restless, the night before. He'd no doubt either taken a walk, or more likely made his way to the pullout bed, where Rozanov was settled for the night.

If they'd fucked in his suite, Scott would never forgive them. 

Scott makes his way to the living space tentatively. He doesn't want an eyeful. What he sees, however, is far more intimate. 

The blinds in this room don’t fully block out the light, and little beams streak across Hollander and Rozanov where they lie entangled. Rozanov is spread across Hollander like a weighted blanket, and his mouth is open, a little puddle of drool spreading across Hollander’s chest and neck. Hollander’s neck is at an awkward angle, so that he can rest his cheek against Rozanov’s messy curls.

It is a more crisp vision than the pair had been in the elevator, but the result is the same. They are merged together as one.

Scott wonders how long they’ve been orbiting each other like this.

"Hollander," Scott whispers, just loud enough to get his attention. Hollander shifts in his sleep, buries his nose in Rozanov's curls, then opens his eyes and looks at Scott. 

For a moment, he looks hunted. Then his face shifts - remembering the events of the day before, no doubt - and he lets out a shaky breath. 

It takes him a minute to work his way out from under Rozanov. Rozanov doesn't make it easy, clinging to him tightly, even in sleep, but eventually Hollander emerges, still in the boxers and socks he'd fell asleep in.

Scott had picked up some pre-made blueberry smoothies the day before - not the time to think about Kip - and cracks one open for himself, offers Hollander the one intended for the next day. Hollander takes it tentatively, drinks a few sips. He looks a little faint, like his stomach is unsettled, but Scott doesn't comment on it. 

"No smoothie for Rozanov?" Rozanov says sleepily from the bed, swinging his legs over the edge and making his way to the counter. His boxers are obscenely tight, his curls wild, and Scott suddenly takes stock of the situation. Three of Cosmo's Top 5 Hottest NHL players, all attracted to men, all in a hotel room in their underwear. He holds back from making a Dear Penthouse joke. Rozanov would only mock him for being old again. 

Hollander offers out his smoothie, and Rozanov takes a hearty swig, then kisses Hollander's bare shoulder, handing it back. "Do you think we can make an old man blush?" He asks Hollander, teasing. 

"Fuck off, Rozanov," Hollander and Scott reply in near unison.

Hollander's phone buzzes, and all three men freeze. Hollander looks like he might be sick. Scott thinks he might kill Craig - though he'd have to beat Rozanov to it, as the Russian looks homicidal.

Hollander picks up his phone, takes a deep breath, and checks his messages. 

His shoulders don't relax, and for a moment Scott worries that his secret's out.

"My parents are in the taxi," he says instead, and Scott lets out a breath. "Could you maybe - both - come with me?" 

Scott smiles tensely, no joy to be found. "Sure, Hollander."

Shane books out a conference room for the meeting, but once he's there, sat on one side of the meeting table with Hunter and Rozanov, he can't help but worry that he made the wrong call.

He'd thought a bedroom would be too weird, and the breakfast hall too public, but this is strange and artificial. It's his parents, they love him. Was he really going to come out to them in a room more suited for a pitch deck?

He's about to call the whole thing off when they appear, letting themselves in to the conference room with wary faces. 

"Hello, sweetheart," his mom says, kissing him on the cheek. “Rozanov. Hunter.”

His dad hugs him next, firm and solid, and Shane is tempted to not let go, to hide there forever. He does let go though - sits back down between Rozanov and Hunter, while his mom's gaze jumps between the three of them. She and Dad sit down opposite, like this is a trade negotiation, and there is a question in her gaze.

“I asked them to be here to help me with something,” Shane explains, and then falls silent. He's silent for so long that he can feel his mom about to prompt him, and so he spits the words out, tripping over them. “I had sex with someone.”

His parents share a glance. “Baby, you are twenty-three years old and on billboards across the country,” his mom says. She sounds a little embarrassed, but laughs it off. “I know you think your parents are prudes, but we didn’t expect celibacy from you.”

“It’s not -“ Shane mutters, pulling at his hair. “I had sex with a man.”

