Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander/Scott Hunter, Shane Hollander/Original Male Character(s), Kip Grady/Scott Hunter

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander, David Hollander, Yuna Hollander, Vincent Lemaire, Selena Chouinard, Nick Chouinard, Original Female Character(s), Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Svetlana Vetrova

Additional Tags:

Coming Out, Homophobia, queer joy, Queer Angst, Ottawa Centaurs Player Shane Hollander, Mentions of conversion therapy, Racism, Shane/Scott are apathetic mutuals with benefits

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-06-18 Updated: 2026-09-14 Words: 56,122 Chapters: 10/35

to thine own self be true

Summary

Six months before the NHL draft, Shane is forced to come out of the closet.

Overnight, his meticulously crafted 10-year plan falls apart.

He finds a way to pick up the pieces.

Notes

Over the last 6 months, I’ve slowly been coming out to friends and family, and clearly it’s got me feeling some kind of way. Please join me as I work through this with everyone’s favourite blorbos.

As a general warning for the fic as a whole - there will be homophobia throughout. Shane is coming out into a very homophobic sport, and so while I want him to have lots of joy, it's definitely not going to all be sunshine and rainbows.

This is my first multi-chapter story for Hollanov, and I hope you all enjoy the ride with me!

Chapter 1: Dog Days Are Over

Chapter Notes

December 2008

Ottawa

Bobby Tremblay is perfect.

Perfect smile, perfect eyes, perfect hair. Perfect lips, too, which are soft and pliable against Shane’s when they kiss - wet and plump, and they press against Shane’s so certainly that everything else fades away, until all Shane can think about is kissing Bobby more.

They can’t kiss right now, though. That would be unthinkable. They’re at the Kingston Knights midseason awards, two weeks before Christmas, held in one of the corporate rooms at their rink, and Bobby is on the little makeshift stage, thanking the team for their support as he holds the dollar-store trophy for Most Improved.

Of course he is the most improved; when he and Shane aren’t kissing, they are on the ice together, and have been since Bobby joined the team. Bobby’s not as good as Shane - Shane’s not humble enough to pretend he’s even close - but all that extra practice has paid off, and Bobby has gone from a fourth line wing to a second line centre. Friends and family and teammates are all crammed into the room, cheering for Bobby, who is making it through his speech admirably, only stumbling a little over the words he and Shane crafted together in his room the night before.

Bobby isn’t even meant to be in Ontario, really - he’s from Quebec City, and his dad is some kind of consultant for CCTV security who wanted a fresh start. He’d had career options in Toronto and Ottawa at the start of the year. Bobby’s mom is really Christian, and very into the concept of letting God decide, and so, to choose, the family had all sat around their coffee table and prayed while she flipped a coin.

Tails. Ottawa.

Lucky Shane.

He and Bobby have been inseparable all year. Shane had never felt this pull towards anyone - he remembers thinking that if this was what real friendship was like, he wanted to drown in it.

Then, in early November, in Bobby's bedroom, surrounded by hockey posters and action figures, Bobby had kissed him, nervous and chaste. It was like getting four rows in one move at Tetris; everything slipped into place.

It’s wrong, what they are doing. It's disgusting. They both know it. They hear about it all the time at the Youth Club in Church. How society has accepted sin, but those who are pure of heart should push against it. The more Shane kisses Bobby, the worse he feels - for with each press of lips, he grows more certain that he is gay, that he was made wrong. He confessed this to Bobby, one night, and Bobby wept. 

What is happening between them is a secret, the kind that grows like a weed, takes over your life. They should be kissing girls, not each other - the pretty, flirty girls that jump and cheer in the stands at every home game, the ones everyone else goes wild for.

But they don’t. They kiss each other. Every time they are parted, the uncomfortable panic of wrongness settles over Shane, the reminder that they shouldn’t be doing this.

But then they are together again, and kissing feels so right.

“And, of course, I’d like to thank Shane Hollander, for staying late with me and helping me improve my stick handling,” Bobby says on the stage. He doesn’t mean the innuendo - he stutters on the word stick, as if he realizes halfway through what he is implying - but Shane blushes red like a firetruck. They’ve not done anything like that - it had taken enough courage just to return Bobby’s kiss, that first time he leaned in - but Bobby is so handsome, and Shane wonders if maybe, when they’re both 18, they might talk about it, or do more than talk about it.

Bobby climbs down off the makeshift stage, smiling at Shane as he goes, and Shane’s stomach flips. The next award, mid-season MVP, is a shoe-in, and Shane smiles as he is clapped on the back and pushed up to the stage.

It’s embarrassing, giving thank you speeches like this, but Coach Johnson insists upon it. It’ll be good practice for the NHL Awards in a few years, he often said to Shane, a twinkle in his eye. Shane lets his eyes trail over to Coach, who is stood with Bobby’s parents near the snack table.

There’s not a twinkle in his eye now. Bobby’s parents are frowning, too, both of them looking at Shane as if he were mud under their shoes.

Shane stumbles over the words a little at their glares, but like a wobble on the ice, he recovers, schooling his face into a smile and finishing his planned speech, a practiced and calculated blend of sincere and funny. His eyes find Bobby again, who is looking up at him with so much affection that Shane thinks he might be sick. He looks around the other attendees, teammates and their families, and wishes, for a moment, that his mom was there.

Shane’s award closes out the ceremony, and so as soon as his speech is done, the old sound system crackles with Top 40 hits, the Black Eyes Peas rattling around the room before the seats are even put away for a dance floor to form. Shane stays stationary on the stage, even as he watches in anxious despair Bobby’s parents and Coach Johnson approach Bobby, motioning towards the door. Bobby’s parents go with him into the corridor, and then Coach Johnson comes to the stage, looking up at Shane. “Come with me, son.”

Shane nods, climbing down off the stage and willing himself to relax. Coach Johnson is safe. Son. He’s always called Shane that - to the extent Mom and Dad joke about it, how Coach is a bonus parent, and thank god, hey? Shane’s hockey career is expensive, and even now, with sponsorships on the horizon, his have to work all the hours under the sun to afford the specialist camps and physios and trainers and kit. An office manager and a civil servant trying to fund an athlete; it's hard, but they make it work. And sure, Shane misses them sometimes, but it’s not like Shane isn’t busy too, with school and physio and training.

Coach is just there to fill in the gaps. He’s one of Shane’s medical proxies. Shane billets with him in Kingston. He drives Shane to camps. He talked Shane through his first breakup (and man, dating Angela had been a mistake). Hell, even this evening, he’d picked Shane up for the mid-season awards, as neither of his parents could get the time off, and Shane's not had the time between school and hockey to learn to drive yet. He’s on Shane’s side. He’ll always be on Shane’s side.

So Shane follows him to his office, and tries not to flinch when he sees Bobby and his parents, already sat in front of the desk.

But then Shane catches Bobby’s eyes, and they are wet with tears, and Shane freezes, his steps halting. Coach’s hand comes to his shoulder and leads him fully into the room, guiding him down to sit.

Bobby’s dad is a stern looking man. Shane suspects if he’d been less of a beanpole, he’d have joined the military or police. “Bobby. Shane,” he starts, voice low and stern. “I’ve been testing one of my client’s new CCTV systems on our property. The camera has been set up for the past week in the garage. I’ve been reviewing the footage, and. Well. I’m sure you know what I have seen.”

Shane can’t breathe, suddenly. He’s back in that garage, Bobby’s bike pressing uncomfortably into his spine as they press against each other, a tentative and messy makeout that had made his head spin pleasantly.

The thrum in his head is less pleasant now, and he can barely hear Bobby try to explain himself, the upset tone of his mother, or the angry huff of his father. Shane can’t look at them, and so instead his gaze raises up, until he is staring at the cross, nailed above Coach’s desk. He can’t hear any of them. He’s floating, up near that cross.

“I won’t go back to Quebec!” Bobby’s frantic cry breaks Shane from his spell. “You can’t make me!”

“Ontario's is no good for you, sweetheart,” his mother cajoles, touching at his face. “This place will destroy your soul.”

“That boy is destroying your soul,” his father corrects, glaring at Shane. A pit opens up in Shane's stomach, and he sinks into it, darkness catching on the edges of his vision.

Bobby looks at Shane, as if willing him to say something, but what can he say? There’s nothing, nothing that could make this better. Shane remains silent, even under Bobby’s pleading gaze. The fight seeps out of Bobby, and then he is weeping.

Shane wishes he could hold him.

It takes both his mother and his father to get Bobby out of the room, the two of them heaving him like a dead weight. Beyond the door, a few players are hanging out in the hall, nosy, but Coach closes the door behind the Tremblays, sighing as he does. As he walks back to his desk, he pats Shane on the shoulder, a heavy, comforting touch.

“Oh kid, this is a mess,” Coach mutters, sinking back into his chair and looking at Shane with tired eyes. “There’s no place for gay men in the NHL.”

The pit in Shane's stomach expands, a black hole. There’s nothing he wants more than NHL hockey - not money, not fame, not Bobby Tremblay. “Coach -“

“- it’ll be okay, son,” Coach interrupts. “I need you to trust me to fix this, okay?”

Shane nods. There’s no one he trusts more than Coach. “Yes, Coach.”

What follows is a long and uncomfortable silence, only broken by the light clacking of Coach’s keyboard and the distant base-heavy sounds of the awards party down the hall. Shane thinks he might be sick, the shame choking him, but he swallows it down, the bitter taste lingering. 

A new sound enters the room - the printer is warming up, whirring loudly. “There’s a two week intensive treatment we can try,” Coach says. He wheels his office chair over to the printer, and then comes back with several pages, which he staples together, the clack of the stapler loud in the room. “I can't lie to you, Shane. It'll be hard, but I know you can do it. I’ve found a residential course with an opening tomorrow. We’ll get you signed up for that, okay? You'll miss two games for us, but you'll be finished just in time for you to make it to World Juniors. No one needs to know. We’ll tell everyone it’s a specialist hockey camp.”

Shane nods, but then another wave of shame crashes over him. His mom goes to Church with Mrs Tremblay. She’ll be so disappointed. “My parents -“

“You don’t have to tell them, Shane,” Coach consoles, reaching over to clap a big hand on Shane's shoulder. It's heavy. So heavy. “The Tremblays aren't looking to spread this around. It can stay between us. We don’t need to worry your parents with this. We’ll get this fixed, and then next year, when you’re playing in the NHL with a pretty girl on your arm, this’ll all feel like a distant memory.” Coach sits back and smiles at him. “Okay, kiddo?”

Shane looks down at the binder of paperwork. Cedar Oak Restorative Camp. It’s a solution. It’s the only solution. “Yeah. Okay.”

“So who’s coaching this camp?” Shane’s mom asks the next morning. It's a Saturday, so she's out of her office attire, wearing a sweater that looks soft. Shane wants to run his fingers aong the hem, but he resists, keeps his eyes down. His mom's leaning against the desk in his room, watching with a lowered brow as he preps his duffel bag. The paperwork Coach had given him is shoved at the bottom, out of sight.

Shane wishes she had less questions. “Mom, I don’t know. I told you, Coach set this all up.”

“And you didn’t ask any follow up questions?”

They’ve been cycling through this for ten minutes now, and Shane is getting tired. “It’s Coach. He went out of his way to get me in this camp. If he says the camp will make me better at hockey, then I trust him.” Gretzky stares down at Shane from the poster above his bed, judgemental at the lie, and Shane can’t meet his eye.

“I trust him too, sweetie. But that doesn’t mean I don’t need some details,” His mom insists again, and Shane breathes out, shaky and wrung out. “Is this camp even in Ottawa?”

Shane slams down the hoodie he is holding. “I don’t know, Mom! Leave me alone!”

His mom raises her hands with an exasperated sigh, but stands and leaves, shutting the door behind her with a pointed thunk. Shane flops face down to the bed, tired. It’s better that she doesn’t know. It’d only hurt her to know the truth.

Church is so important to her. Shane knows the stories; when her parents first moved to Canada, they'd found community through Christ. When Shane's mom had been born, she'd been baptized and taken her holy communion like all the other kids; Church and hockey were her temples, sitting side by side. When she'd moved to Ottawa, she found a new church, All Saints. Shane hadn't gone often when he was younger - after all, his dad was a nonbeliever - but when Bobby moved to town, suddenly there was nothing he wanted more than to spend every Sunday sat beside him on the pew.

At All Saints, the main services spoke often about sin; in the youth group afterwards, the minister was often more explicit, speaking of sodomy and unnatural lust, as Shane sat beside Bobby, palms slick with sweat. The memory of it, with his mom in the room next door, makes the room spin.

He can do this. He can fix this, for his mom. For the church. For hockey.

Some time later, there’s a knock on the door. Shane makes a vague noise - enough of a noise that his dad to considers it an invite inside. His weight dips the bed, next to Shane’s hips, and his hand falls to Shane’s back, gentle.

“Your mom loves you.”

“I know, Dad.”

“I love you too.”

“I love you.”

“Come. Sit with me a second,” His dad asks, and Shane sighs. He rearranges himself slowly, intentionally, until he is right next to his dad. “Your mom is upset because she booked a few days off work next week to hang out with you. She misses you,” he says, and Shane huffs. How is he meant to anticipate stuff like this if no one tells him? “It’s not fair that she put that on you without talking to you about it,” his dad concedes. “I’m sure this camp is important. She just wants to know why it’s important, so that she can feel better about missing you.”

Shane huffs again. “It’s important, Dad,” he looks over, and his dad looks back, waiting for more.  “This camp could make or break my NHL career.”

“That feels like an exaggeration.”

“It’s not!” Shane says, shaking his head. “They’re going to fix me.”

His dad laughs. “Shane. There’s nothing to be fixed.”

Shane can hear, distantly, that his dad hasn’t stopped talking. He’s speaking about hockey statistics and compliments Shane’s received from scouts and the awards Shane has won. “There’s nothing to be fixed,” his dad says again, solid and unwavering, and hot, sharp tears of shame spring to Shane’s eyes. “Woah, woah. Kiddo.”

Shane springs off the bed like he’s been electrocuted. He goes to the dresser, plants his hands down and squeezes his eyes shut. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”

His dad is behind him, shepherding him back to sit on the bed, and Shane goes down, shaky. His dad sits beside him again, one hand firm on his shoulder. “Shane. Tell me what’s going on.”

There’s no room for questioning in his tone. He sounds, bizarrely, like Shane’s mom, and Shane wonders if he’s trying to channel her. The thought springs fresh tears.

Telling his dad suddenly doesn’t feel quite as scary, so Shane nods, reluctant. “Promise you won’t tell Mom?” He asks, and his dad nods, hand on heart. Shane leans down, reaching into his bag. “The camp. It's not a hockey camp. Not - not in the traditional sense.” He gets out the printouts that Coach had given him, hands them to his dad, who flips through the papers slowly, methodically.

“Shane -“ His dad starts, but Shane speaks over him.

“There's no place for - for men like me in the NHL,” Shane explains, stumbling over the words. He taps on the printouts, right where it says repaired to meet God’s vision. “This could fix me.”

"Men like you," his dad echoes absently.

Shane waits for a further response, but none comes, and so he glances over. His dad’s lips are pressed in a firm, tight line. He is looking down at the pages, but his eyes are glazed over, as if the words aren’t going in. It’s only when Shane realizes his dad is shaking that he feels alarmed. “Dad -“

“Give me a second,” his dad whispers, then inhales, as if he’d forgotten to breathe. He drops the papers, and from the corner of Shane’s eye, he can see them float down to the floor. He doesn’t drop down to pick them up, though - he can’t, not when his dad’s eyes are growing wet.

He’s outweighed his dad for at least a year now, but the old man still has some strength left in him, and Shane is hauled over into his dad’s lap, like he’s a 9 year old kid again. “You are perfect, you hear me? Perfect,” his dad says, voice clogged with tears. 

“Dad -“

“You’re not going to the camp.” He’s using the Yuna voice again, authoritative and certain, and Shane flexes in his hold.

“The NHL -“

“Shane. Do you know what this is?” His dad asks. He pulls away, suddenly angry - angrier than Shane’s ever seen, as he gestures to the crumpled pile of paper. “It’s 2 weeks of torture that won’t change what you feel inside.” The words spring fresh tears to Shane’s eyes, because he wants to change, wants it so desperately that he thinks he might die. “They might teach you to mask it, and drug you to the gills, and make the shame big enough that you push down what you feel, but Shane, if you’re gay, then no amount of treatment is going to change that,” his dad continues, then falls silent for a long while. The word gay lingers in the room, and Shane can't breathe. “Is this about Bobby?”

Shane nods, leaning back in for another hug, which his dad quickly grants. “I kissed him. His parents found out.”

“Poor Bobby,” his dad whispers into Shane's hair. “I’m going to call Johnson now and let him know not to pick you up later.”

Shane pulls away from the hug. "No -"

"- Shane. I am your parent. I'm saying no." 

“Mom -“ Shane starts.

“We don’t have to tell her,” his dad interrupts, and Shane breathes out. His dad lets out a shaky breath, and his eyes grow wet again. “But she loves you, kid. More than the church. More than hockey. You should have a little faith in her.” 

Shane’s not famous. He knows that. He can walk through any city in the country and no one is looking twice at him.

But at the Ben Franklin Place Rink in Ottawa, people recognize him. That kid’ll be playing NHL soon. Parents point him out to their kids. Older men whisper between themselves about which team he’ll end up at. Occasionally, a brave teenage girl might take a blurry photo of him and post it on Facebook.

It’s a lot.

He’s glad he’s here though, skating loops with his dad like he’s 5 years old again. They’re both in battered old skates, not doing anything more than gliding along, the cool air of Ottawa in December fresh against Shane’s cheeks.

His dad looks better, now. It’d taken him a while to stop crying, earlier, which was strange and uncomfortable for both of them, but now, he looks settled. He’d not let Shane listen in on his phone call with Coach Johnson, and Shane is grateful, as he’s not sure he could deal with the disappointment in Coach’s voice.

His mom, at least, was thrilled he was no longer going to “hockey camp”. She’d had a little gripe about it, mostly to check that Coach was definitely okay with Shane skipping camp, since he’d gone out of his way to get Shane the place.

Coach likely wasn’t okay with it, but. Well. If Shane’s choices were disappointing his coach or making his dad cry again, then sorry to Coach Johnson, but he’d be disappointed every time.

They lap the rink slowly, talking occasionally but mostly just moving their bodies. It’s good. It’s grounding, and for the first time since climbing onto the makeshift stage the day before, Shane feels balanced.

It catches him off guard when that careful balance is once again thrown into disarray by a familiar face. His dad doesn’t see Coach Johnson, standing at the edge of the rink, frowning at Shane, and skates on. Shane, too, skates on, unsure if he’s seen a ghost.

But no. On the next lap round, Coach is still there, brow low and furrowed. This time, he can’t be missed, calling both of their names over the ice, and Shane feels his dad tense, brow lowered.

“Keep going round, Shane,” his dad says, but as soon as his dad starts slowing down, Shane slows too, until they are both crawling to a stop in front of Coach Johnson. His head is hot - he's wearing his Kingston toque, he realizes. He probably shouldn't be.

“The city posted on Facebook that their biggest future NHL star was on the ice,” Coach Johnson says, in lieu of a hello. “Since neither of you are answering my calls, I thought it best to come down here.”

Shane tenses up. He’s not been intentionally ignoring Coach Johnson - he’s not looked at his phone since he and his dad talked.

“We have nothing to speak about,” his dad replies, stony-faced. It’s a strange expression for him to wear, and strange, too, to hear him sound so stern. 

“David, I’ve been training Shane for ten years. You remember when I first talked to you and Yuna, after his first Timbits game? Do you remember what I said? I said, that kid's gonna be a star. I asked for an hour a week. An hour a week for 8 years, then 2 years of even more hours with me and the Knights, and now, he's set to join the NHL."

"Gary -" Shane's dad interrupts, but Coach forges on.

"I’ve watched him grow up into a fine young man who has lost his way,” Coach Johnson replies, somber and serious. “He’s set to have a generation-defining career. Are you really willing to let him throw that all away?”

His dad shakes his head, pulling Shane into a half-embrace. “If the NHL don’t accept him as he is now, then they don’t deserve him.”

Coach Johnson gapes for a moment, and then turns red, cheeks in flames. “We have all worked so hard for him!” He shouts. Coach has the voice you’d expect of a leader - it carries. A few people are looking at them, now, and bile rises up Shane’s throat. “You’re going to let him throw it away by being a God-damned queer?”

The whole city falls silent. Shane can hear his pulse, thrumming in his head.

In his peripheral, the rink stands still, watching him fall apart. Watching him be exposed, an open heart surgery on the ice.

His dad shifts forward, angry, but stops when Shane grabs his arm.

“Go fuck yourself, Johnson,” his dad spits out instead, words hot enough to melt ice. 

Coach isn't looking at his dad anymore. He's looking at Shane, eyes sad. Shane's floating. He's not here. “I’ve already spoken to management, Shane,” he says, quiet and intimate now. “If you’re not willing to take two weeks to improve yourself, then there’s no place for you at the Knights.” He steps onto the ice, feet shifting under himself slightly in normal shoes on the slippy surface, and Shane has to stop himself from stepping forward to help him balance. “Please, son. I only have your best interests at heart.”

It’s so tempting to listen to Coach. It’d be easy, to go to the camp, to forget about Bobby, to pretend that girls gave him the same flush that boys did.

But then he looks at his dad, who’s wearing the same Ottawa Centaurs toque that he’s worn to every one of Shane’s games he’s attended over the years, and lets easy fall away.

Shane turns back to Coach, feeling calmer than he has all day. He straightens his back, imagines he's on the NHL Awards stage. “I'm gay, Coach,” he says, his voice clear and steady. Everyone can probably hear him. He doesn't let that stop him. "If the Knights don't want me as I am, then they don't get to have me. Best of luck with the rest of the season.”

Coach is still spluttering when Shane skates away. Shane skates towards their car, his dad close behind, and together, they leave the rink.

They're halfway home before the panic hits.

Shane'd said it out loud. I'm gay. Right in the middle of the fucking ice. It was hardly a packed rink, but the Ottawa hockey community was notorious for gossip. Everyone would know by Monday. Everyone. 

Shane hunches over in the car, forehead pressed against his knees, scalp against the glovebox, and tries to breathe through the nausea. 

"Oh, Shane..." his dad whispers, and then coaches him through a breathing exercise. He doesn't stop driving, but his hand is firm against Shane's back. 

The rest of the car ride home is mostly silent. It's only as they're pulling onto their street that Shane's Dad speaks up. “Your mom and I failed you.”

Shane sits up, letting his dad's hand fall away. “Dad -“

“No. We did,” he reiterates, calm and certain. “We’re both - we don’t do well with emotions. Talking about them,” he continues. He doesn't look at Shane, eyes still on the road. “Talking to you about relationships, about love… I thought your mom would take care of it, and she probably thought the same of me. The fact you thought for a moment that we would hate you for kissing Bobby -“

"Dad, we don't have to -"

His dad interrupts him, shaking his head. “We should’ve talked to you. Told you, out loud, the words you needed to hear.” He's silent a while longer as he parks the car on the drive. Neither of them get out of the car. “Silence, sometimes, is cowardice in disguise.”

Fuck. Another round of tears clumps Shane's lashes, and he hides his face away, looking out the side window.

“Shane?”

“I didn’t speak up,” he says, shamefaced. He scrubs at his face angrily. “When Bobby’s parents were telling him off, Bobby looked at me. He wanted me to say something, and I didn’t. I stayed silent.”

“That-that's not the same," his dad replies, voice tight. "I know you think you know everything, but you’re seventeen. You’re not going to always be brave when adults are talking down to you.”

Shane wants to protest - he's old enough to join the army, he's hardly a kid anymore - but he's got no fight in him. He goes for the handle, but his dad holds up a hand, stops him.

"Is it just boys?" His dad asks. "Or boys and girls?"

"Dad -"

"Son."

Shane knows the answer. It's not what it should be, but there's no point lying now. The whole of Ben Franklin Place heard him, earlier. "Just boys," he admits. "Girls are - nice - but. Yeah. Boys."

He risks a glance at his dad. He's nodding, as if it's all okay. "How long have you and Bobby been kissing?" 

"A month."

His dad hums. He looks at Shane, then away, cheeks reddening. "And you've been being safe?"

Shane feels himself flush. "Dad, jeez," he mutters. "We just kissed." 

"Okay," his dad nods again, taking a deep breath. "I'll have to do some research before I can give you the talk -"

"- Can we please skip that -"

"But Shane, the most important things are that everyone is consenting and everyone is being safe, okay?" 

"Okay, Dad," he says. He opens the door this time, and his dad doesn't stop him. "I'm going to lie down for a bit."

Despite the tiredness in his bones, Shane doesn't find sleep. He's clogged with too many thoughts, and sleep feels impossible. After an hour of lying there, he gives up and digs out his laptop. As soon as it boots up, he goes on MSN. He scrolls to find Bobby, hoping to see that little "online" light, but he can't find him at all. 

He goes to Facebook instead, types "Bobby" into the search bar. Zero matches.

Same on Twitter.

He goes back to MSN, just in case. Scrolls through a whole host of contacts, just in case he's missed Bobby somehow. 

In the bottom corner of the screen, a message pops up. David Fishbourne. Another Knight.  Yoooo you gay?

Another message pings through. And another. And another. A whole cascade of them, intrusive and brash. None of them from Bobby.

Shane shuts the laptop. God. He wishes he'd not told his dad about the stupid fucking camp. Had just gone and taken his lumps. 

Too fucking late for that. 

He goes downstairs instead of lingering on the thought. His dad is at the kitchen table, glasses on, laptop out, and Shane frowns. “What are you doing?” Shane asks, nervous.

“Planning the demise of Coach Johnson,” His dad replies, smile tight but satisfied. “I’m calling in favours to make his life hell.”

“Dad.”

“I’ve reported his jam-selling business to the CFIA. He’s got no food safety paperwork,” his dad says, ever the civil servant. “The parking inspectors have his license plate. If he parks 1 inch outside a designated space, he’s getting clamped,” he continues. His dad may not be a fighter, but he’s a civic nightmare.  He sighs, looking up from his laptop to consider Shane. “Janet from the traffic department had heard about the incident between you and Coach. She’s not exactly known for having her ear to the ground when it comes to gossip,” he warns, and Shane flinches. “At some point, your mom’s going to hear about it too. Kiddo, she’d rather hear it from you.”

He doesn't want to tell her, but his dad's words from earlier bounce around his mind. Silence, sometimes, is cowardice in disguise. “Okay,” he nods, and his dad smiles. “Can we make chicken parm for dinner?”

“Sure, kid.”

The sun has long set when the front door opens, letting in a gust of cold air and a small body in an oversized puffer coat. Shane's mom shuffles the hood down, taking a deep breath in to enjoy the aroma of chicken parm. “Uh oh,” she says with a smile, looking around the kitchen. “Why are we having comfort food for dinner tonight?” She looks at Shane, and her face falls serious, worried. “Shane -“

Like a band-aid. Quick and without hesitation. “I’m gay,” Shane says, for the second time today. His mom hasn't even got her coat off. She looks at him blankly, as if the words don't make sense. “I’m sorry.”

His mom reboots slowly, like their old desktop. “Why are you apologizing?” She asks, slowly shrugging her thick puffer down her arms. 

Shane looks down at the counter. He can't meet her eye. "It's wrong. In Youth Club, they said -"

"Shane," his mom interrupts. She comes over, tilts his head up until he's looking at her. "God made you as you are," she says, and Shane's breath hitches. "We love you as you are." 

She opens her arms.

Shane buries himself in his mom, folding himself down, making himself small. “The Knights are dropping me,” he says, the words muffled into her sweater.

“Sweetie. Fuck the Knights,” his mom says vehemently, and Shane frowns - he’s not sure he’s ever heard his mom swear before, and especially not at his hockey team. She squeezes him a little, expectant, and he sighs.

“I kissed Bobby."

His mom hums, quiet. "He's a sweet boy," she says. "Not great at hockey, but sweet."

"His parents and Coach found out," Shane explains. His mom is silent for a long while, thinking. 

"The hockey camp -" She says, and Shane flinches. "I see." He can't see her face, but her voice has gone thready, and he tenses again.

"Maybe we should all sit down," His dad suggests, and his mom nods.  Shane unwraps himself from her, helps bring the food to the table. 

They are all quiet for a long time, though no one eats, until eventually, his mom speaks. "Is it just Coach and the Tremblays that know?"

Shane shakes his head. "Some of my teammates were in the hall yesterday. I think they heard some of it," Shane says, remembering the dull bing of the computer, the sound heralding a cascade of MSN messages. He'd only skimmed the first few - enough to see a few slurs, scattered through sentences like confetti. "And Coach called me a queer at the rink this afternoon. I confirmed it, after. People heard."

His mom breathes through her nose, slow and considered. “Okay. Game plan," his mom says. It's reassuring. She's always been the planner. "We can ignore the rumours. Not allow speculation, maybe set you up on staged dates with a few women to dispel any gossip. We can cut this off at the head, stop it from growing.” 

It'd be so simple. He could be like everyone else. He'd leave the gay rumours behind in Ottawa. How far could a rumour really go?

Shane thinks of Bobby’s face, the tears clinging to his lashes.

Thinks of his own silence, in the face of Bobby's parents.

Thinks of the MSN messages, unread upstairs.

"Or, I could come out," Shane suggests, looking down at his plate. Bile rises in his throat, but he pushes it down stubbornly. 

The sentence lingers in the air. When he looks up, both his mom and his dad look unsure, and his stomach turns. 

"You're sure you're gay," his mom says, and Shane squeezes his eyes shut.

"Yuna -" his dad scolds.

His mom huffs. "I'm not - this isn't me trying to push you into the closet," she soothes, quiet. "But you're seventeen. I need you to look me in the eye and tell me that this isn't a phase."

Shane takes a deep breath and opens his eyes. "It's not," he promises. "I only like guys." 

"Okay. I believe you," his mom replies, and the knot in his chest loosens. "You don't have to come out now." 

"If not now, then when?" Shane asks, but doesn't let her answer. "Will there ever be a good time? Will I have to spend the rest of my career going on staged dates, and looking over my shoulder, worried someone will out me?" He looks at his parents. Their hands are joined on the table. "If I loved someone, I wouldn't be able to hold his hand."

His mom looks down, stares at her own hand, tangled with his dad's. “Okay. Maybe we do tell everyone,” she agrees. "But not today, Shane. Tomorrow. The Knights won't do anything until Monday, let's just sit with this for a day, alright?" 

"I'm not going to change my mind," he says. God, it's a terrible idea to come out. He's going to do it, though. He knows that now, with a certainty that makes his teeth hurt.

"I know. You are my son, after all. Stubborn," his mom says with a wry smile. "But we need to work out what to say, and research how to say it, and tell Farah. It's been a big night for you already, Shane. Let's just have dinner and put on the TV." She lights up. "We can watch Brokeback Mountain!" 

"Mom."

The next morning, Shane awakes before dawn. The household is still asleep when he sneaks out, closing the front door quietly behind him. 

The walk to Bobby's house only takes ten minutes, but Shane's heart thumps as if he's run a marathon as he approaches. There's no car in the driveway, Bobby's likely not home, but still, Shane hopes. He sneaks to the side of the building - thank god Bobby's dad's CCTV habit didn't extend to here - and climbs up to Bobby's room, as he's done a hundred times before.

Except the room he enters isn't Bobby's. 

Everything that made Bobby's room feel like Bobby is gone. The hockey posters on the wall, his nerdy little action figures, his dark blue bedsheets. All gone. The room is a blank white canvas again, a guest room straight from a magazine. The drawers are empty, the closets full of unused hangers.

All that's left is a few pinholes, where the posters once hung.

Bobby is gone.

Shane looks around for something to take as a memento - anything, anything at all, that might prove to him Bobby was real, but there's nothing. It's as if a forensic team had stripped the room clean, leaving no trace of Bobby in their wake.

He sits on the bed, closes his eyes, and remembers kissing Bobby for the first time. His hands tighten in the white sheets for a heartbeat, then release.

He climbs back down the trellis, and heads home. 

When Shane arrives home, he finds his mom in the kitchen. She's in casual clothes, hardly her Sunday best. "You're not going to Church today?" Shane asks, curious. 

She looks at him as if he's suggested she bathe in hot sauce. "Shane. I never thought about it before, but All Saints does not seem gay-friendly."

"You're not gay."

"But you are," His mom replies, certain, and Shane's heart stutters. "I'm not staying in a Church that tells you that you don't belong." 

Over breakfast, they tell Farah, his agent, before they post anything publicly. She's kind about it, doesn't even complain about them phoning on a Sunday, but a deep crease between her brows forms when they ask her how the NHL will react, and she starts talking about legal protections against discrimination, instead of saying anything reassuring about the league itself. 

"I'll be honest with you, Shane," she says, in her quiet, certain voice. "Some teams will no longer consider you a viable draft pick." 

Shane lets the statement linger a moment. He feels sick at the thought of losing hockey. He thinks he might lose it, either way. "If I stay in the closet and end up at one of those teams, would I ever be safe to come out?"

"Likely no," Farah concedes, rubbing at the bridge of her nose. "And if the rumours leak, it might be unsafe for you in some of those locker rooms." 

His mom kisses his head. His dad sighs. "He'll still find a team, though? Someone will take the risk?" His mom asks. 

"I'd be very surprised if they didn't," Farah replies, and Shane's mom breathes out. His gut clenches again; he'd not even thought of the financial implications, if he didn't get drafted. "Good luck today, Shane," Farah says with a smile. The crease is still there, lingering between her eyebrows. "It'll be hard, but you are strong." 

They end the call, and close his dad's laptop. 

Before Shane can go to his room to press send on the tweets they've composed, his mom holds his face in her hands, looks him dead in the eye. Whatever she sees there satisfies her stare, and she nods, lets him go. 

Suddenly, all his certainty falls away. He wishes she'd said no, told him he couldn't do this. Wishes Farah had advised him to stay in the closet, to stay there until he retired or died. "There's no place in the NHL for gay men," he says quietly. 

His mom takes his hand, smiles at him. "Baby. There's no one like you on the ice." 

She means it as a comfort. He hears it as a warning. 

"Can we leave town this afternoon?" He asks, and his parents share a look. "Find a rink somewhere that isn't Ottawa?"

"Of course," his dad agrees. "Go and do what you need to do, son. We'll get everything ready."

Shane posts it as a single post on Facebook, but 140 characters isn’t enough, so he splits the tweet in two. Then, he turns off his phone and laptop. He throws up afterwards, tears clinging to his lashes at the force of it. 

He washes his face, brushes his teeth, and heads downstairs. 

They drive for 2 hours to find a rink. There's a few families skating there, but none of them look twice at Shane or his parents, and it's a relief. 

100 miles from his house, the ice beneath his skates feels like home.

Shane Hollander
Shane_Hollander24
I’ve played my last game for the Knights. I am gay. The Knights think that gay people have no place in hockey. I know that they are wrong. 12:15PM - 18 December 2008

Shane Hollander
Shane_Hollander24
I’d like to thank my parents and agent for giving me the support I needed to make this statement. See you all at World Juniors. 12:16PM - 18 December 2008

Chapter End Notes

Please let me know what you think so far!! <3

Footnotes

• Conversion therapy was legal in Canada in 2008. It has been illegal since 2021. That said, it has yet to be totally eliminated. (Citation: University of Alberta)
• While youth hockey's not as expensive as some sports (hello F1), aiming for the NHL can be a significant financial burden on families. The parents of Canadian Hockey Forward Matt Duchene (b.1991) spent approx. $300k on his hockey career. (Citation: Bleacher Report)
• In the original draft of this, I fucked up and didn't realize that Shane's junior team was in Kingston, and had him playing for a team called the Ottawa Orcas. It's is a great name for a sports team and frankly I'm offended there isn't a team with that name already.

Chapter 2: Electric Feel

Chapter Summary

Two weeks after Shane Hollander comes out as gay, Junior hockey teams gather in Saskatchewan for the 2008 World Championships.

Chapter Notes

December 2008

Saskatchewan

There are over 4,000 miles between Ilya and home, but the ice in the Canadian rink they’re using for the Junior World Championships smells the same as every Russian rink he’s ever stepped in. He’s never seen an international rink before. It’s a shame to find it is no different to what he is used to.

“Which one is the queer?” Petrov, his boorish teammate asks in Russian, beady eyes darting across the ice. The Canadian team’s practice is coming to a close, all of their helmets slowly coming off, and Ilya lets his own eyes scan across the ice, curious.

Shane Hollander’s name had been on everyone’s lips for the best part of 6 months. He’s almost as good as you, Rozanov, their coach had said after watching tapes of Hollander on the ice. You two will be first and second draft picks, mark my words. He’d tried to make Ilya watch the tapes, but Ilya had refused. He did not need to see what the second-best player in Saskatchewan would look like.

It had been infuriating, how people spoke about he and Hollander, like they were Napoleon and Wellington, set to be locked in an eternal battle for victory. Ilya couldn’t wait to put Hollander in his place - to show everyone that there was no space for two people at the top. Ilya was in a class of his own, Hollander a distant second, and the sooner the rest of the world realized that, the better. Fuck every article that suggested Hollander might be first draft pick. That’d be Ilya, and Ilya alone.

Then, a little over a week ago, the narrative changed.

The team had all been at Moscow airport when the news broke, ready to board a flight to Oslo for their warm-up game against Norway. With a whistle-stop tour of European games, and then on to the Junior Championships, the team would have almost a month together until they were back in Russia, and already, they were beginning to grate on Ilya. That Canadian phenom is a queer! the defender from Kazan with an unfortunate unibrow had cried out, and then everyone was on their phones, reading the news, checking the Facebook post, sneering, throwing slurs.

In that small airport waiting lounge, Ilya had read Hollander’s statement, unable to prevent the crease between his eyebrows. The English sentences were made up of short, simple words that he knew, but the message, the idea that a future NHL player could just come out and say I am gay as if it were nothing, was incomprehensible to him.

The team had been hustled onto the flight almost immediately after the news broke, phones on airplane mode. It didn’t stop them from speculating though throughout take-off - how many of his teammates had Hollander sucked off, was he rock hard in every locker room, who did he fuck to get preferential treatment?

As soon as the fasten seatbelts light had clicked off, Ilya had pushed his way into the small airplane toilet. Ilya had looked himself dead in the eye and tried his own words on for size. I am bisexual. He thought about saying it to his father’s face, and then barked out a laugh. Put away the idea like he was storing away his winter coats in March. Coming out was the folly of Western men. He would not risk his career, his family, his life for such foibles.

As he made his way back to his seat, he caught the eye of a pretty girl in First Class. Winked at her, enjoyed how she flushed. He’d marry a woman, one day, and be done with it. It’d be simpler, that way.

After they landed in Norway and made it to the hotel, Ilya searched for his own name on Google. There was only one new news story - someone had photographed him at Oslo airport. It was a good photo, his arms looked thick and strong. Across the top of the page blazed the headline: ‘Russian Hockey Prodigy Arrives for Friendly in Norway”. 

He skimmed the article, eyes stumbling on a sentence halfway through.

Nailed-on first draft pick.

“It’s the Asian one,” the assistant coach replies, back in the present, and it takes Ilya a moment to remember the question. Which one is the queer?

Shane Hollander stands a little apart from the rest of the team, helmet under his arm as their coach gives a speech.

Ilya had looked up Hollander’s stats, and typed them carefully into a calculator to convert them to something he could understand. 90 kilos at 185cm. The same height as Ilya - a little lighter, but nothing that couldn’t be padded out by a few bowls of borscht and some extra sessions in the gym. Down on the ice, his size matches his stats, and Ilya sighs. He’d hoped maybe Hollander’s stats were padded, that he was smaller - in weight or in height, either would be fine, just so that Ilya could look down on him.

Hollander’s face is pretty. Not like a girl - like an old Hollywood movie star, beautiful even after a long training session, and Ilya frowns at the way it twists his gut.

Petrov hums. “He doesn’t look gay,” he says to the assistant coach.

Ilya bites his tongue before he can answer back. Did you expect him to be cloaked in a rainbow flag? He knows what Petrov means, though, even if he wishes he didn’t. Hollander is broad and tall, a frown on his handsome face. He carries himself like every other player on the ice.

He would look out of place in a Lady Gaga music video.

“Is harder to spot gay people now. It makes them more dangerous,” the assistant coach replies, venom in his tone. “Come. Is time to prepare for practice.”

Ilya lingers a moment longer, eyes trained on Hollander, and then dutifully follows the coach to the changing rooms, and pushes all thoughts of Canadian phenoms aside.

Hollander is in the stands throughout their practice session, sat next to a woman Ilya suspects is his mother. Ilya's Coach comments on it occasionally, as if they were all children, and Hollander was Baba Yaga. The queer is watching, he will be wanting sex with you. Skate fast or he will catch you!

Coach catches Ilya, at one point, staring at Hollander, and calls him out on it, thankfully in Russian, so Hollander and his mother have no hope of understanding. See something you like, Rozanov? He mocks, and the other players all laugh as if it is the greatest joke they’ve ever heard. Ilya scowls, and does not look up again.He wonders what Hollander sees, from his position in the stands.

He hopes, secretly, that Hollander is watching him. That Hollander is impressed. Cowed. Intimidated. It pushes him to work harder, to show Hollander that they are not equals. They never will be.

After the practice finishes, and Ilya is showered and changed, the fizzle of tension from Hollander’s gaze leaves him craving a cigarette. Ilya sneaks his way through to the side of the building, leaving through a fire door and pointedly ignoring the no smoking sign above him.

The air hits his cheeks, cold and fresh, and Ilya could hear a pin drop. Pleasant. He lets the last 48 hours blow away with each puff of smoke, lets Hollander seep out of his bones.

It is typical, then, that as soon as he returns inside, Hollander appears in front of him in the corridor, just leaving the restroom.

He’s prettier, up close. Like a painting, where the artist has taken care to use the tiniest brush to add on a thousand tiny freckles, the placement of each dot carefully and lovingly considered. The twist of Ilya’s gut now is unmistakably lust, and he lets it burn, lets himself feel the attraction, quiet and secret and gnawing at his chest.

Hollander’s eyes widen when he spots Ilya, and for a moment, Ilya thinks he will run.

Hollander doesn’t, though. He steels himself, and then steps forward, hand out. It’s so formal that Ilya wants to snap at him, break him out of this spell of Canadian manners. “Shane Hollander,” he introduces, full of false confidence, though for a moment his hand wavers, as if he expects Ilya to not shake it.

That won’t do. Ilya steps in, takes the hand firmly. It’s a little damp - at least Hollander washes his hands - but it’s a firm handshake, almost challengingly so. Ilya holds eye contact, intense, even as he takes in Hollander’s smooth skin and his dark, tempting freckles.

Ilya’s grip, with an added little squeeze, ticks the corner of Hollander’s mouth upwards, and he holds back with just as much force. Then slowly, in increments, he loosens his grip, Ilya following in turn.

English is a tricky, feathery language, and so Ilya keeps his sentences short. “You know my name,” Ilya says, cocky, and Hollander nods. “Everyone talks about you.”

Hollander laughs, looks away. “A lot of people talk about you too.”

“Hm. Is different, no?” Ilya asks.

“I guess,” Hollander shrugs. He stuffs his hands in his pockets. It makes him look a little less like a robot. “You’re awesome to watch on the ice.”

“I am,” Ilya agrees, and does not offer the same compliment back.

“I wanted to come say hello, but. Well.” Hollander pauses for a long while, then looks down the corridor. Ilya follows his gaze; at the end of the corridor, Hollander’s mother is waiting, brow lowered. Hollander looks to Ilya again, thrusts his hand out again for a second handshake. Jesus, they have only just dropped hands. Ilya takes it again, though - this time, lingering. Enjoying the callouses that rub against his own. He could swear there’s a tiny blush on Hollander’s cheeks. Hollander clears his throat. “Good luck in the tournament.”

Ilya nods, releasing Hollander’s hand. He should let the conversation end there, but he wants to prolong the moment just a beat longer, steal Hollander’s attention for a precious extra few seconds. Get the final word. “You will not be so nice when we beat you,” he settles on.

Hollander smiles tightly back. “Not going to happen,” he says. Then he nods, one final time, and is gone.

Shane walks past his mom, lets her play catch up as he speeds out of the Saskatchewan rink. His mom touches his arm anxiously as she reaches him, drawing him back to walk at her pace as they head to the car. “Are you okay? What did he say to you?”

“Nothing, Mom.”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea to talk to the Russian players, honey,” she warns, looking over her shoulder at the Russian team bus. “They don’t have gay people over there.”

Shane snorts. “Statistically, I don’t think that can be true.”

“Oh, you know what I mean,” his mom replies, smacking him gently on the arm. “I’m just looking out for you.”

She is. Shane knows it. And it grates.

The last two weeks since coming out had been hard. Shane thought he knew what to expect, and yet the level of vitriol still caught him by surprise. His parents had taken over his social media, taken away his laptop, and barely let him leave the house alone now, as if he were some kind of criminal. Even with his newfound bodyguards, people yelled shit at him on the street - embarrassing shit, especially in front of his parents - and at night, on his shitty Samsung, he’d read tweets from friends and former teammates, people he’d spent his life thinking of as family. Now, they were spewing shit on social media, acting like he’d wronged them.

It wasn’t like Shane was naive to the locker room slurs, but he’d thought it was all talk. Thought that when they had a gay person right in front of them, it’d all fall away. Thought that perhaps, maybe, they’d make an exception for him.

But there are no exceptions, at least, not in the Knights, and now, there was a vacuum where his life used to be. No friends. No Coach. No hockey.

The Ottawa Saviours, the CWHL team, had offered to let him train with them for now. He’d taken up the offer gratefully, but it had spurred even more mockery. The women on the team were nice, but they were all older and worlds wiser than him, and so he kept his head down and trained hard, and spoke as little as possible.

In his spare time, he had searched for Bobby, again and again. His parents had helped, trying to see if they could track him down, but there was nothing. The Tremblays were gone, and not keen to be rediscovered.

Just before Shane and his mom had travelled to Saskatchewan, he’d decided not to look for Bobby again. His heart couldn't bear the hope of it. If Bobby wanted to find Shane, he knew where to find him - right where he’d left him, in their little Ottawa suburb. Hockey stick still, hopefully, in hand.