His parents look a little surprised, but not as shocked as he expected. “Okay…” His dad says.

Shane sighs. He wants to finish there, but then Rozanov’s hand lands on his back, and Scott’s hand comes to his shoulder. The touches are grounding, and enough to prompt him to continue. “They videoed it. I didn’t know,” Shane says. He looks up, and his mom is glaring at Rozanov, and his stomach drops. “Not - not Rozanov,” he corrects, and his mom’s gaze shifts back to Shane. “They’ve been blackmailing me with the tape for a few months now, but in the last 24 hours, it’s escalated.”

“Escalated how?” His dad asks.

“They’re no longer just asking for money,” Shane explains, tripping over his words. “First they asked for - for sex -“

“Baby -“ His mom exhales, reaching for his hands, where they rest on the table.

“- And then they asked me to force a penalty today to help them win a bet.”

His mom’s hands freeze around his own. He looks up, and her face is like stone. Hunter’s hand tightens on his shoulder. “You can’t do that.”

“I know,” he replies. “Which is why I’m here. Mom, I need help.”

She nods, only once. Her business hat is on again, clear as day, and she releases his hands. "I'll call Farah to go over the finer details. We’ll go to the police. Blackmail and extortion is a crime, and you have enough profile that they should take it seriously. If they arrest him, we can quash the footage. He might say something, but we can deny it.”

It's a perfectly logical thing to do, but Shane shakes his head. “I’d spend the rest of my career worrying,” Shane replies. “I think I’ve got to come out, Mom.”

“Okay,” she replies, as if it is simple. She does not voice her concerns, but Shane can see it in her eyes - the careful calculation of which of his brand deals would collapse from this, and which other deals she might be able to negotiate in their place. “Why don’t you decide what you want to say, and we’ll run it past Farah. I’ll contact the police, and we’ll work out when will be the best time to catch this guy.”

“Is simple, no?” Rozanov says. His hand is still warm on Shane's back. “The man will be at game today,” he continues, and Shane tenses. “He will sit close to front, for he will want Hollander to see him. I can identify him." He pauses, turns to Shane's mom. “I saw the man in the bar, yesterday. I am good with faces.”

Shane bristles. “I can identify him myself, Rozanov.”

Rozanov shrugs. “If this is important to you, fine,” Rozanov concedes easily. “But I do not think he deserves to set eyes on you again.”

And, from there, a plan begins to form. 

Thirty minutes before the All Stars festivities begin, Ilya stands by the side of the rink in full gear, leant against the boards, eyes roaming the stands.

His mother had always loved his eyes. You see so much, Ilya, she had whispered to him. They would play spot the difference for hours, and she’d praise him every time. Your eyes are your gift. You see what others can’t.

It was a skill he was proud of - one he brought into every hockey match, into every dark club, to every night with Hollander. He could see the pass others couldn’t, could recognize a curious glance from an interested one, could spot every tell that Hollander had.

And he could spot a face from a mile away.

“Dial it down, Rozanov,” Hunter mutters as he approaches from the locker rooms. “You look like a missile drone searching for its target.”

Rozanov shrugs. “I am a missile drone.” He continues looking around the arena. "Why are you here?"

“I figured I’d come lend a hand.”

Ilya does not need help. Still, he allows it, opens the gate for them to step onto the ice. “Let’s do a lap.”

They start friendly, lapping at a gentle pace and waving to the crowds as they go. Hunter pretends to speed up and turn it into a race - Ilya doesn’t pretend, speeds up and makes Hunter go faster, shoulders bumping into one another as they steam across the ice. It gets the half-filled crowd hollering, the atmosphere thunderous, even when it’s just the two of them competing over nothing.

Even so, Ilya does not lose sight of his goal.

On the third lap, Ilya spots him. He’s only just made his way to the seat, a hot dog and soda in hand. Ilya wants to choke him on that hot dog, to force that soda down his nose until he cannot breathe. He wants to get off the ice and smash that man's skull in. Instead, he shoulders roughly into Hunter, smirking as Hunter bashes him back.

“Behind goal, two rows back. End of row.”