The Canadian team hadn’t dropped Shane from the Junior Chamionships, thank god. His national teammates mostly avoid him, and he knows he’s going to hear some dire chirps on the ice, but for now, he can let all that slide. He gets to play hockey, and that is a blessing.

Barring disaster, he should even get to play against Ilya Rozanov.

Since there had been no point watching tape for the Knights’ games, Shane spent the last two weeks watching every scrap of tape he can find on Rozanov, so that he’d be ready for Juniors. God, Rozanov’s good at hockey. Nearly as good as Shane himself. He’s lightning fast, and strong on the ice. It’d take a freaking Zamboni to knock him over, even at full speed.

Shane had also - guiltily, so guiltily - realized that Bobby would have been ten times hotter if he were as skilled at hockey as Rozanov.

He’d pushed the thought down, locked it away in a tiny box, along with the straight line of Rozanov’s nose and the curve of his cupid's bow.

Heated thoughts aside, Shane had wanted to meet Rozanov. There were so few people on their level, he wanted to meet the only other person in Saskatchewan who might match him on the ice. After the Russian practice ended, he thought about following him to the smoking zone so that they could talk. Two weeks earlier, Shane would have followed him without a second thought.

Two weeks earlier, he hadn’t known the statistics on homophobia in Russia.

Farah and his mother had encouraged him to keep away from all players from any nation in a one-to-one setting - just for this tournament, baby, once things have blown over it’ll be better - but especially Russian players. It was stupid, approaching Rozanov.

Shane hadn’t been able to resist, though. Not when Rozanov appeared before him in the corridor, like a mirage.

He seemed - not nice, per se, but Shane didn’t much care for nice. Quiet, definitely, but English was his second language, so that was to be expected. Competitive. The squeeze of his hand was like a firecracker in Shane’s stomach, the unspoken challenge there. He looked like he wanted to win. He looked like he didn’t know how to lose.

Shane can’t wait to beat him.

Shane Hollander is satisfying to beat on the ice, Ilya finds.

It pains him to admit it, and he'd never, never say it out loud, but Hollander is good. Fast, smart, quick thinking. He’s everything that the snotty-nosed pundits had promised. He’d won their first face-off - infuriating, he’d not even risen to the chirps Ilya had clumsily translated into English - and no matter how many future face-offs Ilya won, he’d never be able to erase that Hollander won their first.

Ilya corrects it, though, by winning their first game. It was his goal that gave Russia the win. His name that they read out as tournament MVP.

There’s a few local journalists at the event, and after the medal ceremony, they ask Ilya if he is happy to have won, a confusing question. There was no possibility of losing. How could he go home and face his father with a Silver noose around his neck?

The Gold weighs heavy on the ribbon, hanging a few inches below his mother’s golden cross as they line up for tournament handshakes. There’s only one hand he’s particularly interested in shaking.

Hollander stands stiffly, a ball of barely-contained rage. He clearly hates losing, and is doing a poor job of hiding that fact, and Ilya revels in it. Ilya smiles, his best shit-eating grin, and takes Hollander’s hand with all the intensity of their first handshake, pulling Hollander marginally closer.

“See you at the draft,” he says, a promise made into big brown eyes, and then he releases and skates on, hand outstretched to shake the next sad Canadian hand in the queue. 

He takes cares to not look back.

Chapter End Notes

Thank you for reading! Please let me know what you think <3

Footnotes

• In 2008, the top women's hockey league was the CWHL, which had an Ottawa team (Ottawa Senators). The league collapsed in 2019, and was replaced by the PWHL in 2024. (Citation: SB Nation)
• While Russian anti-gay laws became more extensive in 2013, homophobic laws and policing were an issue in 2008. ((Citation: In These Times))

Chapter 3: Smile Like You Mean It

Chapter Summary

For Shane Hollander, NHL draft day is not all it's cracked up to be.

(It's the greatest day of Vincent Lemaire's life)

June 2009

Los Angeles

“Rozanov! Look this way! Lemaire, Sullivan, this way!”

The flash of camera bulbs must be somewhat blinding for the top three draft picks, stood together in front of a polished backdrop, their new jerseys held aloft in front of them. Shane’s glad he’s not there, really. Might be a bit overwhelming.

Eighth pick in the draft. It’s not as low as Farah had feared. It’s not as high as it would have been 7 months ago. The Ottawa Centaurs isn’t exactly where he dreamed of playing, but beggars can’t be choosers, and they’re still in the NHL.

Shane heard all the commentary, leading up to the draft. He knows now, in fine detail, which team owners have ties to Republican or Conservative statesmen. He knows, too, that there are 10,000 word think-pieces over whether a gay man could be accepted into an NHL locker room. Whether his presence would interrupt team dynamics. Whether he’d cry like a little bitch if someone was mean to him.

There had been a moment, somewhere in the fugue of February, when the days were all blurring together into one, that Shane had considered withdrawing from the draft altogether. He’d not played a competitive game since the Junior Championships. There was talk that he wouldn’t be a first-round pick. Might not even be a second, or third, or fourth pick.

The women on the Ottawa Saviours did what they could to cheer him up. They were ruthless with him in training, pushing him harder, harder, harder, and never letting his hockey skills diminish. He was ruthless back, pushing them to be better too. They didn’t care he was gay - it seemed like half of the team were dating women, so it would’ve been a bit hypocritical - but they did care when they thought he was going easy on them, dragging him to play at his best.

He didn’t meet up with any of them off the ice - between hockey, and studying, and learning to drive, and his mom’s fretting, he had a full schedule - but it was nice to know they had his back. Some of the younger players - Daysha and Selena - even started to feel like friends.

They were both in their very early 20s, and seemed so grown up. Daysha was the goalie, out and proud in a way that was so foreign to Shane. She was dating a bank clerk called Gleeson who was quiet and intense. Selena was their first line centre - she was outstanding on the ice, small and fast, skating loops around everyone else out there. She wasn’t gay, had a boyfriend in the NHL. She wouldn’t tell anyone who it was, said it was too early. Shane still doesn't know who it is, but hopes they are a good player. He isn’t sure he’ll be able to control his face if they aren’t.

The noise of coming out had been loud, but slowly, by March, between the Saviours and his parents, Shane began to relax. Accept his fate as a reluctant fourth round pick - if he was even that lucky.

Then, in a freak accident, the first- and second- line centres for the Sudbury Foxes collided in training, wiping them both out for the rest of the season. The Foxes were in contention for OHL playoffs, but with their two best players out, it’d be a miracle if they even came close. The club couldn’t make a trade to fill the gap, as the trading window had closed months earlier.

If only there was a first line centre, out of contract, twiddling his thumbs in Ottawa.

The world shifted, again. It wasn’t like Kingston, a 2 hour journey he could do in his sleep. Sudbury was 6 hours away by car, and so he had to billet the whole time. The family he stayed with, the Raddissons, were wary and distant, but not cruel, a characteristic they shared with the other players on the Foxes. Gone was the camaraderie of training with the Saviours; Shane was under the microscope. He kept his head down, trained like he was going to war, and waited for the first game.

His parents made the 6 hour trip for his first home game. So did Daysha and Selena. Shane looked to them when he scored that night; looked again when he scored his second, and when he assisted the third goal. Afterwards, he found them all in the stands, and held on tight in each embrace.

The Foxes made it to the conference finals, but didn’t clear the final hurdle to make it to the playoff final. It was through no fault of Shane’s. He’d torn through the league like it was made of crepe paper. It wasn’t his fault that the Sudbury defence were caught napping, again and again and again. Still, it hurt to lose. It always hurt to lose.

He didn’t win anything at the OHL awards, either. He came close for the Eddie Powers, but 2 months out of the league meant he fell 4 goals short of Top Scorer. Secretly, selfishly, he thought he should’ve had the Red Tilson award for player of the year - no one in the league came close to him.

But fuck them. It didn’t matter anyway. His name was back on the map. It had taken the best part of 3 months, but the press slowly started remembering that he wasn’t just a gay hockey player, he was an exceptional gay hockey player.

Really, all things considered, eighth pick in the draft doesn’t seem so bad.

So, in a bland conference room, Shane watches from afar as the top three picks get their photo taken. He puts on his media mask, a blank smile on his face and eyes a little unfocussed, and doesn’t think about how Lemaire has the stick-handling skills of a toddler, nor of how Sullivan has fuck-all chance of lasting more than a year or two in the NHL before he’s exposed for the showboating fraud he is. At least Rozanov is talented - as talented as Shane, though he’s loathe to admit it. Rozanov will suit Boston, too - more than Shane ever could.

“Rozanov! Rozanov!” One of the photographers calls, and Shane glances across to the number-one spot, curious.

Rozanov is still not looking at the camera. Instead, his gaze is pinpointed on Shane, mouth downturned. Shane returns his gaze, can’t look away, until eventually, slowly, Rozanov turns his head, rearranging his features into a smile and finally dragging his eyes to meet the camera.

“Honey,” a voice from behind says, and Shane startles, looking at his mom as if she’d betrayed him. Farah’s by her side, and the two of them look ready for a business meeting. “I didn’t mean to make you jump, sweetheart. There’s a few sponsors here I’d love to introduce you to…”

The rest of the afternoon is a haze of sponsors and GMs and players, often tentative, all intrigued by him. Despite being eighth pick, the sponsors still hover like vultures, and seem to relish in his diversity. He lets his mom and Farah field most of their questions, chiming in as little as possible. His mom tries to coax him out of his shell, but he’s perfectly happy inside it, thank you very much.

The Ottawa GM and coach seem okay, at least. The coach, Fredericks, is an older man, almost on the verge of retirement, who keeps saying what you do in your spare time is no business of mine, like it’s his new mantra. The GM seems less interested in the gay thing or the Asian thing, and far more interested in the marketing opportunities from the fact Shane was born in Ottawa, which makes for a nice change in fixation, though Shane suspects he’ll get sick of the phrase hometown hero soon enough. His mom is more than willing to show off the baby photos of Shane in his dad’s Centaurs torque and jersey, and though it’s embarrassing, it at least means Shane doesn’t have to talk much, other than the requisite come on, Mom, he doesn’t want to see that (which is very clearly not true, the GM eats it up with a spoon).

After what feels like two weeks of networking (maybe 2 hours in actual time), Shane is stood half-listening to a drinks sponsor talk about their new Yuzu flavour when he feels a tickle on his neck, and looks up.

Rozanov is looking down at him from the balcony, staid and serious, where he is stood with the Boston GM and a man Shane doesn’t recognize. The man doesn’t look like Rozanov, but he looks Russian enough that Shane suspects it’s Rozanov’s father.

There’s a snarl on the man’s face, directed at Shane, and his lips are curling around harsh words. Shane should be used to the vitriol by now, but it still makes his stomach drop - the reminder that there’s people in this room that hate him, just for existing. He looks back at Rozanov, whose gaze is calculated, but not cruel.

Rozanov is an asshole, but he doesn’t feel unsafe, not in the way some people in the room feel. Whatever hatred his dad holds, it doesn’t seem to be genetic, and Shane is thankful for that. He fucking hates how good Rozanov is on the ice - but it’s a fun kind of hate. Hating a bigot is less thrilling.

Shane looks away, listening to the final comments of the drinks sponsor and nodding at the appropriate time, and trying not to think of Ilya Rozanov.

It becomes much easier not to think of Rozanov when the drinks sponsor walks away and is replaced by a much larger, much more recognizable face.

“Hollander. Mrs Hollander. Farah,” Commissioner Crowell says, nodding at each of them in turn.

Meetings with Crowell had happened with worrying regularity over the last six months - usually with both sides flagged by a collection of lawyers. The NHL party line was that while the league did not care that Shane was gay, he should have spoken with them before coming out, and should not be seen publicly with any partner. Farah and the lawyers had protested both points, and ultimately, there was nothing the league could do to punish Shane for being gay without breaking a shopping list of laws. Still, the end-result ias the same.

The league are not happy with Shane.

“Eighth draft pick,” Crowell says, a knowing smirk on his lips. “Your family must be very proud, Shane.”

“We are. We are proud of him every single day,” Shane’s mom replies in his stead, a bland smile on her face. 

“You’ll be staying in your home town, I see,” Crowell continues, looking at Shane like he was a bug under a microscope.  “I bet you’re a real Mama’s Boy.”

Shane breathes through his nose. It’s the NHL commissioner. He can’t rise to the bait. “My mom’s great.”

“That she is, son.” Crowell nods, satisfied, and then without so much as a goodbye, walks away, off to clap Lemaire on the back with a loud crow of “second pick!”. 

“I need a break,” his mom whispers, a fake smile still planted on her face.

“I need a drink,” Farah replies. “Come on. We’ve shaken enough hands and planted enough seeds with sponsors. Why don’t we all call it a night?”

Shane looks to his mom. He’d have called it a night 2 hours ago if he’d had the chance, and they all know it.

“Okay. Okay,” his mom concedes, weaving her arm through his. “You did so well, Shane. Farah, do you want to join Shane, David and I for dinner?”

Farah smiles. “That’d be lovely, Yuna. Come on, kid. Let’s go celebrate.”

They almost make it to the door before Shane hears another voice calling his name. He waves Farah and his mom onwards, for this voice is much more pleasant and familiar than anyone else in the room.

“Shane!” Selena calls as she crashes into him, the embrace firm and very, very welcomed. “Ottawa, oh my god. I can’t believe you’ll be near us again!”

His smile to Selena feels more genuine than any other smile from the previous few hours. As much as eighth pick still smarted, the promise of being close to Selena and Daysha again is a real treat. “What are you doing here?” He asks. Over Selena’s shoulder, a familiar face is lurking, waiting for an introduction.

Selena pulls away, waving at the man behind her to come closer. “My boyfriend, Nick. He’s here to represent the Centaurs,” she says. “I told the girls who he was a few weeks ago, I was waiting to tell you in person.”

Nick Chouinard. #16. Defender. 21 years old. High ice time, probably the best performer in an otherwise unremarkable Ottawa team. Shane can’t say he’s overly impressed. Selena’s the best centre he’s ever played with - worlds better than Lemaire - and should probably be dating an All Star that’s on her level. Still, Nick’s in the top quarter of NHL players, and so Shane accepts it, pledges to help make him better. He shakes Nick’s hand, and is pleased to find Nick has a good, firm handshake.

“I can’t believe you’re coming to Ottawa,” Nick says, looking a little bit dazed. “We’ll be glad to have you, but holy fuck. Selena’s been getting me to watch your games, you’re in another world.”

“I’m looking forward to playing with you. I’ve watched your games, too.” He doesn’t say the next thought on his mind. You lose every fucking week.

“I know you have a thousand things to do, but we’ll catch up when you’re back in Ottawa, right?” Selena asks. “Especially with you two on the same team…”

Shane agrees lightly, though he can’t help but eye Nick warily. He’s comfortable enough with the Saviours, now, but male hockey players still make his skin crawl. Selena hugs him again, and then Nick gives an awkward little wave, and he leaves them to it, heading through the double doors to the hallway to the exit.

In the quiet corridor, leaning against the wall with an awed smile on his face, is one of the people Shane wants to see least right now.

Vincent Lemaire. #32 for his Junior team, but that’s Comeau’s number at Montreal, so who knows what his new number will be. Centre. 19 years old.

Second draft pick.

“Hollander,” Lemaire drawls, breathless and excited. “Holy shit, dude.”

“Congratulations,” Shane replies warily. They’d met on the ice once or twice for internationals, but that was it - Lemaire is dual-nationality, but he’s played for the U.S. so far. He’s young enough that he could still make the switch and play for Canada - maybe he will, now that he’s Montreal-bound.

Shane really hopes Lemaire’s not the type to start throwing slurs. He doesn’t have the energy for a fight, not today.

“I’m second draft pick. I beat you,” Lemaire says, awed, and the words burn in Shane’s gut. “I knew I was good, dude, but I did not realize people thought I was better than Shane Fucking Hollander,” he continues. “I need to work on my self confidence.”

Shane bites back the words he wants to say. Montreal didn't pick you because you're fucking better than me. They picked you because they needed a centre and don’t like gays. He has to say something though - anything to remind Lemaire that Shane is the better hockey player here. "I mean. With me being gay -"

"You're gay?" Lemaire interrupts, eyes wide. Holy fuck. He must live under a rock. His face grows confused. "Why are you telling me that?" He asks, before his face changes again. He puts two and two together, and comes out with seventeen, somehow. "Oh. OH. You think I'm hot? Sorry, man, I don’t swing that way. But wow, flattering. That'll definitely help my self confidence, thanks, man.”

Shane suspects he might be having an aneurysm. “Lemaire -“

“I’ve gotta get back in the room, but yeah. Hollander. Thank you, really.” Lemaire looks genuinely happy, and Shane wants to punch him in the jaw. “Second draft pick, and an absolute smoke show thinks I’m hot. What a fucking day!”

Ilya can’t fucking sleep.

It’s been like this since he was a kid. He’d get worked up about something - usually something inconsequential - and then be up until dawn, ruminating on it, playing every variation of it through in his mind.

Today’s annoyance is less inconsequential than some of his spirals have been.

Shane Hollander is the most annoying, most talented player Ilya has ever had the misfortune of playing against. On his best day, he might even be better than Ilya. Only by a fraction, though - and really, how often do best days come around?

Ilya had been looking forward to beating him in the draft. Of looking down at Hollander in second place and saying today is not your best day.

But eighth place. Fuck.

It was an insult to Ilya to share the stage with Lemaire and Sullivan. He was Champions League; they were barely UEFA Cup. The only other player even close to his level was watching from the sidelines in a poorly fitted suit, a fake smile plastered on his pretty face. First place felt tainted, like cubic zirconia when he had been promised diamonds. He wanted to beat the best, and instead, he had beaten two nobodies that weren’t fit to lace his boots.

America is different, his friend Svetlana had told him, after she found out about him and Sasha, back in Moscow. In America, it means nothing to be queer.

She was wrong. It meant eighth fucking place.

And then there was his father. Forgetful - worryingly so - but he somehow remembered that Hollander was gay.

He will be team bitch. Disgusting. Should be shot as punishment for his degeneracy. He’d said it all in Russian, thankfully. No one would understand the venom he spat, stood in a fancy hall in a thousand dollar suit, next to his son. His son, first draft pick. His son, who always had a pretty woman draped across his arm.

His son, who had blown Sasha in a dingy club toilet, two nights earlier, while thinking of freckles.

Ilya sighs, and drags himself from the bed. If sleep will not come easily, he will tire his body into submission.

When he makes it down to the hotel gym, he finds it is not empty.

Hollander is hunched over the static bike, legs pumping at a somewhat leisurely pace. It’d be a bad idea to approach him, Ilya knows. Better to move over to the weights area, or, even better, back out of the gym entirely before he’s spotted.

Ilya always has loved a bad idea.

He doesn’t speak to Hollander as he mounts the bike beside him. Doesn’t even look at him - just turns up the resistance and begins pumping his legs a fraction faster than Hollander’s. Beside him, Hollander’s pace increases, until he’s a fraction faster than Ilya.

It’s dizzying, how quickly Ilya’s blood rushes to his cock at the challenge. He takes a deep breath, and pumps his legs harder, willing the blood to redirect to his calves, which are starting to ache.

They force each other faster, both panting, both sweating, and god, it’s as fast and frantic as any sex Ilya has ever had. He feels dizzy with it, muscles spasming, hands flexing.

There’s a mutual unspoken agreement between them to slow down, and thank God. Ilya’s lungs were about 10 breaths away from popping like overfilled balloons. Still. He’s sad it’s over. It’s the most fun he’s had in years.

Last time they’d met, Ilya’s attraction to men had been purely theoretical. Now, it is a real and tangible thing; the weight of Sasha’s cock on his tongue, the strength of his hands on Ilya’s arms. The image shifts; Hollander’s cock on his lips, hockey callouses rough against his biceps, and lya can barely lift his leg to climb off the bike. Sasha was dangerous, but this is fatal; if he gets what he wants, he's putting his life in Hollander's hands. There's no shared secret, no mutually assured destruction. He would be handing Hollander a loaded gun.

He should go. He should walk out of this gym, right now. 

Ilya stumbles to the wall, Hollander at his heels, until they are flopped on the floor, facing one another. Hollander is dripping in sweat - it suits him, he looks fresh from a Nike ad, all smooth flushed skin and taut muscles. His freckles are dark against his blush, and Ilya wants to lick them. Ilya wonders what he sees in return - he’s not naive, he knows people like looking at him, but whether that translates to Hollander looking at him is another matter entirely.

Ilya tilts his face to the ceiling while he gathers his breath, enjoys the stretch it gives to his neck. He hopes Hollander is staring. He knows his neck is thick and long, maybe Hollander would be into that.

“Is bullshit,” Ilya says once he can breathe normally again, the words hanging in the air. They both know what he means. He looks at Hollander, who wears a vulnerable frown upon his face. “You are second-best player here.”

The frown morphs, eyes flaring and mouth quirking, and it’s like they’re on the bikes again, blood pumping. “Fuck you, I’m the best player here,” Hollander bites back, competition in every word.

Ilya shrugs. “Hm. Not what our draft order says,” he replies lightly, and though Hollander tries to hide it, Ilya can see the little wry smile that tries to find its way to his lips.

“Lemaire thinks he beat me at the draft on merit,” Hollander says, and Ilya huffs out a laugh.

“Lemaire has taken many, many hits to head,” Ilya asserts. 

“He thinks I have a crush on him, too,” Hollander continues, shaking his head. Ilya rolls the words around his mind, lingering on crush.

“What do you mean? I do not know word, crush,” Ilya says. He hates admitting when his language fails him, but he doesn't want to misunderstand Hollander, not here, when he looks so open.

“He thinks I’m attracted to him. That I think he is hot,” Hollander clarifies. He huffs, but Ilya thinks it is more directed at Lemaire than at his own poor English.

“Do you?” Ilya asks. Shane frowns, and he continues, “Think he is hot?”

“Not my type.”

"Ah. You like, hm. Talant?" Ilya tries. So often Russian words are the same, and so he throws them into sentences and hopes for the best, hates that English is still so foreign to him. 

"Talent." Hollander confirms. 

Ilya is tempted to ask a follow up question. Do you think my talent is hot? He bites his tongue for now, redirects. “Ottawa is nice?”

Hollander nods. “It’s my hometown.”

“Boston is nice, too?” Ilya asks, unsure. It’s strange, to imagine his future life, in a city he’s never visited, with teammates he’s never met.

“People like it there,” Hollander replies, and their feet tap together. It sends a zing up Ilya’s thigh - both from how his legs still ache, and from the intimacy of it.

“We will see a lot of each other?” he asks, pitching his voice down. He hopes Hollander hears the double meaning in it.

Hollander does not - or if he does, he does not show it. “Yeah, Boston and Ottawa are in the same conference,” Hollander replies, and then licks his lips.

The move reminds Ilya of his own thirst, and he takes a deep sip from his water bottle, watching Hollander as he does so. Hollander’s watching him drink, eyes lingering on his neck, and Ilya’s heartbeat kicks up again, pleased. It takes a moment for him to realize that Hollander doesn’t have a bottle of his own, and really, that will not do.

He offers out the bottle wordlessly, giving it a little teasing shake when Hollander tries to refuse. Their fingers overlap when Hollander takes it, and the electric zing is a thousand times more potent than when their feet knocked against one another.

Hollander takes a deep gulp, lashes fluttering when Ilya mouths more at him, and Ilya is already gone. Wholly and completely.

Hollander hands the bottle back, their fingers brushing again, heart-rates climbing. There's a moment, thick and syrupy, where Ilya thinks that anything, anything, could happen tonight. Almost as soon as the moment arrives, it passes, Hollander closing up like a clam, like eighth place has slapped him round the face again.

Hollander makes flimsy excuses that Ilya barely listens to. He's speaking quickly now, tricky English words blurring into one another as he stands and leaves, almost stumbling over his own feet. Ilya watches calmly from the floor as Hollander departs, letting his head thump back against the wall, and a smile form across his face. Ilya is not known for his patience, but for Hollander, he thinks he can wait.

He counts to fifty, and then eases himself from the floor, saunters back to his room as if he doesn’t have a care in the world.

The door to his room is barely shut before Ilya wraps a hand around his cock, leaning against the wall and panting out his want. He imagines Hollander crawling across the gym floor and burying his face in Ilya’s crotch. Ilya would be sweaty - he can feel, right now, how sweaty it’d be - and Hollander wouldn’t even complain, would just take his cock out of his shorts, open his mouth and take him deep, like the picture-perfect Canadian he is. Hollander would look up, with those big, wet eyes, and Ilya would mouth more at him, and Hollander wouldn’t even hesitate, burying his nose in the thatch of hair at Ilya’s base and moaning, like getting to suck Ilya off was a treat.

Ilya would ask, is this my reward for being the best player in the draft, and Hollander would glare up at him like Ilya was the worst person in the world. He wouldn’t take his mouth from Ilya’s cock, though. If anything, he’d suck harder.

It’s that image, of Hollander pissed off and on his knees, that tips Ilya over the edge. He spills into his own hand, squeezing at the head to coax out the last of his spend. He slumps against the wall for a second, and then laughs to himself, pleased.

What a way to finish draft day.

Chapter 4: Lonely Boy

Chapter Summary

It's Hollander vs Rozanov at the 2010 Junior Hockey Championships.

(Unconfirmed rumours suggest that there are other players are on the ice too, but no one really notices)

Chapter Notes

January 2010

Ottawa

A World Junior Championship medal means nothing, really. It’s a footnote on a Wikipedia page that people will glance over in years to come, hopefully overshadowed by bigger and better trophies.

But, in his hometown, against Ilya Rozanov, Shane intends to bring home Gold.

Technically, the game won’t be Rozanov vs Hollander. There will be other players on the ice, this isn’t a boxing match.

You wouldn’t know that, though, from how the commentators speak.

Shane had thought that the comparison between the two of them would die as soon as the draft order made itself clear. Hell, Lemaire is on Team Canada now too - he’s the second line centre, and Shane hopes that his own face doesn’t look too smug about his own place as first line centre. It’d make sense for the story to be Rozanov vs Lemaire, Boston vs Montreal, First vs Second.

But people aren’t excited to see Lemaire play. They’re excited for Rozanov. They’re excited for Shane.

Shane's excited for Rozanov too. In more ways than one.

For the last six months, every time Shane has had his hand on his cock, the sight of Rozanov in a Los Angeles gym, mouthing more, popped into his mind. It was infuriating, how confident and relaxed Rozanov had been in that gym, how easy it was for him. Shane's slightly concerned that he'll get half-hard at their first face-off tomorrow, at having those intense blue eyes so close. 

It's his first crush on a straight man. Shane had googled it, after he realized what was happening after draft day; gay man crush on straight man. Apparently it was a right of passage. The online advice was to try and find someone appropriate to transfer the feelings onto; easier said than done, with Shane's schedule, his aggressively heterosexual workplace, and his strict billet family. When he's back in Ottawa, he hardly has any time, and wants to spend it with his family and friends, not trying to find gay men. He's not even kissed anyone since Bobby; sometimes he feels like he's gay only in theory now, tarred by the brush of homosexuality without actually experiencing it. 

But the memory of Rozanov is right there. The casual splay of his thick legs; the promise of his cock, hidden in his shorts. It's strangely reassuring; a neon ode to his desires. 

It's not like Shane even likes Rozanov.

Shane just wants to know what his cock tastes like.

“If you don’t beat the Russians, I’ll never forgive you,” Daysha declares over dinner, the night before the final, cutting short Shane's musings on Ilya Fucking Rozanov. “We raised you to be a winner, kid.”

“We did,” Selena agrees, wiggling her fork at him. It’s just the three of them for dinner at Daysha’s, salmon and rice with vegetables, boring but nutritious. The Canadian Juniors are having a team dinner somewhere in town. Pizza. Shane hadn’t been invited; he’s not sure he would have attended even if he was. Pizza didn’t exactly fall in line with his meal plan. “Our little baby Saviour.”

He smiles to be called that, even if it’s not technically true. He’d rather be a Saviour than a Fox, but the CWHL would have something to say about that, so he makes do with what he has, thanks God that the Foxes are willing to let him play, and trains with the Saviours whenever he is home for a few days. The Foxes mostly ignore him, no matter how well he performs, which is better than the wrong kind of attention, but far, far worse than life with the Saviours.

They're so fucking accepting, even the straight women, and watching Daysha and Selena interact always makes a little pit of jealousy bubble up in his stomach. They’re affectionate with one another - in the same casual way that Shane remembers the Knights being with him, back before he came out.

He knows he’s being unreasonable, but Daysha gets to be gay, and the straight women on her team don’t give a shit, and Shane feels jealous about it. He suspects she knows, but she's not mean about it. Daysha’s nice like that. Shane probably doesn’t deserve her friendship.

Daysha’s girlfriend Gleeson’s in the apartment too, somewhere, but she’d ducked out of dinner - she doesn’t watch any hockey, and so a dinner of hockey chat hardly sounded fun to her. It’s a little bit baffling to Shane. He can’t imagine dating someone who didn’t watch at least the playoffs.

“Canada will win it. All Russia have is Rozanov,” Daysha says, matter of fact. 

“That’s like saying All Russia have is a nuclear weapon,” Selena replies, equally matter of fact. She's right, and Shane hates it. Rozanov's just so good, the only player at the championships on Shane's level, and Shane wants to crush him straight into the boards. “Good thing we have our own nuke,” she teases, reaching over to chuck Shane’s chin like he’s a child.

He swipes her away. “I don’t think I can bear to lose,” he admits, and he means it. It’s been a shit year, with terrible teammates, and a big gay albatross around his neck. Losing to Rozanov, for the third time in 12 months, might sink him for good.

Daysha and Selena share a look. “You won’t, kid,” Daysha promises.

“Hey, if you're worried, we can always kidnap Rozanov,” Selena suggests, and both Shane and Daysha stare at her. “What? We’ll give him back after the final!”

Canada and Russia are on opposite sides of the world, and yet somehow Moscow invades Ilya’s Ottawa hotel room.

He lies on his hotel bed - too soft, memory foam, he feels like he’s being swallowed whole - and his phone rings, and it rings, and it rings.

Polina. Alexei. Papa. Alexei. Sasha. Coach. Alexei. All with troubles that only Ilya can solve. His KHL contract is cheap, and his NHL money won’t come through until summer, but they all need money. More money than Ilya possesses.

Ilya’s been betting on himself to fill the gap. He takes out loans on the promise of the signing bonus he’ll receive in July. If he gets injured, he’ll be fucked. So he won’t get injured. Simple.

Svetlana’s call, the night before the final, is much more welcome than those that came before. It is the first time since arriving in Ottawa that Russian has not felt ugly on his tongue.

“What time is it there?” He asks idly. She’s on speaker, so that he can play snake on his phone at the same time. The predictable moves of the snake are soothing, even as the serpent fills the screen towards his inevitable defeat.

“5am,” Sveta replies - a normal night out in Moscow, then. “The club was fun, but the men were average at best, and now, I am lonely in my bed,” she sighs. Ilya can picture it; her sheets are luxurious red, and she’ll be in one of her decorative little slips. He wishes, sometimes, that they loved each other the right way and could be each other’s forever; it would be such a beautiful sight to come home to.

“The men in the club could not live up to me?” He teases, and he knows she’ll be rolling her eyes.

“I can see your ego from here,” she replies, before falling silent. “Sasha was at the club.”

Ilya nods to himself. He expects Sasha has been in a lot of clubs recently. “He phoned me yesterday. He sounded sad.”

“He is,” Sveta agrees, aggrieved. “I watched both semi-finals with him and his father. His father had much to say about Hollander,” she says. Sasha’s father is a cruel man, a cruel coach, but thankfully ignorant, and he does not seem to notice Sasha’s predilections. His father's cruelty towards Hollander explains why Sasha had asked for coke money, the day before. Ilya had sent him a couple of hundred - he's not sure, now, if it was the right thing to do, but if he hadn't, Sasha would have found the money in other ways. Sveta hums, bringing him back to the present. “You have Canada tomorrow in the final.” A statement, not a question.

“We will win?” A question, not a statement. Sveta will know. Sveta always knows.

She is silent for a long time. “You will not like my answer,” she warns.

“Then I do not wish to hear it,” he replies. “I will win, Sveta.”

“Perhaps.” Sveta replies, and Ilya knows she is lying to soothe him. She does not believe in him, and it hurts. “Hollander scored a hat trick in the semi-final.”

“I do not wish to talk about Hollander.” Not with Sveta, especially. She is far too perceptive. If they were together in person, she would have worked out by now that Hollander is the vision behind every jerk-off session Ilya has indulged in for the last 6 months. How intense he had looked in that gym, how his eyes had fluttered a little when he was drinking from Ilya’s water bottle.

The last time Ilya had fucked Sasha, he'd made Sasha face away, so that Ilya could pretend that dark head of straight hair belonged to someone else. Sasha did not expect love or loyalty from him, but it had felt almost cruel, even if Ilya had come harder than he'd ever come in his life. His fascination with Hollander was toxic, festering, like a wound. 

“He is the most interesting player in Canada, and you are the most interesting player in Russia. Two boots make a pair,” she teases.

“I am much better than him. First and eighth, remember?” 

“Ilyusha," Sveta warns, and he does not push it further. "It is a great shame Hollander did not get far enough down the draft to be Boston’s second pick.”  Down the line, he hears the sheets around Sveta shift. “Hm. Now that is an idea. You both on the same line.” Her voice sounds deeper, more melodic. 

“You are touching yourself,” Ilya surmises. He does not judge Sveta for it; after all, if he were to judge her for touching herself to thoughts of Hollander, he would be a hypocrite. “Is most definitely a fantasy. We are both centres, we would not play on the same line.”

Sveta falls silent again, and her next words are quiet, but teasing. “I have seen you play wing before.”

“You are touching yourself to the thought of me on the wing?!”  He asks, incredulous, and she laughs. He hears a click - she really needs to buy a quieter vibrator - and then Sveta lets out a quiet moan.

He hangs up without so much as a goodbye, and pledges not to speak to Sveta the night before games again.

“Hello, eighth.”

"Rozanov."

Rozanov’s smirk is wide and sharp as they lean in for the first face-off of the final. “Second place will be great upgrade for you, no?”

“Hope you’re ready for a fall from grace,” Shane replies, calm and certain. He breathes deep, and does not think of Rozanov's cock.

Shane wins the face-off, stealing the puck from Rozanov’s stick, and he slams it into the net less than ten seconds later. Neither of his line-mates look too happy that he was the one to score the goal, but fuck them. Fuck everyone.

It’s the only goal of the game. 1-0 from a first-minute goal, a dire showing for the fans in the stands, but a win is a win as far as Shane is concerned. A few of the Russians had said some shit to him, but it was mostly in Russian, so he could blur it out far more easily than the slurs he heard back in the OHL.

He looks to the stands. His parents, Selena, and Daysha all cheer wildly, and he waves at them, heart full. Fuck his teammates, all the support he needs is right there.

After the medals are distributed, they line up for handshakes. Half the Russians won’t touch him, which is fine - he’s not too keen on touching them, either.

Rozanov offers out his hand, though. Holds a beat too long, gaze intense.

I belong at the top, Shane thinks to himself. We belong at the top. Together. I’ll match you, step for step. We’re locked in this until one of us retires or dies.

“See you in October.” Shane squeezes his hand, and hopes Rozanov understands. Rozanov nods, just a little, and then they release. Together.

Silver is an ugly, cheap metal.

Ilya waits until he is off the ice to take the offending medal off from around his neck, throwing it towards one of the coaches. He trudges down the tunnel, hand still aflame from the firm grip of Shane Hollander.

Losing a hockey match hurts, a physical, aching hurt that cracks his chest open. To lose in such a boring way hurts worse - and Ilya already dreads his father’s call, the scorn of losing made even worse by the cutting, hideous disapproval from his only living parent.

He’d heard what his teammates had to say about Hollander, too. A familiar selection of slurs, and a few new inventive ones he’d not heard before. Groundbreaking, really. Those hurt, too - a reminder that the only reason that they weren’t saying the same words to Ilya was a thin veil of secrecy, which could at any moment be easily pierced by a sad drunken confession from Sasha.

The pain of the night is only sharpened by Hollander’s handshake. The certainty of his gaze, the quiet confidence. The reminder that they would always be competing against one another. Battling for the top. On the ice, Hollander is quiet where Ilya is loud; precise where Ilya is powerful; smooth where Ilya is sharp. He is all of Ilya’s weaknesses, wrapped up in a perfect fucking bow. The anger and jealousy rot in his stomach.

Thoughts of Hollander linger - perhaps that is why Ilya spots him, making his own way off the ice. The other team Canada players follow each other into the locker room like ducklings, but Hollander splits away, spiriting himself down an undecorated corridor, and curiosity stabs Ilya in the throat like a shank.

Ilya waits for the hallway to clear, and then, quietly, follows the path of Hollander. All of the doors in the corridor are closed, but he listens closely, until he can hear a small shuffle behind one.

Ilya steps into the janitor’s closet, brows raised.

Hollander glares back, stripped down to just his compression shorts, his toned torso on display, his firm, wide shoulders flexed. God. He is irritatingly attractive. Ilya does not stare, but catalogues the image away for later use, and leans against a shelf, immune to Hollander’s angry frown. The rest of Hollander’s uniform is neatly folded on a shelf, and there’s a pack of wet wipes beside it.

“What is this?” Rozanov asks, brows raised. “Special locker room for 8th draft pick?”

Hollander scoffs, and returns to his task, dragging a wet wipe up and down his torso. Ilya follows its path, his gaze catching on a perk nipple, and he resists the urge to lick his lips. Hollander chucks the wet wipe in a bin, reaches for another. “Don’t play stupid, Rozanov.”

“You are shy?” Rozanov needles, because he needs to hear Hollander say it. He thinks Hollander needs to say it.

“I am gay.”

“You are gay? I had not heard.”

“Fuck you.”

“So, you are gay and you ask for your own locker room?” Ilya presses, letting his hand trail across the shelf, catching on a pile of microfibre cloths.

Hollander breathes out, tired. A fresh wet wipe comes out - he drags it over his neck, now, and Ilya’s eyes linger. “Some of the other players are uncomfortable with me being there when they’re changing. I don’t care, it’s fine.”

It’s not fine. It’s so far from fine it’s laughable, and Ilya has to hold in the snort. Hollander would probably punch him for it, even if he didn’t mean to be cruel. It is strangely satisfying to learn that the Canadians are not as progressive as they pretend to be. Canadian rinks and Russian rinks smell the same; perhaps Canadian locker rooms and Russian locker rooms sound the same, too.

He thinks of the parade of perfect little Canadians on the ice, and wonders which is the cruelest of them. “Lemaire?” Ilya asks, curious. It’s the only other name he bothered to learn on the Canada team sheet; he wanted to watch, up close, what second draft pick looked like. It did not look like much.

“No. Bigotry requires brain cells,” Hollander replies. He immediately looks guilty for it. “Fuck. Ignore me. Lemaire’s not the problem.”

If it's not Lemaire, then the name will mean nothing to Ilya, so he instead asks another question. “This will be your home stadium, no? For the Centaurs?”

Ilya doesn’t ask the follow up question - Hollander hears it anyway. “Management have said I’ll be changing with the main team in the locker room. I guess for them, good is more important than gay.”

“They want to keep you happy,” Ilya states, and Hollander nods. “And when they discover you are not so good…?”

Hollander huffs. “That’s not going to happen,” he says, throwing the dirty wet wipe in the bin. His fingers come to rest at the waistband of his compression shorts, and Ilya waits for them to dig in, for Hollander to roll those tight shorts down over his firm ass and thick thighs. His mouth waters at the thought of it. Hollander’s hands don’t move, though. Hollander clears his throat, and when Ilya looks up, Hollander is looking back at him, flushed and frowning.  “If you don’t mind?”

The words he uses sound almost like an invite, but the tone says why the fuck are you still here? And isn’t that the million ruble question? There’s at least fifty Russian coaches, players, delegates in this building. Even more Canadian delegates, not to mention a village-worth of press. Being here is foolish, it's the biggest risk Ilya's ever taken. 

God, but he and Hollander both need a good fuck. The loss is a thick tar on Ilya’s skin, and sex, rough and unrelenting, could wash him clean, remind him what it feels like to be a winner. And Hollander, out of the closet, has been pushed into a different sad little closet, with the mops and the bleach and the trash bags. He won the whole fucking tournament for his shitty team, and still gets treated like a loser. The rest of his team deserve nothing but dry half-hearted handjobs for the rest of their pathetic lives, but Hollander. Well. Today, Hollander deserves to get his cock sucked. Ilya would be happy to aid the cause - especially when Hollander’s standing before him, smooth and beautiful, with a pissy little frown on his face, cock only covered by his jock shorts. And behind Hollander's frown, he can see the truth of it; Hollander would be more than willing to see Ilya on his knees, and he'd be more than happy to return the favour. 

Fuck. Ilya can’t think about Hollander’s cock right now, nor of Hollander on his knees. He likes danger, but he does not have a fucking death wish. He can hear the delegates in the next corridor, oppressive and hazardous. Next time, he promises himself. He can’t wait til the NHL season starts, but fuck it, he’ll figure something out.

Ilya pushes up off the shelving unit with all the nonchalance he can muster, coming to stand. He and Hollander are at equal eye level, and it flips his stomach. “Oh, I forgot. You are shy.” Ilya nods, and Hollander huffs. “I will go get naked with my team now,” he says, just to see Hollander blush again. “See you.”

Shane breathes out as soon as Rozanov leaves, says a little prayer that his cup shielded his arousal from view. The door has no lock, so he turns away, just in case. Any other entrants can enjoy a view of his ass instead of his half-hard cock.

The memory of Rozanov's eyes on his waistband lingers as he cleans his crotch; Shane shuts down the fantasy growing in his mind, where he's transformed Rozanov's gaze from curious to lustful. Fuck, what do they teach people in Russia about gay men? Did Rozanov expect his cock to look different, just because he was gay?

Even the thought that Rozanov might see him as some circus curiosity doesn't dull the ache in Shane's cock. He can't keep going like this. When he gets home, he needs to figure something out. Figure out a way to wipe Rozanov from his mind. 

He redresses quickly, and when he leaves the closet, he wonders idly where he's meant to go. They'll want a team photo, there might be some press. Usually, the staff collect players from the locker room, but he can't exactly go and wait there, and lingering outside the room somehow feels worse. Fuck it, he'll go and find his family. The staff can come find him if he's needed. 

He knows the team are going for a meal to celebrate tonight.  He wonders if they'll pretend to want him there. If they'll invite him out of obligation, given that he scored the winning goal. 

Hopefully they just leave him the fuck alone instead. 

One month after Juniors, Shane’s voice is almost gone. He’s stood between his mother and Nick, the three of them yelling at the top of their voices in a loud Vancouver stadium.

On the jumbotron, the clock counts down.

3…

2…

1…

The final buzzer goes. Canada Hockey Place roars.

At the 2010 Olympics, Canada’s women are ice hockey gold medalists. There’s a crush of white jerseys on the ice near the net, all smashed together, bouncing with joy, and somewhere, buried within the pile, are Selena and Daysha.

Shane wipes at his eyes, a bit embarrassed by how hard it’s hit him - but when he glances over to check if Nick had seen, he finds Nick’s own cheeks unashamedly wet. Selena and Daysha had worked so hard to get here, blood, sweat, money and tears. All the players out on the ice had - the medal winnings would likely recoup what they’d spent over the last 4 years, on kit and physio and travel.

All for this moment.

The huddle breaks up, players splitting off into hugs, and Shane finally sees his friends. They’re both sweaty and red, and holding each other so tight it must hurt, even with the padding.

When their hug breaks up, they look up to the stands, searching the crowd. Their faces light up even further as they wave to the friends and family section, and Shane thinks his cheeks might split open from how wide he is smiling.

Nick’s arm wraps round his shoulders, gives him a little squeeze. “It’s fucking beautiful, man,” he says, voice choked with happy tears.

Shane squeezes him back, and holds the joy he is feeling close to his chest, like it is precious.

Chapter End Notes

Edited 29th June to add in the Olympic scene! This was originally meant to be at the start of the next chapter, but in editing the next chapter I realized it made way more sense here.

Comments always very much appreciated <3 

Footnotes

• Canada won the gold medal in the Women's ice hockey at the 2010 Olympics. Their winnings were $20,000 per player. In 2010, the CWHL was unpaid, and so while some players received stipends for Olympic training and some sponsorship money, many had to have other jobs too. (Citation: CBC, Oakville Sun, The Concordian)

Chapter 5: Float On

Chapter Summary

Shane didn't expect CCM to want eighth draft pick in their new season campaign. Yet here he was.

Chapter Notes

If you read chapter 4 in the first 12 hours of me uploading, please note that there's a small scene added at the end of the chapter! The scene was originally at the start of this chapter, but it suited the last chapter more. It is new from "One month after Juniors..."

Apologies for this :)

July 2010

Toronto

Even in full hockey gear, Hollander looks beautiful. Sharp and pristine in a way Ilya could only dream of.

He has a face full of makeup, just like Ilya - they’re both camera ready for a CCM shoot, getting stills and video for the upcoming campaign. The makeup artist has covered Hollander’s constellations of freckles, which should be a crime, but still, he looks pretty. Ilya tells him as much, and smiles when Hollander bristles at the compliment, reading it as disingenuous.

The first half of the day had been so boring, waiting on costume, waiting on makeup, waiting on set-up. Ilya had barely seen Hollander - he’d specifically asked if they could shoot this together, as teasing Hollander was becoming a bit of a favoured pastime, and for what?

But now, on the ice, with Hollander all prickly from being called pretty, Ilya thinks it was worth the hours in hair and makeup.

He’s been thinking of how to be alone with Hollander since Juniors. He spent a lot of time thinking about Hollander had looked in the supply closet in Ottawa - the dip of his collarbone, the meat of his thighs.  And then, by mid-Spring, he’d seen even more of Hollander; billboards had popped up, TV spots, adverts in magazines. He was advertising a whole host of things, all high end, all declaring him the future. It was infuriating - Ilya’s the future, Hollander is merely a pretender.

Still. Hollander looks good in the ads. Fancy suits, wet t-shirts. Close ups of his pretty face.

Hollander is an itch Ilya needs to scratch. Desperately. Once should do it; enough to get the sickly curdle of want to leave his gut.

“My mom said you set this up,” Hollander says during a break, as the crew prepare for another shot. They’re sat in the penalty box together, no infractions needed. “She was worried you were doing it to mock me. I said you weren’t like that.”