“Let’s go round one more time and I’ll confirm.”

“I am not wrong.”

“Let’s go around anyway,” Hunter replies, and so they do, bashing into one another at every opportunity.

When they get off the ice, they make their way to a security room. Three Hollanders are stood with three police officers next to a monitor. “The goal at the other end. Right hand side. 2 rows back. End of row,” Ilya says. The technician finds the right camera, and she zooms in on where Ilya had said.

“That’s him,” Hollander confirms. One police officer brings up the photo - a screen grab from the end of the sex video, the grotesque face in full HD, and the police nod too, as if Ilya, Hunter and Hollander’s words weren’t enough.

“Let’s go,” the lead officer mutters, and they all head out.

Ilya, Hunter, and the Hollanders all watch on the monitor as the man is taken away. He goes with very little fight, thankfully. It’s remarkably simple, in the end, and Ilya feels the tension drain from all of them.

Ilya nods. It is done. He cannot say he is satisfied, for his own knuckles are clean of the man's blood, but for now, he will make do with legal punishment. “Now that this is done, I must prepare to kick your asses. See you on the ice, Hollander, Hunter.” He nods, then does a more respectable half-bow at Shane's parents. “Mr and Mrs Hollander.”

Yuna Hollander steps forward, all five foot nothing of her, and reaches up, wrapping him in a tight hug. He holds her back gently, surprised. “You’re a good man, Ilya.”

Ilya feels his cheeks heating, and hopes the dim hall lighting disguises it from the others. This would ruin his reputation.

Shane sits in the locker room, looking at his phone. The individual challenges are done, and there's only the All Star game left to play.

The C on his chest feels heavier than usual, and he rubs at it absently as his finger hovers over the post button on Twitter.

There's a second post in his notes app, with links to a bunch of resources that his Mom had put together. He reads the message again, and then sighs. Presses “post”, copies the links, posts them too, and puts his phone in his locker.

When he looks up, Hunter is staring at him. He nods, and Hunter smiles. Then, Shane is giving his best "North American Hockey Supremacy" speech, and then, blessedly, they are on the ice. 

The news spreads amongst the teams during the game - of course it does, Hockey players are all gossiping teenage girls on the inside - and there’s a few sly comments, but this is All Stars, and these guys are the most media-trained hockey players there are. None of them would risk being accused of homophobia, no matter what they might believe behind closed doors.

It's a fun game, and Shane lets himself sink into it and enjoy what is likely to be the easiest hour he'll have for a while. The game is hard, but hockey is simple, and quiets his loud mind. There's no sponsors or team management to worry about; all he has to do is get the puck in the net.

Which he does. Three times. 

At the other end, Rozanov gets a brace, and Shane can't even begrudge him for it. Rozanov chirps at him, like this is any other game, and Scott Hunter hovers, like a worried grandfather. They're both doing what they can, and Shane sinks into it, lets himself pretend for a little while that everything is ok. 

Hunter gets the final goal of the match, and that's that. 4-2 to North America. 

Scott handles the pressers after the match. It still burns a little to wear the A instead of the C, but he can’t be too irate with Hollander, not today. The reporters ask a few prying questions about Hollander, and Scott deflects them as ably as he’s deflected every inappropriate question throughout his career.

When he goes back into the locker rooms, the sound of the showers is loud, the main lockers empty. Scott strips and heads back to the washroom, towel around his waist.

Though the room is full, the two showers either side of Hollander are notably unused.

There’s one other shower in the room that’s free, far from Hollander. Scott could use that one. He wants to, desperately. That shower would not draw attention, would not have every eye in the room on him, wondering if he is like Hollander too. He craves the anonymity of it, being just another one of the guys.

He looks at Hollander. Sees the tension of his shoulders, the droop of his head. Scott sighs, and heads for one of the showers beside him.

Scott can feel every eye in the room, Hollander’s included, on him as he hangs up his towel and turns the shower on. “You don’t have to do this,” Hollander mutters, only just audible over the thrum of the showers.