That catches Ilya’s attention. “You do not think I am an asshole?”

Hollander laughs, glances over to him. “Oh, you’re definitely an asshole. Just… not a homophobic one.”

Ilya holds eye contact, leans in close. “High praise,” he says quietly, and Hollander smiles, looks out to the ice.

“Shouldn’t this be you and Lemaire? First and second draft picks? Rival teams?” Hollander asks. There’s an edge to his voice, and even now, a year after the draft, Ilya suspects that eighth pick stings.

Ilya tells Shane exactly what he had told CCM, when he first pitched the idea of a Rozanov/Hollander campaign. “Lemaire is not second-best rookie in the league. You are,” Ilya says, matter of fact. Hollander narrows his eyes at him, and Ilya smirks back. “What? Is great compliment.”

“Fuck you.”

Then, they are called to the ice again.

They are model professionals for the first three hours, but by hour four, they both start to crack, just a little, as they skate up to one another and feign the intensity of a puck drop. The spontaneous laughter gets worse when Ilya realizes that if he laughs, Hollander laughs too, and by god, if that isn’t a pretty sound. He’s got a nice voice - far better than Ilya’s own slavic lilt. It's a little deep, melodic, and Ilya wonders if all men from Ottawa sound like that.

It’s fun to crack Hollander's veneer, too. Ilya’s used to being the problem child. No one is surprised when he misbehaves a little. But Hollander? Mr Professional? Not able to keep a straight face? Delicious.

After a few failed takes in a row, the director gives up on them with a frown and sends them away. Ilya wonders if Hollander’s ever been frowned at by a director before, in any of his ten thousand sponsorship shoots. He suspects not.

On the way off the ice, Ilya skates up close, as close as he can get to Hollander without knocking into him. “There is no special locker room for 8th draft pick here, Mr Billboard. You will have to share with me.”

Hollander looks back at him with those big, brown eyes, but says nothing. Ilya knows what he sees in that gaze; he’s not wrong, Hollander wants him too. The want might kill them both if they don't give it an outlet. They're a boiler with no safety valve, ready to explode. They need to let off a little pressure, and Ilya knows exactly how to do it. 

Even as Hollander skates away, Ilya lingers on the ice for a beat longer.

Going into that locker room with Hollander - being naked with Hollander - is such a bad idea. In truth, everything about this photoshoot is a bad idea. If he had told Sveta, she would have slapped him round the head and locked him in a tower until he came to his senses.

Ilya is handing Hollander a loaded gun.

All it would take is one sentence to a journalist, and Ilya would be dragged back to Russia to face the wrath of the state and his family. If he was so desperate for dick, Sveta would have told him to find a nice closeted boy so that they could hide together.

But Sveta, he would say, I have a contingency plan!

It is simple. Give Hollander the best night of his life. He wouldn’t risk outing Ilya if he were desperate for another taste of Ilya’s cock - not that Ilya intended to give it to him.

Sveta would have probably hit him even harder. 

Still. The dick wants what it wants. Ilya thinks, perhaps, he might die if he doesn't find out what Hollander looks like on soft hotel sheets.

When Ilya leaves the ice, he takes his time unlacing his skates. In the locker room, he strips off his gear piece by piece, listening closely to the steady hum of the showers, and letting his mind imagine the sight that awaits. He can’t believe the time is here. Either six or eighteen months in the making, depending on where you started the clock.

Eighteen, Ilya decides, remembering that first handshake.

He looks down to his crotch - he’s a little hard, just from the thought of Hollander, wet and naked. Ilya sighs and stands. If he’s going to do this without poking Hollander’s eye out, then it’s now or never.

The shower room is thick with steam, thick enough that Ilya can taste it, and for a moment, Hollander’s form is obscured, a golden haze in the mist.

It’s revealed to him in increments. The tantalizing ball of his shoulder. The long tight planes of his back. His ass, sculpted and firm. His cock, soft and long. Fuck the Ottawa Centaurs for getting to see this every week for the foreseeable future. Ilya drags his eyes away and breathes deep, turning his own shower on and remembering, for a moment, the stinging humiliation of losing the Junior Championships. It does its job; it curbs his arousal to a manageable beast.

Then, the performance begins.

Ilya does everything he can to put his body on display. He arches, he turns, he flexes. He tilts his head to the side, lets water cascade down his neck. He lets himself be seen. He’s worked hard for his body, he knows it looks good - he hopes Hollander will think it looks good. Short of putting his hand on his cock and fisting himself, he’s not sure what else he can do to invite Hollander to look.

When Ilya glances over, he’s pleased to see it’s working. Thank god. Hollander’s pupils are the size of dinner plates, and he’s getting hard. Ilya bites down a pleased hum, and instead, when Hollander looks guiltily up to his face, Ilya raises his brows at him, looking down at Hollander’s swelling cock. It’s as pretty as Hollander’s face.

“Fuck off,” Hollander says, and there’s a tightness to his voice - he’s panicking, and Ilya can’t for the life of him work out why. Does he not see that Ilya is right there with him, cock hardening with every breath?

Does he not see that Ilya has more to lose here?

Ilya thinks on it for a moment, watching as Hollander gets more and more anxious, eyes pinned to the wall, and then realizes his mistake. This is what a thousand bloodthirsty commentators have suggested Hollander would do, now that they know he is gay. That he’d look at his teammates in the locker room, that he wouldn’t be able to resist them. Hollander thinks his stares are unwelcome, that Ilya might beat the shit out of him for daring to look.

He thinks Ilya is any other teammate.

Okay. Plan B.

Ilya turns to face Hollander wholly, and wraps his hand around his own cock, fisting himself leisurely. Hollander still isn’t looking at him, too focussed on panicking at the white tiles in front of him, and so Ilya says his name. “Hollander.”

That gets his attention, and Hollander watches, enraptured, as Ilya slides his fist up and down his cock, rolling his foreskin over the head. The panic seeps away, and his mouth drops open. Ilya feels like a peacock, and preens at each new reaction his display gets - Hollander’s cock gets harder, his eyes wider. He licks his lips, and for one delightful moment, Ilya thinks Hollander might drop to his knees, right there.

But then, Hollander remembers himself. What a pity. “Not here,” he says, looking away, which isn’t a no, and Ilya nods, turns back to his own shower, reluctantly lets go of his cock - for now. As soon as Hollander’s shower is off and he’s left the room, Ilya wraps his hand around his cock again, because fuck, that was the single hottest thing that’s ever happened to him. He’s painting the white tile with his come embarrassingly quickly, shaking with it.

The orgasm centres him, the frantic edge of arousal dissipating. He still wants Hollander - god, does he want - but now he can be lazy with it, let Hollander wait a little. He rinses off slowly, taking his time, and then saunters back through the steam to the locker room, towel so low on his waist that it’s in danger of slipping off entirely.

It’s a risk he’s willing to take. Hollander, unfortunately now fully dressed, is looking at Ilya’s abs like he wants to lick them. Maybe if the towel falls, he’ll lick a little lower.

Ilya walks as close as he can, looming over Hollander, and then, falls silent.

He waits for Hollander to protest, to say they can’t do this, that they should forget about what just happened, like the boring Canadian he is, but nothing comes. Instead, Hollander looks up at him with big, wanting eyes. It’s too soon to get hard again, but damn if Ilya’s traitorous cock doesn’t give it a go.

“Room number?” Ilya grits out.

“Fourteen ten,” Hollander replies, quiet and certain.

“Nine PM.”

“As good a time as any,” Hollander agrees.  He stands and leaves, pausing at the door as if he feels like he should say something else, then leaving Ilya to the quiet of the locker room. 

Fuck. Ilya looks down; the tent in his towel juts out obscenely, his sensitive head rubbing against the soft terrycloth. He lets the towel drop, and wraps his hand around himself once more.

Shane should’ve put up more of a protest. It doesn't even occur to him as an option until he's vibrating out of his skin in his dimly-lit hotel room, waiting for Rozanov to knock. 

Giving Rozanov his room number was such a bad idea. They are rivals. They don’t even like each other. Rozanov is infuriating; he pokes and he chirps and he wins things, and Shane hates that. He hates losing, and so he hates Ilya Rozanov.

But he wants. He wants sex - and more specifically, he wants sex with Ilya Fucking Rozanov.

Shane’s not a natural at picking up men - he doesn’t know how to flirt, how to signal to people that he’s interested, how to take men home. He doesn’t go out often, and he knows he doesn’t “look” gay (whatever that means), so the only people who approach him are people that recognize him, which makes him feel like a bug under a microscope.

He’d pierced his ear, just to see if it’d help, but the black stud he wears doesn’t catch the light much, and he’s not sure if people notice.

He’s only even kissed one guy since Bobby. One. They’d met in an online exercise forum just after Juniors, when the priority was getting Rozanov off his mind, and meeting in person was probably the stupidest thing Shane had ever done. He’d been so lucky, SO lucky, that Jeff was a good guy, because there’s plenty of stories that end far worse than theirs did. Jeff was older than he said - 40 instead of 20 - but he’d thought Shane was lying about his age, too, because he “spoke like a middle-aged man” on the forums, where they'd chatted about the best way to improve on bench press. Jeff hadn’t recognized Shane at all, which was a relief. He didn’t seem to like any sports, which was a turnoff, but beggars can’t be choosers. Jeff had been respectful, and attractive in an old-man kind of way, so they’d made out a little, and Jeff had touched his cock, and Shane had half-heartedly returned the favour.

It was nice. It was fine. It was not deserving of a repeat performance. 

That had been 3 months ago, and since then, Shane’s had no luck.

So, when Ilya Fucking Rozanov, the Grecian God who occupied far too many of Shane’s thoughts and made Shane feel angry and aroused in equal measure, looked at him like that and asked for his room number, it’s a fucking miracle Shane held off saying yes please, thank you, oh my god thank you. It’s embarrassing how much he wants this. This is the precise opposite of how the internet suggested he get over his embarrassing infatuation with Rozanov, but fuck it. Maybe a one and done fuck will get it out of his system.

Shane’s nervous, though. So nervous. They’re both the same age, but Rozanov has grown into his skin already. Has probably already hooked up in hotel rooms like this a load of times; seduced a thousand women into bed with his thick, seductive accent. Shane had seen some of the women, when he'd Facebook stalked Rozanov - beautiful models that Rozanov sat next to in dimly lit clubs, caught mid-embrace by sleazy club photographers and tagged on the official accounts. They were always beautiful, always statuesque. How is Shane supposed to live up to the queue of women that have come before him?

Still. Shane didn’t get to the NHL by playing it safe. He might be out of his depth, but he’s not about to drown.

The knock on the door only solidifies his determination. There’s no more time to overthink it. He takes a deep breath, and answers.

Rozanov’s in a Canadian tuxedo, of all things, and Shane is blessedly thankful that he himself had changed out of the suit he’d put on in a pique of panic earlier. Rozanov looks hotter than he has a right to in double denim, and steps into the hotel room like he owns the place.

He circles Shane like a lion, crowding him back against the door, and Shane lets him. They’re the same height, the same breadth, but somehow Shane feels, in that moment, like a gazelle.

Hunted.

“Hello,” Shane says, breathless. Rozanov smiles back, confident and collected.

“Hollander.” Rozanov’s hands come up, bracing against Shane’s ribs, pressing him back into the door. He’s attractive up close; so warm and firm. They’re pretty equal in size, and Shane loves it, especially when Rozanov shrugs his denim jacket off, his thick, golden shoulders bare in the lamplight.

Shane reaches up, traces the ball of the shoulder with his fingertips and eyes, bold. When he looks back up, Rozanov's mouth is open, a little, and Shane wonders if he wants as much as Shane does.

“This is such a bad idea,” Shane whispers. It feels wrong to voice it aloud, when they've already made it this far.

Rozanov snorts. “Oh, well if it is a bad idea…” Rozanov says, pulling away a little, and Shane digs his fingers into Rozanov's shoulders, holding him still. Rozanov's lips curl upwards, and Shane can't stop staring at them. He watches as they come closer, closer, until, Fuck -

Shane didn't know a kiss could feel like this. It's not the sweet furtive desperation of his kisses with Bobby, nor the too-slick ambivalence of his kisses with Jeff. It's intense, and deep, and quiets his mind. Rozanov's hands roam, one cupping his face, the other going to his back to pull him closer, pressing their bellies together. 

Shane sinks into it, wrapping his own arms around Rozanov's shoulders, dragging his nails against the exposed skin around Rozanov's tank top. He wants more - he wants to rip Rozanov's tank clean off his body, then thinks better of it. It's with reluctance that Shane separates their torsos, but seconds later, they are both shirtless, and when their bellies press together again it's clean warm skin that he feels. Rozanov's pecs are - fuck, they're incredible. He looks straight out of a magazine. Shane wants to stare, to burn this image into his retinas until it's all he can see, but then Rozanov is crowding close again, and his pecs fall out of view.

Shane forgives Rozanov when he presses their lips together again, licking at the seam of Shane's lips. Shane grants him entrance, and loses himself in the slick slide of Rozanov's tongue against his own. He's embarrassingly hard, just from kissing. Fuck. He refuses to come in his pants. He separates their mouths for just a second so that he can catch his breath, but Rozanov doesn't move away.

“You’ve done this before? With men, women…?” Rozanov asks, mouthing at his jaw.

Shane squirms under the attention. “Yeah, kind of. Just hand stuff. With one guy. No women. You?”

Rozanov pulls back a little to smirk. “I have done this before. Much more than hand stuff,” he confirms. His hands are back on Shane's waist, warm and flexing, and fuck, Shane didn't know that could be an erogenous zone. Shane reaches between them, undoes Rozanov's belt and jeans. “With one man, and many, many women.”

That stills Shane's hands. "Really?" Shane hadn't imagined Rozanov would've done this before with a man. He's not quite jealous, more curious - how had Rozanov, in the closet, managed what he had not? “Another player?”

“Ah. My coach’s son, back in Russia,” he replies, and Shane blinks. “I like trouble,” Rozanov whispers. No fucking shit. “Yours was another player?”

God. If only. “No. No,” he says, and Rozanov waits for him to elaborate. “Just some guy.” He definitely not in the mood to talk about Jeff, so he drops to his knees. It shuts up Rozanov pretty effectively. He slides the underwear out of the way, lets Rozanov's cock flip the waistband down.

Staring at Rozanov’s cock is strangely affirming. Shane knew he was gay, knew he theoretically liked cock, but having such a nice cock this close to his face is revelatory. His mouth is watering, his stomach tightening, and though he’s not done this before, he knows exactly what he wants to do.

He closes his eyes as he first takes Rozanov’s cock into his mouth, but they open pretty quickly at the choked-off sound Rozanov makes above him. He looks up, and Rozanov has his own eyes closed, mouth open in pleasure. Rozanov’s cock is thick and heavy - long too, as long as Shane, and there’s no chance Shane is even going to try and take the whole thing into his mouth - but it feels nice on his tongue, tasting like salty skin. He lets his tongue rub against the underside of the head, slippery wet, and that opens Rozanov’s eyes, gets Shane a hand in his hair, soft and caressing. “Fuck, Hollander.”

He tries to find a rhythm, dipping on Rozanov's cock, keeping his teeth firmly out of the way. The head of Rozanov's cock is damp with spit and pre-come, and Shane sucks at it as best he can, swirling around the slit as he pumps his hand. Rozanov's uncut, just like Shane, and it's nice. Familiar. He's not sure what he would've done if Rozanov had been cut; do cut cocks need to be touched differently? 

He lets the thought go. There's more pressing matters at hand. Rozanov moans above him, and it feels like a victory, though it is short lived. 

“Off, off,” Rozanov mutters, hauling Shane back to his feet. Shane curls in on himself a little, but before he has time to feel self-conscious about his skill level, Rozanov is kissing him again, fiery heat flooding through his limbs. “Too good. Is too soon.”

"Oh," Shane says back, quietly pleased. 

Then, Rozanov reaches down between them and cups Shane through his jeans. Any pride gives way to heat, desperate heat. "You liked sucking my cock?"

"Wow, those English words roll off your tongue," Shane replies breathlessly. Rozanov stays silent, watching. Waiting. "It was fine."

"Fine?" Rozanov cups his jaw. His thumb traces Shane's bottom lip, and Shane lets his tongue dart out, coax the digit into his mouth. He fellates the thumb just as thoroughly as he'd fellated Rozanov's cock, and revels in the heat it adds to Rozanov's gaze. “I will let you practice some more,” Rozanov promises, and for a moment, Shane can't remember what they were talking about, too focussed on the thumb in his mouth. “Make you expert in sucking dick.”

Shane moans around the thumb, and Rozanov pulls it free, redirecting Shane up to kiss his lips when Shane chases after it.

They stumble towards the bed, and Rozanov settles back onto it, while Shane remains standing. Rozanov's kicking off his trousers, and Shane pauses for a moment, self-conscious. Rozanov's thighs are thick and corded, and Shane wants so badly. He hopes the want is reciprocated, that Rozanov will look at his own thick thighs and itch to touch them. 

Or, if Rozanov would rather close his eyes and pretend that Shane has slender model thighs like the women in the clubs, then Shane hopes he at least keeps his mouth shut.  

Shane shuffles his jeans down his legs, folding them before he puts them on the side. He's aware, in his periphery, that Rozanov is laughing a little, but he doesn't let that distract him, repeating the process with his underwear and folding them with equal precision. 

He stands, naked other than his socks, at the end of the bed. Rozanov is spread out on the covers like a nymph on a rock, amber in the lamplight. The smile on his lips fades as he looks at Shane, eyes coasting up and down his frame, and Shane feels at odds with himself, not quite sure how to stand.

His uncertainty must show, because Rozanov takes command. "Come here," Rozanov beckons, eyes dark again. Shane lets his gaze drop, settling on Rozanov's cock.

He wants so much, and for tonight, he's done pretending that he doesn't.

Instead of joining Rozanov at the head of the bed, Shane climbs on at the end, bracketing Rozanov's hips with his hands, and slowly lowering himself down to spread over the splay of Rozanov's legs. "Hollander," Rozanov warns, as Shane breathes hotly over the tip of his cock. 

"Can I?" He asks, and Rozanov licks his lips, then nods. 

Shane lowers himself down, takes as much of Rozanov into his mouth as possible. 

It's harder than when he was on his knees, and he likes it a little less - he'd liked having Rozanov over him, surrounding him. Rozanov makes fun noises though, when he bobs his head. Rozanov even weaves a hand into Shane's hair. He doesn't pull or direct Shane, but the weight of it is satisfying anyway, especially when paired with the small "Yes" and "Da" noises that spill from Rozanov's lips.

He loses himself in the praise and the weight of Rozanov's cock. Shane's not quite sure what he's doing - he's not convinced it's meant to be this sloppy and wet - but Rozanov seems to be enjoying himself, and that's enough for Shane right now.

"Okay," Rozanov says, breathless, and it sounds like a warning. His hand does dig into Shane's hair now, guiding him away, and Shane shifts up the bed to watch. 

Rozanov is ruthless with his hand, aggressively palming at his cock like it has angered him. Shane tilts his head, pressing his temple against Rozanov's so that he has the best view down his toned body, and reaches over with his hand to grab at Rozanov's thigh, encouraging. Rozanov's stomach clenches, and then his pace falters, come spilling over his fingers as his thigh jerks under Shane's hand. His breathing is ragged, and his cock is flushed red against the white of his come. 

Shane is awed by it. 

He stays where he is as Rozanov gets his bearings, only shifting away when Rozanov reaches for a tissue from the side table. Shane shifts back a little then, excited for what is to come. 

"That was fun," Rozanov says as he wipes his hand clean, and then rolls away to stand, and Shane's stomach drops. He just manages to bite back the what the fuck that rests on the tip of his tongue - if Rozanov doesn't want to return the favour, that is fine, Shane's done enough sex ed to know consent is an ongoing thing, but he can't pretend he hadn't wanted Rozanov to touch him some more. He glances over to Rozanov, who is smirking over his shoulder, smug. He thinks he's hilarious.

He is not.  

"You're such a dick," Shane mutters, and then Rozanov rolls on top of him, like the best blanket Shane's ever felt. 

"You like it," Rozanov teases back, biting Shane's lip and tugging lightly, then lathing with his tongue. He coaxes Shane lax again with his lips and tongue and hands, plucking at his nipples with dextrous fingers until Shane is shuddering with pleasure.

Then, his hand drops further, fitting between their bodies to wrap around Shane's cock, and Shane nearly headbutts Rozanov as he bucks from the pleasure of it, which gets a gleeful laugh out of Rozanov. Shane surges up, silencing him with another kiss, the pace of it brutal.

Amongst the kisses, Rozanov's gold cross clinks against Shane's chin. Bobby's mom had worn a chain like that, though her cross was a little different, and for a delirious moment, Shane imagines that she's in the corner of the room, screaming. 

He must tense at the thought of it, as Rozanov pulls back a little, runs the fingers of his spare hand across Shane's freckles. "Okay?" He asks, and Shane nods, tilting his head up for another kiss. "You are with me?" Rozanov asks, dropping a fleeting kiss to his lips. 

"Yes, Rozanov," Shane responds, and then wraps a hand around Rozanov's nape, pulling him down. Rozanov's curls feel a little stiff against his palm from gel, and Shane wishes they were product free, that he could feel how soft they would be, bare of product. Rozanov's hand is still moving on his cock, and Shane thinks he could finish like this, right here.

Rozanov pulls away, and Shane forces himself not to whine at the separation. “This will be your first blowjob, yes?” Rozanov asks, and Shane nods. “I will ruin you for anyone else,” he teases, shifting down the bed.

Before Shane can chirp back - how much experience can Rozanov really have if he’s only been with one man? - Rozanov dips down, takes him in his mouth, and Shane’s mouth gapes open involuntarily, rendering him speechless. Wet lips, firm suction, dizzying sensation. It’s so much better than Rozanov’s hand had been, so much more, and when he looks down, sees Rozanov buried in his crotch, he has to tense every muscle to stop himself from arching and coming right there. Rozanov bobs his head, tongue teasing Shane’s glans, hand twisting at the base, and then moving out of the way when Rozanov dips, taking Shane deep and swallowing around him.

His orgasm approaches like a jumbo jet, and Shane pulls at Rozanov’s hair, desperate. “I can’t stop - Rozanov - you need to -“

Rozanov does not heed his warnings, burying his head further into Shane’s lap, and then, embarrassingly quickly, Shane tips over the edge, straight into sensation, his cock pulsing, his head spinning. “Fuck. Fuck,” he whispers, as he spills down Rozanov's throat. His toes curl. It’s so good. His whole body thrums with it. Rozanov keeps swallowing around him, extending the experience, until finally, regretfully, it is over.

“Sorry, fuck,” he pants out as Rozanov pulls off, wiping at his lip. A condescending slap lands on Shane’s stomach, and he tenses again. “You didn’t have to -“

“I don’t mind,” Rozanov shrugs in return as he shuffles back to the top of the bed, and Shane reaches out, thumbing away a spilled drop from his chin that Rozanov had missed. Shane sits up, then, pleasure still thrumming in his veins, and laughs a little at the absurdity of it all, enjoying when the sound is repeated by Rozanov.

Then, as the orgasm endorphins fade away, Shane’s first instinct is to tell Rozanov that no one can know about this. He can feel the panic building up in his system - god, if people find out he’s fucking his rival, if they find out he’s gay -

Ah. Right.

He lets the panic simmer back down to manageable levels. He’s not the one in the closet here. He’s got less to lose. Rozanov’s telling no one.

So Shane leans back, sinks into the sheets, and clings to the last strands of fuzzy pleasure from his orgasm. God, Rozanov is good at head. If he were anyone else, Shane would ask for advice. No fucking chance of him giving Rozanov that ego boost, though. Fuck, and Rozanov just swallowed like it was no big deal. Shane could’ve done that. Shane could learn how to do this, be the best at this, not be beaten at blowjobs by Ilya fucking Rozanov.

His musings - a confusing mix of competitive and aroused - are interrupted by Rozanov clearing his throat. “I am not gay.”

Shane looks over, waiting for an elaboration, but none comes. “Congratulations.”

Rozanov rolls his eyes, and rolls towards Shane. His pecs look great in the lamplight, all lean biteable muscle, and Shane has to force himself to look away. “I sleep with men. But I like women too. One day, I will settle down with woman. Is easier that way.”

The word easier stings. A fission of jealousy runs down Shane’s spine, because yeah, it would be easier to settle down with a woman, if that were an option. “Why are you telling me this?”

Rozanov smiles, soft and sated and smug. “A reminder, so that you do not fall in love with me.”

It’s infuriatingly cocky, and so Shane rolls over, pins Rozanov beneath him so that he can bite the next words right in his face. “Fat fucking chance of that happening.”

Rozanov raises an eyebrow, makes no attempt to escape the pin. This close, Shane can see every fleck of gold in his eyes. “What, your type is not handsome Russians with fat cocks?”

“My type is not assholes,” Shane replies, and then Rozanov bucks upwards, and they’re wrestling, naked and almost angry, but not quite - the same kind of intensity they’d had every time they skated towards each other this afternoon, half a beat away from dissolving into laughter.

Rozanov is strong - he matches Shane in that sense, long, thick muscle, built on the ice - and they are not gentle with one another. They’re not trying to hurt each other - knees stay far away from crotches - but they are clearly both trying to win, and it has Shane panting and fuzzy again. 

One moment, Shane has the upper hand, but then Rozanov flips them, and lowers his hips down, and Shane gasps. They’re both hard again already, and Rozanov grinds down. “Is okay?” He asks, all thoughts of wrestling forgotten, and this would be the perfect time to flip them again and win.

Shane doesn’t, though. Instead, he moans yes and drags Rozanov in for an open-mouthed kiss.

Rozanov doesn’t break the kiss as he reaches for the nightstand, retrieving a small sachet of lube from his wallet and ripping it open, pouring its contents into one of Shane’s hands. For a moment, Shane freezes - he’s not ready for anal, in any sense of the word - but then Rozanov kisses him again, coaxing, reassuring. Kind, just for a second. “For our cocks,” he says, and Shane nods, spreads the lube over both their dicks.

That is nice.  Rozanov hikes up Shane’s leg so that it’s around his waist and grinds down, dragging them along the length of one another, sending sparks of lightning down Shane’s spine. Rozanov kisses and bites at Shane’s jaw, and Shane claws at Rozanov’s back, arching in pleasure. They’ve only just come, it’s far too much. It’s not enough, not even close.

Rozanov takes advantage of their positions, dipping down to mouth at his nipple instead, and Shane gasps. He drags his hands down Rozanov’s spine, massaging at his ass. It’s such a good ass, thick and firm.  They rut there for a few minutes, pace growing ever more frantic, and then Rozanov adjusts his grip, hand moving from Shane’s hip to his ass, cupping the muscle.

His fingers tease Shane’s crease, and then dip, grazing against his rim.

That’s all it takes.

Shane gasps as he spills between them, oversensitive and too-much-not-enough, the slide of their cocks getting wetter with his spend, and Rozanov looks between them, grunting at what he sees. Shane looks down, too - both of their cockheads are pressed closely together between their bellies, kissing, the last drops of Shane’s come still spilling from his head, some of it smearing onto Rozanov’s cock. The sight increases the pace of Rozanov’s rut, and Shane watches in awe as white streaks spill from Rozanov’s slit, covering their bellies further.

Rozanov is panting against his cheek, catching his breath, and the weight of him sends warm tendrils through Shane’s limbs. He kisses Shane once, brief but deep, tongue slipping between Shane's lax lips.

“Fuck. Not so bad, for first time,” Rozanov rolls off him, panting at the ceiling instead.

Shane snorts. “Give me a year. I’ll be so good, pornstars will be asking me for tips.”

Rozanov pats him on the chest, almost patronizing. “You like to win almost as much as I do.”

“More,” Shane corrects. “I like to win more than you do.”

“Impossible.” Rozanov swings his legs off the bed, walking over to his discarded jeans. God. He’s sculpted from marble. Shane can’t quite believe the last hour was real. He's tempted to ask Rozanov to stay, but he can't imagine how embarrassing it would be if Rozanov said no, so he bites his tongue. Rozanov shakes his jeans out. “What is your type, then?  Come. I am curious.”

It takes Shane a moment to remember their earlier conversation and understand Rozanov's question, but once he does, Shane thinks on it sincerely. What is his type? A jock, he suspects. Someone competitive. The best in their chosen field. Someone out of the closet. He realizes, wryly, that he has just described himself. “Someone who is proud to tell everyone that I am the most talented rookie of the 2010 season.”

Rozanov nods sagely. “Ah. I see. Your type is liars,” he replies, and Shane throws a pillow at his head, smiling when it thumps satisfyingly into its target. “Might take you a while to find a liar to fuck.”

Shane hums. “Might take you a while to find a woman to marry.”

Rozanov falls silent for a long while, using the pause to drag his jeans up his legs. He has to shuffle a bit to get them over the swell of his ass, and Shane shifts uncomfortably as his oversensitive cock reacts to the view. Rozanov finally gets them buttoned, and stands there, topless. He looks like a Levis ad. “Maybe while we are looking, we end up in same place again.”

Fuck. It’s such a bad idea. Tonight was meant to be a one and done get Rozanov out of Shane’s system.

Shane should say no. Shane wants to say yes. “Maybe,” he hedges.

Rozanov keeps dressing, and in the quiet of the room, Shane can’t help but start to tense. Now that the sex is over, all the background anxiety starts to grow louder and louder. He doesn’t let himself move, but he’s suddenly painfully aware that he is naked, on this bed. He hopes Rozanov likes what he sees.

Fully dressed, Rozanov comes back to the bed, sitting in the small gap between Shane's ribs and the edge of the bed. He's so close, and so dressed, and Shane's never felt more naked in his life. Rozanov leans over, his hands on the mattress either side of Shane's ribs. “This is our secret, yes?” He says, leaning down to place a kiss on Shane's lips. The self-consciousness about his nudity fades away with the kiss; Rozanov clearly doesn't mind the view, so why should he be bashful?

When Rozanov pulls away, Shane nods. “I’m not an asshole. I won’t out you,” he promises. Rozanov doesn't look particularly reassured. “I don’t want people knowing about this, either.” Shane can imagine the TMZ headline now. GAY HOCKEY SEX SCANDAL! YOU WON’T BELIEVE WHERE THEY PUT THEIR STICKS!

“Ah yes. Is very embarrassing for you, if people think you are fucked by number one draft pick.” Rozanov replies. "You only fuck winners?" He asks, and Shane gives him a shove.

Rozanov stands to leave. He looks even more like a Levis model in double denim.

Shane calls out Enjoy Boston before he can think better of it, then feels awkward again. Rozanov looks back at him, a small smile on his face, and then nods, once. 

The door closes quietly behind him. Shane lets himself sink back into the cushions. He can already feel his mind trying to replay every moment, to check that he hadn't said or done anything stupid while they were in bed together.

Shane pushes aside the urge, and sinks into the final tendrils of pleasure, closing his eyes. 

The fourteenth floor corridor is empty when Ilya steps out of 1410, so there are no witnesses as he leans back against the door and folds near in half. Thank god.

What a mistake Ilya has made.

Tomorrow he flies back to Russia. Being back at home with Alexei and his father will be an ice bath on a cold day. They are lifeless and cruel, painted a shade of gunmetal grey. For the last few months, Alexei’s cruelty has been tinged with a smug sense of knowing; when he called Ilya a cocksucker, he smirked, as if he knew a secret, and Ilya had wondered, with a deep and hidden sense of panic, whether Sasha had run his mouth.

Because Ilya was a cocksucker. Fuck. He could suck Hollander’s cock for a week straight, and never grow bored.

He had been foolish to think one night would be enough. He’d been thinking about those freckles for eighteen months; one night couldn’t hope to wipe away over a year of furtive desire. He'd had to practically sprint out of there - he'd been too tempted to offer to spend the whole night taking Hollander apart. 

It would've been easier if Hollander was bad in bed. A wet fish, lying there, waiting for Ilya to make a move. But he was eager. Unashamed. Thick all over with muscle, and with a thick cock too. He gave pleasure like it was a gift to himself, and received pleasure like it was diamonds. Something shifted in that room. Something dangerous.

And now Ilya must go back to Russia and pretend he does not know what Hollander's cock tastes like. That he doesn't know what sounds Hollander makes, when he is close to ecstasy. 

That he doesn't want to hear those sounds, again and again and again. 

Chapter End Notes

I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Please let me know if you did. I loved writing a scene that is close to canon but also notably different due to Shane’s coming out. It’s a nicer separation than they have in canon, but worry not, there’s lots of delicious tension still to come!

As a note: Shane was 18 when he met with Jeff. That doesn’t mean Jeff isn’t a fucking creep. Fuck Jeff, all my homies hate Jeff.

Chapter 6: The Heinrich Maneuver

Chapter Summary

Shane and Ilya's rookie season is off to an auspicious start.

Chapter Notes

July 2010

Ottawa

“I think I might be dying.”

“Don’t be such a baby,” Selena laughs from Shane’s side, both of them looking down. Nick is on the floor of the wooded running trail, drowning in a puddle of sweat.

"Your base cardio fitness needs work," Shane says, looking at his watch. Their 10k time was hardly blistering enough to leave Nick on the floor like this.

"I'm the fittest in the fucking team, Hollander," Nick complains, from his puddle. 

The statement is probably true. A worrying indictment of the rest of the Ottawa team. "Not anymore," Shane teases lightly, trying not to let the worry overtake him.  

Between Shane and Selena, they get Nick back on his feet, and begin the short walk back to their cars. 

As off-season training goes, Selena and Nick make good training partners. Quiet, focussed, determined. Their group of 3 will become 4 when Daysha gets back to Ottawa - Shane's not entirely sure she'll return, given what a fun time she seems to be having in Ibiza, enjoying her newfound singledom.

Shane hadn't known how to react when she told him about the breakup with Gleeson. He wasn't Gleeson's biggest fan - what self-respecting Canadian didn't like Hockey? - but they'd been together since high school, and been outed just like Shane had, but with far more positive results. Shane had maybe projected a little bit onto them. Just a little. He'd seemed more upset than Daysha about the breakup, which was embarrassing, and he'd hidden that away in the deepest trenches of his soul. 

And now she was having the time of her life on an Ibiza beach, with a hundred attractive women by her side.

Fleetingly, Shane thinks of Rozanov. Shane has no idea what a Moscow club might look like, but he watched a documentary on a Berlin club scene, and superimposes Rozanov into those clubs, tight and heavy, with a thick hypnotic beat pulsing through the dancefloor. There's a woman plastered to his front, and another making eyes across the dance floor, and Rozanov looks drunk with hedonism - and maybe alcohol too. He kisses the girl in front of him, just like Daysha kisses the girls in Ibiza.

Maybe he'll marry that girl.

"Your fixtures come out tomorrow," Selena says, breaking Shane out of his stupor. Shane nods. He's been waiting for this day ever since the CCM shoot. He wants to see when he might play Rozanov again - when they might meet up again, as inadvisable as that may be.

"I hope we're at home for Thanksgiving," Nick replies. He's no longer out of breath, thank God - a good sign for his fitness. "Americans get their Thanksgiving off, why can't we have ours?" 

"So you can load up on bacon brussels sprouts and play like shit the next day?" Selena chirps back. 

"It's Ottawa, Sel. We'll play like shit anyway." 

Shane's stomach drops. Nick sounds defeated, and they've not even played a single game yet.

Fuck. This year is going to be shit. 

Moscow

Alexei knows.

Well. Ilya can’t say for sure that Alexei knows anything other than how to weigh out an ounce. But he keeps calling Ilya a queer. Again and again.

It had been fine, when it was in private. But now, Alexei's growing indiscreet. Saying things to his fellow police officers. Risking everything. Everything.

Ilya will kill Sasha.

“Ilyusha,” Svetlana soothes. They are in the belly of a club, dance floor thrumming several rooms away. “Sasha has more to lose than you do. He would not talk.”

“And if he has a death wish?”

“He does not,” Sveta promises. “Alexei would say anything to get a rise from you.” They're not alone in the small side room, hazy with smoke, and Sveta looks around. Ilya follows her gaze; through the haze, there are other people who do not want to be seen. Most are doing drugs, but some share the same secret as Ilya. Sveta's gaze lingers on one such couple, a pair of men entwined around one another. “Have there been other men?”

“You are jealous?” Ilya deflects. He does not want to talk about Hollander. Can barely think about Hollander without a swirl of complicated emotions that leave him seasick, even in land-locked Moscow.

Sveta levels him with a pointed gaze. “No. Curious. And concerned.”

Ilya does not apologize for the accusation, and Sveta does not ask him to. That is how they are. Sveta waits for an answer, and reluctantly, Ilya provides it. “There has been one,” he admits, and her brows raise. “In Canada. He would not tell.”

It feels true. Hollander has no reason to keep a secret for Ilya; Ilya has handed him with a silver bow the greatest blackmail material anyone could hope to own, and he has none in return. And yet, he thinks that Hollander will not use it; would not even consider it. It still worries Ilya, that Hollander holds such power over him. But Hollander is good; good in the boring, uninteresting way that many Canadians are good, as if it were their default setting. 

Canadians were not raised in a nation trying to find itself; trying to work out who it might be with no KGB agents on the streets. They did not hoard information as keenly as knives; they did not act as if any friend might betray them, at the first sign of trouble. They were nice, and they were boring. 

Boring did not wield a secret like a weapon. 

Ilya still feels unmoored when he thinks on it too long. Hollander doesn't even know that he is holding a gun with a full chamber. Ilya wonders if it's safer that Hollander doesn't know the power in his hands, or if this is the blackmail equivalent of handing a child a loaded gun.

When they were together, Hollander had promised he would not tell anyone. But does he understand? Does he know what Russia is like? Does he think the only consequence for Ilya would be a lower draft pick? 

“He is in the closet too?” Sveta asks, and Ilya's face must say enough. “Ilyusha. Do you know what you are doing?”

He can't explain to Sveta the inherent goodness of Shane Hollander. He suspects she'd look at him as if he'd grown an extra head. “Does anyone?” He does not wait for her response; dives in and kisses her instead. Sveta lets him distract her; she is kind like that, sometimes.

That night, in bed with Sveta asleep by his side, Ilya sits upright on his laptop. The screen is a little blurry from too many beers, but he needs to see.

The season schedule is out. There is one fixture he looks for.

Ottawa vs Boston. December 21, 2010.

The Ottawa-Boston games are stacked towards the end of the season, so there will be an agonizing wait for that first chance to see Hollander again. Five full months before they'll be in the same room. Ilya knows he should not think on it too hard - especially not when lovely Sveta is in his bed - but his muscles clench with a buzz at the idea of having Hollander in a bed again. 

Ilya closes the browser and goes into his calendar, adding an event for that day. Embarrassing, but no one else needed to know; he didn't name the event, just put a little asterisk as the event title. 

Nice to mark it, though. The day he'd fuck the niceness straight out of Shane Hollander.

Do you know what you are doing? Sveta's voice from earlier taunts, as he closes the laptop and shuffles back beneath the sheets.

Under the dark cloak of night, Ilya can admit the truth: He has no fucking clue.

December 2010

Ottawa

All Shane can hear, in the loud, vicious stadium, is Boston fans.

It’s unfair, really. This is meant to be an Ottawa home match, and yet in spite of the slightly improved attendances this year, the Raiders fans outnumber the home crowd.

“Is like being back in West End,” Rozanov chirps at the next face-off, Boston 2-1 up already. Fucker. At least Shane has scored. Rozanov’s not on the scorecard yet, though it surely won’t be long. He looks good, Shane is annoyed to find. Relaxed. Confident. Chiseled. 

Shane can't relate.

“Such a long way to travel, and they’re all gonna be disappointed,” Shane mutters back, though he knows it’s absolute bullshit. Rozanov snorts, but it’s Shane that wins the face-off.

It’s a shame, then, that his left wing is out of position and immediately loses the puck, and his defence is made of papier-mâché, and his goalie is napping. Rozanov doesn’t score, and Shane is a bit embarrassed for him, because there’s not much more Ottawa could have done to hand the goal to him on a silver platter.

Rozanov huffs, disappointed, and Shane smiles at his misfortune. He’ll take every win he can get.

It’s been 3 months since Shane first arrived in Ottawa, and though they’re doing better than last year, it’s still a dire showing. Years of mismanagement can’t be overcome by Shane alone. Nick is getting better, and their second goalie Drapeau has potential, but they’re losing far more games than they win.

And that. Is. Fine.

On an individual level, Shane’s breaking records. He’s getting unprecedented ice time for a rookie - and more than that, unprecedented puck time, as the only tactic that Coach Fredericks seems to have is “get the puck to Hollander and hope for the best”.

He takes some brutal hits. He scores some beautiful goals. It all evens out, in the end.

For the first month of the season, Shane had been in some pretty gnarly fights, too. He’d heard his fair share of slurs, whispered away from referees as he was battered into the boards, and he’d come back swinging, racking up penalty minutes. It’d all stopped in a match against Admirals, where he’d been scrapping with one of their defenders, and then a big mitt had pulled him backwards out of the fray.

He’d looked up, ready to throw another punch, but it was the Admirals goalie, Bennett, that had him by the scruff, and even worked up, Shane knew better than to punch a goaltender.

“You’re first centre line, kid. Let others fight your battles for you,” Bennett had muttered, almost fond, giving him a little shake like he was a scruffed kitten instead of a 200lb man.

Shane had huffed back a complaint about Zullo, and Bennett had agreed that he was a dick, and then he’d released Shane’s neck, beckoning him to run free, like he was returning a rehabilitated squirrel to the wilds.

At the time, it felt patronizing, but Bennett was someone Shane greatly admired, so Shane had heeded his advice and backed off, where he could. The Ottawa roster wasn’t filled with great players, but a lot of them were loyal, and most of them took on the cause for Shane, slamming into the slur-throwers with glee.

There were a few holdouts on the team. Mostly older guys, or devote Christians. Hate the sin, love the sinner, Rapineau, his right wing, had said to Shane magnanimously after their first training session, and Shane thinks he meant it as a compliment. So far, the homophobes mostly left Shane to his own devices - it’d be different, Shane thinks, if he wasn’t so good.

Boston change their lines, Rozanov reluctantly leaving the ice, but Ottawa leave Shane on for another face-off - against Connors, this time. Shane looks him dead in the eye, dares him to say something, but Connors just stares back, impassive.

Shane wins the face-off. The Ottawa play falls apart again immediately after.

Boston score another - 3-1, now, without Rozanov even being on the ice, and Shane huffs, skin tight, head angry.

At the next face-off, he doesn’t try and pass. With lactic acid burning through his legs, he slices down the ice alone and slams the puck the back of the net. His teammates crash into him as if he’s done something great, but they’re still fucking losing, so he shrugs them off, rallies them to get back to the centre.

He is pulled off the ice straight after - which is necessary and infuriating in equal measure. His shift had been too long, and his limbs ache. He practices his deep breathing, tries to shake out the fire in his legs, and pointedly ignores the stares of Rozanov, which he can feel burning into the side of his face from the opposition bench.

In the end, they lose, 4-2, and Coach Fredericks is happy. They didn’t embarrass themselves. A respectable showing against a team expected to still be in playoff contention come the end of the season.

Shane thinks he might be dying. It’s hard to tell, but his chest feels like it’s rotting, from the inside out.

Somewhere else in the arena, Rozanov will be with his team. Shane suspects they won't even be celebrating, really - after all, a win for them was nailed on before anyone stepped foot on the ice. Why celebrate the inevitable? Shane thinks of Rozanov's face, of the infuriating smirk he'll be wearing, content in the knowledge that he'd beaten Shane again. God, Shane can't stand him.

And yet, he wants. 

Nick bumps his shoulder against Shane’s. Shane suspects that Nick is the only person in the dressing room that feels the losses anywhere near as hard as Shane does - and only because Selena won't let him sink into ambivalence. Everyone else has been ground down by too many bad games, and Shane prays to Gretzky that he’ll never become so dispassionate. “Come round mine. We can watch the Vegas game and sulk with Selena,” Nick offers, and Shane nods before he can think further on it.

Once they’re dressed and back in their game-day suits, they head to the parking lot together. In the corridor, right outside the locker room, stands Ilya Rozanov.

He's in his game-day suit too, but his tie is in his pocket, and the upper buttons of his shirt are loose. His hair is wet, dampening his collar, and his skin still pink from the shower. As if he'd rushed there.

He looks like a dream. He looks like danger.

Shane can't look at him for long. The loss is thick in his blood, and the idea of staring at Rozanov, of touching him, makes Shane feel sick and aroused in equal measure. Thank god, really, for Nick's presence. He's not sure what would happen, if he were to be alone with Rozanov right now.

They don’t speak to one another, don’t even acknowledge one another. Shane follows Nick to his car, and they drive away. He does not look back.

Ilya sighs as he watches Hollander ride away from the Centaurs stadium with one of Ottawa’s less noteworthy, less pretty players. He has no phone number, no other way of arranging to meet Hollander that night, and he’s flying to New York for a game tomorrow.

A pity. He’d been looking forward to tonight. Had rushed through dressing and waited outside the Centaurs’ locker room - a risky move, but it would’ve been worth it, if Hollander had agreed to meet with him.

It’s probably for the best. Hollander had looked like a caged lion, furious and untameable. It only made Ilya want him more, but also upped the odds of Hollander losing his temper mid-blowjob and biting his dick off.  A risk-reward chart Ilya couldn’t afford to get wrong.

“You ready to go, brother?” Marly asks, lax and easy from the win. Marly's the perfect friend; uncomplicated and good. Canadian, but less boring than most of them. Ilya never thought he'd see the day when his best friend would be Canadian, but here they were.

“Let’s go out tonight,” he replies, and Marly cheers in agreement.

The lady Ilya fucks that night does not look like Hollander at all.

One of the best things about having adult hockey money for Shane was having his own home.

A three bedroom place is probably a bit overkill, considering Shane lives alone, but the detached house in the outskirts of Ottawa is his own little private oasis, and looks beautiful in the mid-afternoon sun. The previous owners had been obsessed with privacy, so the garden is surrounded by large trees, and at the end of the garden was a private dock on the lake. Shane could do butt naked yoga on his lawn and none of the neighbours would be any the wiser.

He refrains, though.