The truth is that Scott does have to do this. He can’t bring himself to come out, not yet. But he can stand in the shower beside Hollander and get clean. “Of course I have to shower, Hollander. I worked up a sweat, carrying your ass out there.”

It makes Hollander laugh, and Scott counts that as a win. “Fuck off, old man.”

The video is on the internet.

The police are apologetic - they didn’t take Craig’s phone off him, and he’d made the deal with a porn site in the back of the police car to help pay his bail. Shane doesn’t let himself think of the price of his sex tape.

What’s surprising is that he isn’t the only one.

The guilt coils around his stomach when he finds out Mexico Hookup was extorting four other guys. A WWE wrestler. An action movie superstar. A politician in a red state. A singer from Saudi Arabia.

All of them as exposed as he is by the videos that get released.

I don't usually do stuff like this. God, Shane was a fool. 

He shuts himself away in his room for thirty minutes - the bed still unmade from his romp with Rozanov the day before - and opens Twitter. Every link to a news article about the tape has thousands of comments on it - some showing support, some showing disgust, and a lot commenting on his performance, his body, the noises he makes. Some are nice or complimentary, but they don’t feel nice, not when he knows these people disrespected his wish and watched the video.

The comments cover every slur he can imagine, every foul thing he's said to himself on his darkest nights. Every flaw in his body now burns, but not as much as the comments that tell him he has no place in hockey. No place in polite society. No place in Canada. 

There's a knock at the door. He wants it to be Rozanov, though he knows he shouldn't. He pushes the thought aside and opens the door.

It's his dad. He looks at the phone in Shane's hand, eases it gently from his grip, and wraps him in a firm hug. 

Shane couldn't say how long they stand there - he feels like a kid again, after a bad hockey match, when his mom would be trying to explain how he could do better, and his dad would give him a big hug and say you'll get them next time, kid. 

Shane pulls away eventually, rubs at his eyes.

His dad doesn't call him out on it. "Come on, kiddo. Your mom and Farah are plotting." 

Ilya sits outside the conference room where Hollander had come out to his parents and waits. 

Hollander is in there again with his parents; they've been in there for an hour or more, and Ilya should really head off. He can't go in, there’s things being discussed in that room that he has no right to hear. He should leave.

And yet.

His skin itches with the need to be close to Hollander.

The elevator nearby dings, and Scott Hunter steps out. Ilya watches him approach, wary. 

“Are you alright?” Hunter asks. 

“Why would I be upset?” Ilya asks in return. “You are not celebrating with your team.”

“I’m not much in the mood for celebrating,” Hunter explains. “Figured I should check in on my captain. What’s your excuse?”

I cannot rest knowing that Hollander is in this building and I am not touching him. He considers saying it aloud, letting the truth hang in the air, but he cannot. “Is my biggest rival. I am here to gloat.”

Hunter gives him a tired look, and sits down beside him, letting his own head lean back and rest against the wall. He doesn’t speak again, and so Ilya leans back once more, letting his eyes fall closed.

He wonders if Hunter, too, feels this guilty relief at not being the one in the crisis room. The one whose secrets are out in the world. Hunter’s knee nudges against his own, gentle, and Ilya tries to relax into the touch, the reminder that they are both here together.

It’s hard to say how much time has passed when the door beside them opens. Ilya springs to his feet, unsurprised to find Hunter upright by his side.

“Hello,” Yuna says, looking between the two of them. Her voice is tired and a little wary. In the room behind, David Hollander and a woman - presumably Hollander’s agent - are watching, curious.

Hollander comes out to stand by Yuna’s side, looking tired and defeated. There’s a deep ache in Ilya’s chest, and he wants so desperately to step forward, to touch Hollander’s face, to soothe him. He wishes he were brave, and cared less. He stays where he is, looking between Hollander and Yuna. Hollander is looking at the floor, and Yuna is looking at Ilya.

“We just came to check on Shane,” Hunter says, smiling, drawing her attention. Parents love Hunter, Ilya knows. He’s the kind of man that someone would be proud to bring home.

Ilya hates him.

Yuna nods, and Hunter steps forward, hand outstretched. It takes a moment for Hollander to take the outstretched hand, and when he does, he offers Hunter a smile, tight and false. Hunter says something, probably trite and unhelpful, but Ilya’s no longer listening, for Hollander’s gaze has shifted, and for a beat, he looks straight at Ilya.

Hollander presses his lips tightly together, and his eyes glisten.

The final blocks of resistance in Ilya crumble to dust, and as soon as Hunter releases Hollander, Ilya steps in, engulfing Shane in a firm embrace. From the corner of his eye, he sees Yuna’s surprised face, but then he tucks his head down, smiling as he feels Shane tuck his own head into Ilya’s neck. The collar of his shirt grows damp, and it only makes him hold Shane more firmly.

Hunter and Yuna are talking now, but Ilya pays them no mind, even as he hears the conference room door shut once more. He just focuses on the feel of Shane against him, on the gentle shift of his breath, where it moves Ilya's own chest. 

Scott coughs, and slowly, reluctantly, Ilya pulls away. “Yuna said that she, David and Farah can do the rest,” Scott says, not looking at either of them. He is a coward, like Ilya is a coward. The thought makes Ilya feel sick. They should have offered to come out with Shane, try to take the pressure off. But they won't. They can't. “Come on. It’s been a long day.”

When the elevator reaches his floor, Scott trudges back to his room, Rozanov and Hollander following like lost puppies. He wonders if they realize they’re doing it; he’d only intended for them to come as far as the elevator and then go their separate ways to their own rooms, but now that they are following him, he feels obliged to see it through.

He lets them in, heads for the small kitchen area. Hollander and Rozanov make their way to the small couch, sitting together.

The mini-fridge has been replenished. Scott grabs all of the tiny bottles of vodka and brings them to the sitting area, handing them out, rolling his eyes as Rozanov motions to be given extra.

Hollander tips one into his mouth, wincing as it hits his throat. Still, he pours until the little bottle is empty, then sighs. “The Metros have put me on indefinite leave,” he says, words thick on his tongue. “Morality clause. They said it’s not about the gay thing, it’s about me making a sex tape.” 

Scott frowns. “You didn’t make a sex tape. You were recorded without your permission.”

“They don’t see the difference.” Hollander replies. He looks defeated, and Scott has no idea what to say.

Rozanov shrugs, knocks his shoulder against Hollander’s. “So you make it to summer and then become Raider. You look good in black and yellow,” Rozanov promises. He leans over, leads Hollander in by the chin for a gentle kiss, as if they were young lovers at the altar. He hovers for a second, soft, then seems to come back to himself. He leans back, smirks at Scott. “This get you hot, Hunter?”

“Fuck off, Rozanov,” Scott replies, second nature, before glancing at Hollander. Hollander looks a little drunk and confused from the kiss, though it had been little more than the gentle brush of lips, and Scott resists rolling his eyes. “If you come to the Admirals, I’ll make sure no one gives you shit. You’d have to break it off with Rozanov, though. I don’t tolerate my teammates dating assholes.”

Hollander’s gaze skitters around the room. “We’re not -“

Rozanov interrupts. “No no no, do not listen to Scott Hunter. He has secret motive, he only wants to win Stanley Cup before he must use zimmer-frame to walk.”

“I’m the one with an ulterior motive?” Scott raises an eyebrow.

“Did you google translate zimmer-frame?” Hollander asks absently.

“I google all of the old people words, so that I am ready for when I see Hunter,” Rozanov replies, and Scott sighs. “Dentures, walking stick, stair lift, erectile dysfunction -“

“You’re not as funny as you think you are, Rozanov.”

“I am very funny. Everyone says so. Hollander, tell Hunter I am funny.”

Hollander blinks at him, doesn’t say anything either way.

The adrenaline of the last 24 hours is gone, Scott can see it in Hollander’s face. He’s overthinking everything.

He needs a break from thinking.

Scott can’t help with that. If he were a bit braver, a bit less infatuated with the impossibility of Kip, maybe he would’ve offered. But he’s not. He’s not ready to get over his ex, and he's not ready for the hockey world to know.