It’s not as close to his parents’ house as they would’ve liked. At 2am, you could do the drive in 15 minutes, but in normal day-to-day traffic, it’s more like 45 minutes each way. If his mom had her way, he’d be living at home for this first year, if not longer, but he’d insisted on his own space, and what a glorious choice it had been.

He loves his parents, loves them so deeply it aches to think that one day they won’t be there, but it’s hard, sometimes. His mom doing double-time as manager and parent makes for terrible, awkward conversations sometimes, especially when it comes to his sexuality.

“This is an unbeatable deal, Shane,” his mom insists down the phone, as Shane watches the Raiders against Admirals from his sofa - muted, so that she can’t hear his attention is elsewhere. She’s probably got the game on, too, but heaven forbid Shane not pay 100% attention to a phone call.

“The underwear are so small, mom. And rainbow,” he says. He’s glad she’s 45 minutes away, he’s blushing beet red even having this conversation down the phone.

“You’re gay, Shane.”

“That doesn’t mean I want to wear the rainbow all the time.”

“You are a young, attractive man. Why would you not want to do a deal this big?”

“I just want to play hockey.”

“This will secure your financial future once hockey is done,” she says, and Shane sighs. He’s in his rookie year, and yet his mom has already become obsessed with his retirement. He’s not naive, he knows a career ending injury could happen to anyone, but he also knows his mom. Knows that half her worry comes from the fact that he’s gay. Sure, Ottawa signed him as a rookie, but would they keep him on, once his three year contract was done? “Shane. Please.”

If he was managed by a company, like a normal person, he’d have told them to fuck off at that guilt-tripping, cajoling tone. As it is, he sighs and capitulates. “Fine, Mom.”

“Thank you, sweetie,” she replies, and Shane hates how much her happiness irritates him. “Are you watching the Raiders game?”

“Yes.”

“Rozanov is so cocky,” she says. He hears her settle into the sofa, and they watch together in silence for a moment. “Did you hear, he said he’d get 50 goals this year?”

Shane snorts at the cockiness, but then replies, “he probably will.”

“He’ll be a distant second to your rookie goal tally, sweetie. He’ll be on his knees begging for mercy when he sees how many you score.”

Shane hums, and shuts his mind to the thought of Rozanov on his knees.

January 2011

Boston

Boston is the centre of the fucking universe, and Ilya loves it there.

The hockey is good, the women better, the nightlife electric, the people just about abrasive enough to remind Ilya of home in a good way. The city lives in his bones, and loves him as if he were one of their own.

Which is why it is so baffling that Ilya is alone at his apartment, on a Friday fucking night, with his hand down his pants and hockey on the television.

The screen is filled with Shane Hollander, a furious glare on his pretty face. He should look angry - he’s losing to Toronto, 2-0. He looks fucking hot like this; passionate and furious. Hollander during a loss is fun. Ilya's glad he gets to enjoy it so often. 

Ilya speeds up his hand on his cock, imagines coming over those pretty freckles. Hollander would let him, Ilya thinks, especially if he was heady with sex - but then Hollander would regret it immediately after, complain about come getting in his lashes, in his brows.

Ilya would lick it off and watch him squirm.

It’s been over 6 months since their tryst in Toronto, and seeing Shane back at the Guardians’ home ground has Ilya all hot and bothered. Male partners are a rare luxury for him - even now, it’s only Hollander and Sasha that he’s indulged with - and there’s something so enticing about it all. The planes of muscle, the swell of cock, even the acute danger of being found out. Hot in the moment, though terrifying in the after.

The annoyance of not seeing Hollander after their December game still burns. Sue Ilya, he likes male company sometimes, and Hollander is definitely male, and some of the best "company" Ilya has experienced. Finding a new male partner isn't worth the risk, but Hollander already knows, he's as close to safe as Ilya is going to get.

That he's good in bed is just a bonus. He's eager and unashamed. Two of Ilya's favourite qualities.

They’ll be in the same place soon, for All Stars, and Ilya can’t fucking wait. He hopes Hollander won't turn him away again; Ilya suspects Hollander won't. After all, it's All Stars. Hollander's bound to win something, even if it's only one of the lesser skills competitions. He'll be a fun fuck when he feels like a winner, Ilya suspects. 

In the meantime, Ilya’s been satisfying the itch by fisting his cock while watching Hollander on the ice, and listening to his infuriating interviews after - in French and English, both languages curling around his tongue in ways Ilya could only dream of, with his own thick, boxy accent. Perfect fucking Hollander, who makes Ilya angry and aroused in equal measure.

On the TV, Hollander slices the puck to the Ottawa left wing - a hapless fool named Pierre Something-Something, a double-barrelled posh boy from France - and, by some miracle or mistake, Pierre slides the puck into the back of the net. It gets an actual celebration from Hollander - maybe because it’s so unexpected - and there’s something in his smile, or in the way he crashes into Pierre without restraint, that tips Ilya over the edge, has him painting his own stomach in his spend.

He’s still wiping himself off when the next face-off comes around - Hollander against Hugo Pallier.

Hugo Pallier, the Toronto captain, is the worst person Ilya has ever met. He’s an ugly bully surrounded by rumours of disgusting behaviour that no one can ever prove, and he leads by example - half his team seems to follow him like ducklings, into darker and darker pursuits. Every day, Ilya prays for his downfall. He’s also not as good at hockey as he thinks he is. This should be an easy face-off for Hollander, and Ilya watches idly, waiting for Pallier to be humiliated.

The ref is close to Pallier and Hollander for the puck drop, but his mic isn’t on, so whatever Pallier chirps to Hollander is lost to the stadium mics behind the noise of the crowd. The ref is close enough that he must have heard it - he can’t not have heard it, Hugo Pallier has a voice like a foghorn. Whatever Pallier says, it shakes Hollander enough that he stands upright, looking to the ref, as if waiting for him to blow his whistle.

The ref drops the puck. Pallier wins the face-off. Hollander doesn’t streak off after Pallier, though. He instead heads for the ref.

They’re close enough to one of the microphones at the side of the rink that Hollander’s shout is clear on the broadcast. “Hey! Hey! You heard what he said. You heard what he fucking said!”

“Hollander, get on with the game,” the ref commands, but Hollander shakes his head, far closer to the referee than a player should ever be. Whatever’s happening elsewhere on the ice is lost now, as the broadcast is fully focussed on Shane Hollander, and Ilya leans forward, brow lowered.

“No! That’s fucking bullshit! You fucking heard him!” Hollander yells, even as he is forcibly shepherded away by one of the linesmen.

The ref turns on his mic, addresses the stadium. “Ottawa number 24 gets a game misconduct.”

Hollander is furious now, and this time does turn his attention to Hugo Pallier, skating towards him furiously. One of the Ottawa defenders - the same one that had escorted Hollander to his car, weeks earlier - gets in front of Hollander and starts pushing him away before a fight can actually break out, but Hollander is yelling at Pallier.

He’s too far from the mics now for them to pick up what he says. It doesn’t matter though. Ilya doesn’t consider himself a professional lip reader, but he’d put money on what Shane is saying.

Go fuck yourself, you racist piece of shit.

Svetlana comes over, later that evening, halfway through the Vancouver match. Ilya takes her in his arms, as he always does, but suspects tonight will not be a night for fucking.

They do not talk often about Svetlana’s race. He knows, back home, it had been hard to be visibly othered. It is hard in America, too, in different ways.

“Poor Hollander,” she says, during intermission, when the commentators are once again reviewing the tape from the Ottawa game. None of the pundits are talking about what Hollander had mouthed - everyone’s more concerned with Canada’s Golden Gay losing his temper, as if it were some funny little side show. Hollander’s coach had coaxed him off the ice, straight to the locker room, once he’d ran out of steam, and Hollander hadn’t emerged for post game interviews, in English or in French. The coverage zooms in on Hollander’s face as he’d stormed off the ice for his early shower - he was angry, but not in the hot way that he normally is. He looked so frustrated he might cry. Svetlana sighs at the sight.  “He is so pretty, and so alone.”

Ilya hums, looking at the screen. As much as he hates Hollander, Ilya does not like to see him like this. Hollander should only ever be angry at hockey, and how shit his team are; a fun angry. It does not feel fair. “He has his family in Ottawa. He has friends on the team, too.”

“That does not mean he is not alone,” Sveta whispers, and Ilya's stomach drops further. She does not cry, but he knows, if she were Canadian, she would be weeping by now. Sveta clears her throat. “Next time you play Toronto, you will kill Hugo Pallier?”

He gathers her into his arms, pushes his face into her curls. “For you, Sveta.”

“And for pretty boy Hollander?”

Ilya nods, shifts to kiss her brow. “For him, too.”

Their Toronto game is two days later, the final stop on Toronto's roadie, and the final game before the league breaks for the All Star weekend. They're vying for top of the division; Boston need to win this, Ilya knows. He wants to kill Pallier - for Sveta, for Hollander - but he cannot do so until the result is already confirmed. 

In the dying embers of the game, with Boston holding a 3 point lead, Ilya nods to himself. The next chance he gets, he's going to destroy Pallier. No one can know why, but he'll figure out that part later; after all, enough people hate Pallier that they'll believe whatever Ilya tells them. There's a tightrope to walk - Ilya wants to fight hard enough to leave a mark, but he can't go too hard, or he might be suspended for All Stars.

The chance finally presents itself with two minutes left on the clock. Pallier is on his own, right near Ilya. Ilya smiles to himself, saying a thanks to the gods for the opportunity, but then, as he skates towards Pallier, the man disappears.

Ilya looks to his left, following the blur of motion. Marly is pummelling Pallier, gloves off, while Pallier returns with some hits of his own. 

The referees surround the fight, ushering Ilya away from it, and he watches from afar as Marly is dragged off Pallier, whose nose is facing South, even as his face is pointed East. Marly shrugs the refs off. He doesn't wait for the penalty call, just starts making his way towards the box. His path takes him close to Ilya, who raises a brow.

“Gotta stand up for my fellow countryman,” Marly declares with a shrug and a vicious smile as he skates by, blood staining his teeth. “Oh Canada, our home and native land…” he sings on his way, fist bumping anyone that offers out their hand. Pallier is ushered towards his own penalty box, a medic with gauze trialing in his wake.

Ilya shakes his head, and pushes down a smile. He looks up to the stands. Sveta has her arms crossed, shaking her head, and he shrugs at her.

At least he'll definitely play All Stars now. He can't wait to see Hollander again.

Chapter End Notes

Hope you enjoyed this chapter.

This was originally multiple chapters, but I figured (as Ilya and Shane don't actually meet up) I'd combine it into one so that we can get to some Ilya and Shane goodness faster. I feel like it still reads like two chapters to me, I hope this didn't bother anyone!!!

Next up is All Stars!

Footnotes

• The documentary about the German club scene that Shane watches is Feiern. Unimportant for the general story, but I like to know what people are referring to in other fics.
• In my original draft of this chapter, the women's team disbanded (the real Ottawa women's team stopped playing top-flight hockey in 2010). In the end, I gave them a reprieve. While there's no women's hockey team near me, writing the scene of them getting disbanded made me super emotional about women's sports, so I will be going to watch some women's football ASAP.
• As far as I can tell, no one knows Cliff Marleau/Marlow's nationality. I've made him Canadian and used his TV surname. I think there's an argument for both Canadian and American, but I wanted him Canadian, and so Canadian he shall be. He is also the ally to end all allies - though he will have competition in later chapters...!

As always, your comments give me life <3

Chapter 7: Do You Realize?

Chapter Summary

At 2011 All Star Weekend, Ilya and Shane face-off.

Chapter Notes

February 2011

Nashville

The night before travelling to All Stars, Shane made a spreadsheet.

It was not exactly the intended use of Microsoft Excel, but it worked for his needs. In the top row, he typed his three column headers in bold typeface; safe, unsafe, unknown. He wrote out all the names of the players attending All Stars in a fourth column, and then slowly dragged each player methodically into their appropriate column.

The North American team was pretty evenly split between the three columns. In Europe, the Scandinavians mostly fell into the safe column, as did McCullough, the only Scottish player in attendance.

The Russians went in the unsafe column. All but one. He stayed in the fourth column - uncategorized.

“Hello Mr Agitator,” Rozanov greets Shane the next morning, in the bar at the hotel where the All Star players are being housed.

Within an hour, both teams would be mingling in the space; Shane would rather be anywhere else, but he knows from his mother that he's expected to show his face. He'd turned up early enough that there's only five or six hockey players around; he's planning to leave before most of the Russians show up. The table he had elected to camp out at is a high top in a quiet corner. Shane had hidden here hoping for peace. He should've known he wouldn't be granted it. The table's next to a giant All Stars poster - Lemaire and Rozanov's faces are as tall as Shane. Shane had been vaguely curious to play on the same team as Rozanov for the All Stars game, but it had been snatched from him - the teams were changed to North America versus Europe instead of East Conference vs West so that the Rozanov/Lemaire rivalry was front and centre, in spite of the fact it's laughably one-sided. 

“Fuck off, Rozanov,” Shane snips back, eyeing up Rozanov’s 10am beer - they’re in America, neither of them can’t even legally drink here, how is Rozanov so fucking brazen - and half-eaten plate of snacks. None of the snacks provided fit with Shane’s diet, and the bar doesn’t have ginger ale, so he’s been reduced to orange juice. Not even fresh squeezed; out of a carton. Disgusting.

Rozanov puts his plate on Shane’s table, pops a salty cracker from it into his mouth. There is a smug little smile on his face, which raises Shane's hackles. Rozanov's beer doesn’t leave his hand, and he remains standing, leaning over Shane a little. He’s so close. He’s too close, but if he's trying to intimidate Shane, he'll have to try harder. A fission of angry heat runs straight down Shane’s spine - and Rozanov sees it, eyes sparking. “Ah, there is the aggression that Shane Hollander is famous for. You will tell me I am fucking bullshit next?”

It's strangely reassuring that Rozanov is chirping him about the fight with Pallier. The Centaurs have all been walking on eggshells around him, like he's an injured little bird. Still, it's not something he exactly wants to draw attention to; he'd been somewhat hoping everyone would have forgotten about it, in the five days between the fight and All Stars. "I’m not in the mood, Rozanov.”

Rozanov holds his gaze for a moment, considering. “Okay. Maybe you will be in different mood later, hm?” He says, slapping his hand on the table. He leans even closer, a shit-eating smirk on his face. Shane braces for another chirp, watching Rozanov’s lips. “1221.”

The words are said quietly, and it takes Shane a moment to parse out their meaning. By the time he has, Rozanov has moved away to talk to one of the Finnish players, his disgusting snack plate abandoned on Shane’s table. Shane stares at the wilting cheese, trying desperately to school his face.

“You okay, Rook?” A familiar voice asks.

Scott Hunter is a strange man - he lives firmly in the ‘unknown’ column of Shane’s spreadsheet. Hot, in an All-American way. Popular, a favourite of Crowell and the other league professionals. Nice, overall. Famously so. And yet, whenever he’s within 5 meters of Shane, be it for press or league events, he gets this constipated look on his face - like he’d rather be anywhere else. Shane’s not entirely sure what weird flavour of homophobia is going on there, but it’s better than slurs or a punch to the face, so he doesn’t look at it too closely, and gives Hunter the space he seems to want.

“Yes Mr Hunter. He was just chirping.” 

“Mr Hunter.” Another voice teases, and Shane cranes his head to see the new person behind him. “Vaughan. I’m from the Admirals.”

Shane didn’t need the introduction - Shane’s watched enough game tape to know almost every player in the league, and Carter Vaughan is easily in the top 5% of those players, and just as attractive as Hunter. He’s in the 'unknown' column, too - only because Shane has not met him properly, not yet. “Shane Hollander. Ottawa Centaurs.”

“I know you, kiddo,” Vaughan laughs, though he can only be 2 or 3 years older than Shane. “You ready to kick some European ass?”

“You’re damn right.” Shane nods. Hunter immediately nods and moves on, desperate to be away from Shane as always, but Vaughan lingers, sliding onto a bar stool opposite Shane.

“I know I’m a stranger, but you’re okay right? After the Pallier thing?” Vaughan asks.

Oh hell. There really was no escaping it. “He didn’t say anything I’d not heard before,” Shane shrugs. He's tempted to brush it off entirely, but Vaughan's one of the few players that might actually understand, so he continues, voice lowered. “But the ref was right there.”

"Yeah. He was." Vaughan sighs, playing with the label on his beer. “He claimed he heard nothing?"

"Nothing at all. Pallier said I misheard him, so the league's hands are tied, apparently." He doesn't state the obvious; Pallier is one of Crowell's favourite players. He could've burned Shane at the stake and Crowell would've claimed he was just trying to keep Shane warm in Winter. 

Vaughan breathes out, heavy and slow. "I guess for now we've gotta count on justice in the form of Cliff Marleau." 

Shane can't deny it had been satisfying to see Pallier go down under Marly's fists. "He got in some good hits."

"He's a good guy, Marly." Vaughan looks around the room, eyes lingering on the European table. A few more of the Russians have arrived, including Ivanov, a goalie that really doesn't like Shane. He's hugging Rozanov and fluffing his hair like they're old friends. “Rozanov really wasn’t giving you shit earlier?”

He was trying to fuck me. Shane pushes the thought down, even as he feels his cheeks heat, and answers sincerely. “He was trying to get a rise out of me, but it was all tame stuff.”

Vaughan laughs. “I don’t think anyone’s ever called Rozanov tame before.” He leans forward conspiratorially. “Scotty’s in the room next door to him. God knows what he’ll hear before the weekend is through.”

He might hear me getting fucked. Shane is fairly sure his cheeks are as red as a stop sign at this point. Christ, Vaughan must think he's a blushing virgin, pinking up just at the idea of Rozanov having casual sex. "That's a rough assignment." 

"Right?" Vaughan says. He looks over at the Europeans again, and Shane follows his gaze. Rozanov is beelining towards Hunter, a menacing smirk on his face. “Fuck,” Vaughan mutters, standing up. “Duty calls. See you later, Hollzy.”

Shane waves him off, and then settles back into the quiet. 

Being alone is daunting, now that a few players have approached him - he feels like prey in the open. He looks around, avoiding eye contact with anyone on the ‘unsafe’ list. He won’t cower away and hide - but he’s also not much in the mood for a fight, not during what is meant to be a fun weekend.

He scans the room furtively, and then, thankfully, a pair of familiar faces appear.

Nick hadn’t made All Stars this year. He isn’t that kind of player - he’s solid. Dependable. Significantly above average, but not Top 5%. Not yet, at least - Shane’s working on it. So, Nick and Selena should be having a lovely romantic weekend away. That had been the plan, at least. But then the Pallier thing had happened, and now, Nick’s back in Ottawa, and Selena and Daysha are walking into the Nashville hotel with small roller suitcases and big, matching smiles, crowding him and congratulating him again on making the team.

They’re here for Shane. He knows he worried them all with how upset he’d been. It was a level of stress he’d hidden from his parents, his mom especially.

Nick, Daysha, and Selena, though, had looked after him as much as he’d let them - which was, admittedly, not much. Nick had decided to stay behind in Ottawa, but Daysha and Selena had booked to fly straight from their away game in Worcester to Nashville without telling him, refused to let him reimburse them for the hotel or flights, and pretended that they wanted to spend one of their only weekends off all season at All Stars.

It was the nicest thing any friend had ever done for him.

“Shaney baby!” Daysha calls loudly, and Shane cringes a little - Jesus, did anyone overhear that? - but he submits to their affections, letting them squish him between them. Any hope of looking cool is ruined when Daysha squishes his cheeks, like he’s a pudgy toddler.

"Coffees?" He offers, nodding at the bar.

"Iced latte please, Shaney!" Selena replies, Daysha nodding along as they climb onto barstools. 

Shane nudges his way in at the bar, and gets the drinks ordered. He looks over his shoulder - Daysha and Selena are talking to two of the North America defenders. From how they're pointing at Shane, and their teasing tone, he knows his friends are ribbing the shit out of him. Fucking dickheads. 

He loves them so much.

“Shaney baby, who’s the lady?” A voice beside him asks - a voice belonging to a player firmly in the ‘safe’ column, though Shane would rather not interact with him at all.

“Hello to you too,” Shane replies to Lemaire - a baffling All Stars pick, but he's the face of the North American side, so what the fuck does Shane know about hockey.

The more Montreal games Shane watches, the less he understands Lemaire. There are times, with the puck on his stick, that Lemaire is genuinely unstoppable. His ten goals so far this season all belong in a ‘top goals of the season’ compilation. But there are only ten goals; Rozanov's on 38, Shane on 42 (and it gives him the most pleasant buzz to remember that he's ahead, beating Rozanov will never get old).

Lemaire scored a fast paced Michigan against Los Angeles. It was the most beautiful and instinctive goal Shane had ever seen. He then proceeded to miss an open net three times. Truly baffling.

Shane looks over his shoulder, back at his table. His eyes land on Selena. She’s pretty - in the way Victoria’s Secrets models on billboards are pretty, and Shane can’t say he’s surprised that she’s caught Lemaire’s eye. “Oh, Selena?” He says, nodding towards her and then looking back to Lemaire. “She plays for Ottawa Saviours. She’s with Nick Chouinard.”

“No, not the short lady. The other lady.”

Shane looks back to his table, surprised. Daysha is attractive, in an androgynous way. Tall and muscular, with pretty eyes and a strong jaw. She’d probably not book Victoria’s Secret, but she could walk high fashion runways, if she wanted that.

She’s also wearing a Tegan and Sara shirt. A carabiner loaded with keys. Birkenstocks.

There’s no such thing as a universal gay look - Shane knows that, his own shitty earring a testament to it - but if there was, it’d be Daysha.

Shane hesitates. Daysha’s out, but not the way Shane is out - not with a press release. She lets people assume, and most do correctly, but Shane’s not sure how much she’d appreciate him telling a stranger that she’s gay. She's also being annoying, and Shane kind of wants to see what she'd do, if Lemaire tried to flirt with her. It doesn't feel fair to Lemaire though, which adds to Shane's uncertainty.

Lemaire groans. “Come on, man. Don’t keep the pretty ladies to yourself. You don’t even like them that way.” Lemaire blanches, looking around nervously. “Shit, is that offensive to say?”

“No, Lemaire. You’re fine.” Shane waves him away. He thinks on it again, and decides it's too mean to Lemaire to lead him on. Daysha would eat him alive. “You’re really not her type, though.”

Lemaire takes Shane by the shoulders, turns him so that they are fully facing each other. Shane lets his gaze fall to the hands, surprised at Lemaire's brazenness. “Hollzy,” he starts, giving Shane a little shake. “You have to get over your crush on me. It’s not healthy.”

Fuck it. “Come on, Vin. Let me introduce you to Daysha.”

Skills competitions are the stupidest thing in the world, Ilya suspects, but he likes to win, and he will take what he can get.

Winning while breaking Scott Hunter’s records, now that’s a real treat. There’s only one competitor left to go in the shot accuracy challenge after him - Hollander. Hopefully he misses all four fucking targets.

Hollander does a lap of the crowd before his turn, gets them riled up. The crowd eats it up like sad little sheep, whooping and hollering with abandon, and Ilya rolls his eyes.

“I cannot believe they allow him to play,” Ivanov mutters along the bench, attracting Ilya's attention. Ivanov is Russia's goalie, the protege of Vasily Vetrov, and he's never exactly been quiet about his views. He wears a cross almost identical to Ilya's around his neck; though his is studded with diamonds. He'd played hockey with Alexei, back in the day, before everyone realized that Alexei had the puck control of a bear. 