Besides. He suspects Rozanov has this handled.

Scott holds his hand out to Hollander. “Give me your room key.”

“What?”

“I know the look in your boy’s eye. I’d rather not be here in ten minutes. We can switch rooms. I’ll deal with the backache.”

“We’re not -“ Hollander starts again. The next word is cut off by Rozanov once more, but Scott wonders what it would have been. We’re not together? We’re not serious? Either way, someone should tell Rozanov, because his face is screaming we are together and it is very serious.

“You can have my room.” Rozanov flicks his key card towards Scott, who catches it with only a little fumble. “Bye bye.”

It only takes a minute for Scott to grab some things from the bedroom, and he hopes he’s quick enough that they haven’t started already.  When he comes back out, Hollander is slapping Rozanov’s hand away, where it had been climbing steadily up his thigh.

Hollander looks like he might die if Rozanov doesn’t touch him soon, but at least he is trying to wait for Scott to leave.

Rozanov’s hand leaves Hollander’s thigh. It reaches up instead, tucks an errant strand of hair gently behind Hollander’s ear.

Scott smiles tightly, decides he’s not going to ask for handshakes. He nods at them both and heads to the door. “See you on the ice.”

Neither of them answer him at first, too consumed in staring at one another. He decides to not wait for a response, heads for the door, but then Rozanov calls his name. "Scott?"

Rozanov’s face is open and soft - softer than Scott’s ever seen it - and for a moment, Scott thinks he’s about to get some sincerity from the most bravado-filled player in the league. A genuine thank you, perhaps, for helping his boyfriend through the hardest day of his life.

This is, however, still Rozanov he’s dealing with.

“Do you have any lube?”

Scott sighs, leans his bag on the table beside the door. He would say no, but. Well. Hollander deserves well-lubricated sex.  He rummages until he finds what he’s after - a half full bottle of expensive lube and a full packet of condoms - and chucks both at Rozanov, a little pissed off that the Russian catches them both easily. “Stay safe, kids.”

“Thank you, Uncle Scott,” Rozanov replies absently. His eyes are back on Hollander now, intense and warm. The future is uncertain, but here, tonight, Shane will be looked after. Scott smiles tightly at them, tries not to worry about what comes next for the two players on the couch, and opens the door. 

Scott makes it to the corridor before he hears the first desperate moan - from which of them, he’s not sure - and he slams the door shut behind him, ignoring the pulse of his own blood.

He doesn’t go to Rozanov’s room. Not yet. In the elevator down to the lobby, he remembers Hollander and Rozanov, entwined. Remembers how it felt when he and Kip were similarly entwined, and yearns. He steps into the dark, Los Angeles night, and pulls out his phone. 

Scott puts the phone in his pocket. It buzzes with an answer a moment later, but he doesn't want to look, not yet. He wants to carry the hope of Kip's response a little longer, wants to imagine that Kip has responded I miss you too, I love you, let us not be parted again.

It's been a year since he and Kip split. A year since he last held a lover in his arms, felt the thrill of intimacy. It feels different, now - Scott’s always been so trusting of his partners, even if they were only his for the night.

He remembers a fling in Italy, before he and Kip had met, how they’d looked at his abs and asked are you an athlete, how he’d panicked for a moment and then remembered how few people in Italy followed ice hockey. He’d said he was a distance runner, and they hadn’t spoken about it again.

He breathes a guilty sigh of thanks that it was not him that was exposed.

He sighs again, and looks around the block. The night air is a balm, even with Kip's response burning a hole in his pocket. He'll read it when he gets to Rozanov's room, and then, depending on the response, have a celebratory or commiseratory session with his own hand. Either way, he'll come with Kip's name on his lips.

A little relief would be pleasant - it's been a stressful All Star weekend, even if he wasn't at the heart of the storm, and his old heart needs a break from stress, a little dopamine hit to see him home. Back to New York. Back to Kip. 

However, his lube had been sacrificed to the Hollander-Rozanov throne.

Scott takes another deep breath of the cool night air, then raises his hood over his head, and walks to the nearest pharmacy.