“Hollander?” Svensson, a tall Swede that plays for Vegas, sounds incredulous, and Ilya falls to stillness, eyes darting between them. Svensson continues, “He does not try to suck your dick on ice, why do you care what he does off it?”

“It’s against God.” Ivanov shakes his head. “We cannot have fucking fairies in a man’s game.”

Svensson frowns, glares at Ivanov, and then turns to Ilya. “I cannot believe I have to play with neanderthals all fucking weekend,” Svensson says to Ilya, who remains silent, and so Svensson huffs at him too, turns his attention back to Ivanov. “What, you have never touched another man’s dick before?”

“Net!”

“Oh.” Svensson glances at the other Russians, as if expecting a different answer, but they all remain silent. “Herregud, you Russians are as boring as the Americans,” he mutters, and turns to talk to the other Swedes instead.

Ivanov's eyes are pinpointed on Hollander, even as he turns his face to Ilya. "You are young, Ilya. People will try to make you think Hollander is normal. He is not." He falls silent for a long time, and then looks to Ilya fully. "He should be kept at arm's length. One day, God will punish sinners, and when the time comes, you would not want his mark upon you." 

Ilya keeps his face blank. He's well practiced; it's the same face he wears when his father speaks of Hollander. Ivanov stands and skates off, leaving Ilya alone at the end of the bench.

Hollander’s lining up his shots now, and the whistle goes. He hits every target. He does it faster than Ilya.

Fucking Hollander.

Ilya watches Hollander skate back to his team. His happy fucking smirk never leaves his face. There’s a space at the end of his bench, not too far from Ilya, and Ilya's stomach turns. He wants to chirp. He needs to stay silent. Before Hollander arrives, though, Carter fucking Vaughan takes up the space, situating himself on the bench so that it’s him, not Hollander, that Ilya is closest to. Hollander takes up Vaughan’s vacated space, further down the bench, and Vaughan glares over at Ilya, like a mama bird protecting her freakish little featherless baby.

Ilya blows a raspberry at him, and turns back to the ice. His chain rests against his lips, and he says a prayer to Carter Vaughan, for taking the decision out of his hands.

It's for the best. He can't imagine what Ivanov would have said, had he talked to Hollander. The thought twists his stomach. Ilya needs to be careful. He needs to remember where he is, and who is watching. 

All Stars weekend, Shane discovers, involves a lot of mingling. There's only really a few hours of hockey, stretched out over 48 hours. 

Everyone else seems to have a mountain of press to do, but every time a reporter comes close, Shane is shepherded gently away by a league representative. It is a relief - press is hardly his favourite activity - but eventually it starts to feel targeted, and Shane is certain he should be upset by it. The league don't want him to speak - presumably they're worried he'll blow the Pallier situation out into the open. If his mom were here, she'd be kicking up a storm.

She's not, though. 

Shane's told he has another hour off, and he hides his smile. Daysha and Selena are in their room, watching a soccer match, and he's quite happy to go and join them, thank you very much. He heads for the elevators, and one opens, just as he arrives. 

Rozanov is stepping out of it in a full suit and tie, no doubt on his way to more press. He doesn't look happy about it, and Shane suppresses his own smug smirk. Rozanov looks good in the suit; it's well cut, just like all of Rozanov's game day suits. Sometimes, in a tie, Shane still feels like a private schoolboy on a big day out; Rozanov, by comparison, looks like he belongs on a magazine cover.

When Rozanov spots Shane, he looks him up and down, and then rolls his eyes. Shane looks down at himself - he's fine, just in a white shirt and slacks. Hardly schoolboy chic, and nothing fancy, especially since he doesn't have to do any fucking press. It's hardly bad enough for an eye roll. 

Rozanov goes to walk past Shane, but Shane needs to talk to him, and so, almost on instinct, Shane stops Rozanov with a hand on his arm. Rozanov freezes, and then slowly looks at the hand as if it were burning him.  There is no one else around, and so for now, Shane does not let go, though the look on Rozanov's face turns his stomach - as if Shane's touch were disgusting. "Tomorrow. Not tonight. We have a game."

There are footsteps approaching, and Rozanov wrenches his arm away. "Fine." Rozanov straightens his suit, and then walks off, not looking back. He almost knocks into Hunter, the owner of the footsteps, who looks between Rozanov and Shane with intrigue. Shane steps into the elevator, and holds the door, waiting for Hunter to follow. 

Hunter shakes his head awkwardly. "I'll wait for the next one."

Great. Fucking fantastic. Rozanov won't let Shane touch his arm, and Shane's Captain for the weekend won't be in an elevator with him. Perfect.

The elevator is slow, and it gives Shane a moment to breathe and try to reflect on whatever the fuck that was. The blink-and-you'll-miss-it interaction with Rozanov was... unpleasant. Unmooring. He knows Rozanov's not got a problem with him being gay - how could he, when he's had Shane's cock in his mouth - but that look, that glare when Shane had touched him in public. It gave Shane that same agonizing clench he'd had when he'd been outed; like he was wrong. Like he was poison. 

He'd hardly fucking touched Rozanov. He'd not done anything gay. And yet still, because he is gay, a touch to the arm is too much. 

Shane suddenly wishes Nick were here. Nick's never hesitated to wrap an arm around Shane, to sit next to him in hotel canteens, to stand fully fucking naked while chatting to Shane in the locker rooms (Shane would actually kind of prefer he didn't do that last one, but beggars can't be choosers). He'd be the perfect antidote to everyone's bullshit. 

Shane's still trying to compile his racing thoughts when he gets to Daysha and Selena's door. Selena answers his knock, a harried look on her face. "Thank god you're here."

Shane steps into the room, brow furrowing. The TV is on, soccer match in full swing, but Daysha is paying it no attention, too busy rooting through her suitcase. She looks up at Shane with a smile. “I am in love with Vincent Lemaire.”

Now that is a plot twist. “Daysha -“

“Platonic, totally fucking platonic,” she corrects, and Shane's world re-rights itself. “I’ve never had a friend so unburdened by the opinions of others. He told me - with a straight face - that he’s the greatest hockey player in the history of the sport,” she says, excited, and Shane groans. “Is this what the life of a straight white man is like?”

“I’ll ask Nick,” Selena replies, and Daysha snorts.

“Nick is buried under the weight of his own anxiety, he does not count.” Daysha holds up a glittery shirt to her torso, admiring herself in the mirror. “I think Lemaire may be my new role model.”

Daysha keeps talking - apparently, once Lemaire's done with his press conference, they are going out together to pick up women, which sounds fascinating and horrifying in equal measure. Lemaire, apparently, has no qualms about going out the night before the game, and Daysha is more than happy to go with him.

Shane wonders, distantly, if he has created a two-headed monster. 

"Are you okay, Shane?" Selena asks quietly, when Daysha's falls silent to do her eyeliner. 

"Anxious." Shane says in response, and Selena nudges her shoulder against his. "There's a lot of people here that would rather I'd stayed home."

Daysha turns away from the mirror, one eye lined. "Fuck them. Fuck all of their opinions," she declares. She turns back to the mirror, lines the other eye as if it were the easiest thing in the world, and then turns back to Shane. "Maybe Lemaire should be your role model, too." Daysha suggests.

The pillow Shane throws finds its target with a satisfying thump. Thank god her liner is quick-drying. 

In spite of the buildup being Rozanov vs Lemaire, it's Shane that's chosen to take the first face-off for Team North America. He waits by the centre circle for the rest of the teams to get in place, Rozanov by his side. Part of him wants to ignore Rozanov, but the guy had a tough evening, and so Shane extends an olive branch. "I saw the conference. Sorry about Lemaire." 

The conference had been a mess. One of the reporters had asked a convoluted question; Rozanov had looked to Lemaire for help, and found none available. Lemaire had managed to make it worse; had said you take this one, Roz, and left Rozanov to stumble through an answer that made no sense. The reporters had sensed blood in the water, and seemed determined to tie Rozanov up in knots, until eventually PR intervened and put a stop to the whole show.

For a moment, Shane wonders if Rozanov will glare at him here too, be as quiet and strange as he had been the night before at the elevator bank, but he meets Shane's eye. Maybe it's that Shane isn't touching him; maybe it's just more acceptable for them to speak here, on the ice. "Is good you apologize. Entire nation of Canada should apologize for Vincent Lemaire," he snips back. Shane looks at the bench - Lemaire is looking a little green after his night out with Daysha, and Shane expects he'll do very little time on the ice today. Rozanov continues, "I ask if I can do press with you, but league is scared to give you microphone this weekend, hm?" 

"You asked to be with me?"

Rozanov shrugs. He looks around; Shane follows his gaze. There's no one near them. "It ended so well last time we worked together..."

A wave of anger hits Shane like a cannon ball. Shane can't touch Rozanov's arm in an empty hall, but Rozanov can reference them sucking each other off in a full stadium? He wishes, wishes he had something pithy to say back. Daysha and Selena have been helping him with his chirping; he's pretty good against other players, but with Rozanov, all of his instinctual responses revolve around them fucking. Unlike Rozanov, he's not stupid enough to say them out loud on the ice, but he's not smart enough to come up with something else, either, and so he stays quiet, the anger rotting in his gut. 

Rozanov goes to speak again, but then Shane jolts forwards sharply. Ivanov skates away from him towards his goal, the shoulder check unseen by refs. Ivanov calls out something in Russian, which Shane can't understand, but he gets the gist. "Friend of yours?" Shane asks, acerbic, and Rozanov shakes his head.

"Friend of family," he says back, his voice tight. Shane looks again at Ivanov, who is glaring into the stands, where a fan is holding a sign with Shane's face on it, the text QUEER HOCKEY ROCKS scrawled around the edges. 

Shane admits to himself, reluctantly, that perhaps Rozanov has a reason to avoid him sometimes.

The ref comes over, puck in hand, and then there's no time for further chatter. They both lean forward, and then, the puck drops. 

Hollander has a satisfied smile on his face when he enters Ilya’s room, several hours after the All Stars game is over, and Ilya rolls his eyes. “Ah, Mr Big Shot. He wins one meaningless game and now he is Billy Big Bollocks.” 

“I won the shot accuracy competition, too,” Hollander replies lightly, shrugging off his jacket and hanging it on a hook nearby. 

“Nice to win for a change?” Ilya replies. He steps closer, leaning against a wall. Casual, like he could do this all night, like heat isn't already crawling up his spine.

“Sure,” Hollander agrees, equally casual. He kicks off his shoes next, leaving his pristine white reebok socks where they are. “You know Scott Hunter is rooming next door to you, right?”

Ilya had not known. Fuck. He'd specifically requested a different floor to his teammates; he didn't realize that the request hadn't extended to include opposition teammates. “Did he see you enter?”

“No.”

Ilya's hands clench without his permission. “You are too calm about this.”

Hollander looks at him, assessing. “You took your time answering the door. I figured you were ok with the risk.”

I thought it would piss you off, Ilya wants to say. I wanted to make you sweat. It’s backfired, though - it’s Ilya whose skin is crawling, now, while Hollander, stupid, out Hollander, stands there as relaxed as anything. Hollander has the power, and Ilya would do anything to wrestle it back.

Ilya's been unmoored ever since Ivanov first started spitting slurs during the skills challenges; Russia has never felt so close before, not in North America. The Motherland has been breathing down his neck, all weekend. It's been around every corner. It had made Hollander's hand burn, when he'd touched Ilya near the elevators. It's here now, in his Mother's necklace, and Ilya touches it briefly, prays for secrecy. 

“Ah, I forgot, you are Mr Out and Proud,” Ilya sneers, and the cockiness on Hollander drops like a stone, replaced by a pissy little frown. “You want to tell everyone here about your crush on me? Do big kiss-tell?”

“Fuck you,” Hollander snaps back. He realizes his mistake immediately, but before Ilya can chirp back, Hollander steps in, kisses the words right out of his mouth. For a moment - only a moment - Ilya is crowded against the wall, but then he turns, slams Hollander against it instead, revelling in the punched-out moan that spills from Hollander's lips. 

He takes two hearty handfuls of Hollander's thighs, and hoists him up the wall. Another delicious moan - this one half-protesting. Ilya wonders how old Hollander was, the last time he was lifted like this.

He's a little heavy in Ilya's arms. God, it's hot. Ilya's fucked some strong women, and Sasha is hardly a waif, but none of them could match Ilya, nearly pound for pound. Not like this. Ilya's half tempted to drop Hollander now and drag him to the gym, challenge him on every type of lift to prove that Ilya is stronger. It's only his fear of Laura the physio that stills his hand. He and Hollander would break their bodies trying to out-lift each other, that much is certain.

“It will be other way round, I think. I will fuck you,” Ilya promises against Hollander's lips, and Hollander huffs, the air hot against Ilya's lips. He shifts Hollander up, lifts his legs a little higher until Hollander gets the hint and wraps himself around Ilya, locking his ankles at Ilya's tailbone.

“You’re the fucking worst,” Hollander complains, but it's breathy, and when Ilya steps away from the wall, Hollander lets himself be carried to the bed. Ilya drops Hollander to the bed lightly - he almost wants to throw him, watch him bounce, but the threat of Scott Hunter overhearing is enough to force him to be gentle. 

Hollander begins stripping on the bed, eyes never leaving Ilya as Ilya strips while standing, a mirror image of their last time together.

When Ilya climbs over him, the first thing Hollander reaches for is his pecs. Ilya lets him; watches with curiosity as Hollander cups them, plays with his nipples, thumbs at the thick muscle there. Ilya's always been proud of his chest; the muscle there is hard-earned, and looks good in the mirror. What Hollander's doing feels good, too. Ilya's not entirely certain anyone's ever touched him like this - they're usually far too concerned with getting to the main event and fondling what's between his legs. He wonders if he should like it as much as he does; what that says about him as a man.

"You like my tits?" He asks, and Hollander tweaks his nipple, mean, so Ilya drops it. "What do you want to do?"

Hollander doesn't answer. He looks up at Ilya, and there's hope in his eyes. 

He wants Ilya to decide. The control Ilya wants, handed over on a silver platter. God, there's a thousand options on the table, and Ilya wants every one. “On your stomach,” he instructs, and Hollander flips over like a dream underneath him. 

Ilya looks down, and whispers a quiet blyat to himself. He's been in a thousand dressing rooms, and seen plenty of muscular hockey asses. Hollander's, though, is a real treat. The skin is smooth and round and firm, with a light belt of stretch marks that wrap around to his hips. The muscle dents deliciously underneath the press of Ilya's fingertips, and when he runs a finger down the crease of ass, Hollander shudders. He shudders again when Ilya dips his fingers into the crease, searching. He finds his target easily; he's never been one to miss a goal. 

“You have been fucked before?” Ilya asks, massaging at Hollander's rim with dry fingers.

“No. And I’m not doing it now, not with Scott Fucking Hunter listening next door,” Hollander huffs back, even as he presses back against Ilya's fingers.

Ilya looks at the wall, considering. "He is hot. We could be, how you say? Palaeontologists?"

"I don't think they fuck dinosaurs," Hollander replies, breathless. He sounds almost anxious, and Ilya frowns. 

“You are nervous?” He asks, curious. He looks down at his fingers, still pressed against Hollander's rim. “You do not touch yourself here?”

“I’m not nervous,” Hollander lets out a huffed laugh, but it doesn't exactly sound reassuring.

“You are sure?”

“No. I have - a thing.”

Ilya's back in the press conference, suddenly. He has no idea what Hollander is talking about. “A thing?”

“A dildo.”

Oh. Well. That's a delightful mental image. “What colour?” He asks - he wants his imagination to have all the data. “Is big?”

“Go fuck yourself.”

Ilya huffs a laugh, kissing at Hollander's shoulder. “I was hoping to fuck you instead." Hollander dips his head, and Ilya kisses his shoulder again. "Next time.”

Beneath him, Hollander shifts, and Ilya's forced up as Hollander rolls back onto his back. He looks up at Ilya with big eyes, the whites amber in the lamplight glow. “I wasn’t aware we were planning future dates, Rozanov.”

Rozanov huffs. “Is not marriage proposal. If we are in same city, we fuck.” He leans down, kisses Hollander again until he's lax and wanting on the sheets, and then pulls away, slapping Hollander's flank. “Get back on your stomach.”

“I said -“

“I know. I will not fuck you,” Ilya responds. Does Hollander think he does not listen? Ilya is a great listener, thank you very much. “But I would like to play with your hole a little, I think. Just fingers. Is okay?”

Hollander stutters out a breath. “Sure.”

“Sure.” Ilya echoes in his best Canadian accent, and helps Hollander flip back over. He spreads Hollander's cheeks, admiring the view. The skin there is smooth, as if it had been recently shaved and moisturized. "You have cleaned inside?" Ilya asks, and Hollander nods. "A lot of prep for someone who does not want to be fucked," he continues, reaching for the side table. 

"Rozanov -" Hollander starts, silenced as Ilya pours a little lube down his crack. It's not prewarmed, and seems to shock Hollander into silence. 

Ilya massages the lube around, using just a fingertip to swipe it over his entrance. He pours some more on, until the area is slippery wet. "I think perhaps you were hoping I would do this, hmm? Play with your needy hole with my fingers?"

Hollander shifts up onto his knees. "I'm leaving."

Ilya eases him back down with kisses to his nape. "No, Hollander, I want to finger you," he whines, and Hollander huffs, but opens his legs again. Ilya pours even more lube over his fingers, and then pushes forward with one, shifting until he is inside Hollander. He only goes to the first knuckle with one finger, and it's warm inside, pleasant.  "Is okay?"

"Yeah. Yeah." 

Hollander's ass is flexing, and it feels as if he's trying to push the finger out. “You are so tight,” Ilya whispers, and Hollander flexes again.  “You do yoga, no? Cannot relax?” Ilya asks, pressing kisses into Hollander's spine. “Better,” he praises when Hollander's ass finally stops clenching, his finger sliding into the next knuckle.

“Gee, thanks,” Hollander snips back, and Ilya nips the skin beneath his mouth. 

“You are welcome.” Ilya focusses on his finger, buried inside Hollander. He shifts around, trying to find extra space, but for now, there is none. Fuck. Hollander's dildo must be tiny. He pours more lube over the area, and then slowly, slowly starts shifting to add a second finger to the mix. “How does it feel, to have me inside you?” Ilya asks, rubbing at Hollander's rim with his thumb, once his two fingers are buried. 

When Hollander answers, it's in a forcibly neutral tone. “Fine, I guess.”

“Fine?!” Ilya teases back. He reaches forward, slipping two fingers into Hollander's mouth.  It takes away Ilya's spare hand, removes some of his leverage, but it's worth it for the quiet groan it spurs from Hollander. “Ah, there we go. Is better, no? You like your mouth stuffed?”

Hollander makes an annoyed little sound, but doesn't stop sucking the digits in his mouth, and Ilya smiles to himself, kissing the shoulder below him. The mighty Shane Hollander, reduced to needy grunts. It's even better than beating him on the ice. Ilya's only regret is that he can't watch Hollander's face as his ass is played with, but thankfully, he can fix that.

“Roll over,” he orders, withdrawing his fingers and ignoring Hollander's huff. Once Hollander is on his back, Ilya pushes one of Hollander's thick thighs upwards, making space between them and straddling the extended leg. “Hold please,” he requests, and for a moment, Hollander hesitates. “Oh, I forgot. You are shy.”

“Fuck you,” Hollander breathes out, even as he opens his legs wider. Ilya slips his fingers back inside, and without warning, crooks them upwards. He kisses Hollander at the same time, swallowing his punched-out moan. 

"Shh," Ilya chastises as he massages Hollander's prostate, slow and rhythmic. Fuck, Hollander is sensitive. He's already a little shaky, just from a few seconds of this. He's still tight, but now it's like he's trying to drag Ilya into that heat, as opposed to pushing him away.

"Rozanov -"

"Put your hand to work, Hollander," Ilya instructs, and Hollander raises a hand to cup his own pec, twisting the pebbling nipple. Ilya watches him play for a moment, lips quirking up. "I meant on your cock."

"Oh." Hollander blushes beet red, and drops his hand down, wrapping firmly around his cock and pumping quickly. Ilya stops moving his hand, and Hollander huffs quietly. "What?"

"Slow." Ilya nods to Hollander's hand. Hollander moves his hand at a much more sedate pace, and slowly, Ilya matches his pace. They need to be quiet for Hunter next door; a rough and ready finale from Hollander could blow them wide open. "Come on, Hollander. Come. You do not need any more than this."

"I can't -"

"You can," Ilya promises. He lets his hips move, grinding against Hollander's extended thigh at the same pace as his fingers, where they roll inside Hollander. He even dips down, taking the nipple Hollander had been plucking into his mouth and sucking. 

"Oh god," Hollander whispers, back arching, and Ilya watches as he spills over his own stomach. Hollander never increases the pace of his hand, even though Ilya knows the desire to speed up must be maddening, and he keeps going for just as long as Ilya does, only slowing his hand when Ilya stills his fingers, finally giving Hollander's overworked prostate a rest.

Ilya kisses Hollander's pec, just next to his nipple, and then sits up, fisting his own cock now. “Where can I…”

“On my face, if you like.” Hollander says it like it is nothing; like he has not just suggested they recreate one of Ilya's favourite fantasies. His rival, painted with his come. God, Ilya wishes they could record this. 

“You are sure?”

“Yeah, Rozanov. Come on my face,” Hollander repeats, looking down at where Ilya is now fisting himself firmly. 

Ilya does not ask again. He shuffles up the bed, until his thighs are around Hollander's ribs. Hollander's hands land on his thighs, and then move further, wrapping around to grasp Ilya's ass. The hands flex on his glutes, pulling him even further up the bed. 

Ilya's hand moves faster. 

Hollander watches, with a fucked-out, satisfied gaze. He's so lax and earnest, gaze flicking between Ilya's cock and his face. Hollander's dangerous like this; he could ask Ilya for the moon, and Ilya would join the space force to get it for him.

Ilya grasps the headboard with his spare hand, leaning forward. Hollander's hands on his ass flex again, bracing him. “Eyes closed,” Ilya orders through clenched teeth, a familiar curl of passion boiling in his gut. It's embarrassingly quick, but he's been grinding against Hollander's thigh for long enough that he's already on the precipice. 

Hollander closes his eyes just in time. Ilya bites back a groan as he comes, fisting himself through it, hips thrusting a little with the force of his orgasm. The first spurt lands on Hollander's chin, but the rest makes it higher, all the way up to his pretty brows. 

Ilya leans forward, wiping the very last drop off his cockhead onto Hollander's cheek. The skin there is ever so lightly stubbled, and the roughness of it elicits a final, overstimulated flex from Ilya's cock, before he sits back, admiring his work. He is truly an artist. 

Then, Hollander scrunches his nose, and his brows move.

Oh shit. “Keep eyes closed!” Ilya says with alarm, reaching over to the night stand, where a packet of tissues sits. Hollander obeys, thank god. Ilya’s certain they would never do this again if Hollander caught pink eye from taking a money shot to the eyeball. Ilya wipes his spend gently from Hollander’s lashes and brows, until he is content that most of it is gone. “Ok. Open.”

Hollander opens his eyes, looking up. His face, other than his eye region, is still splattered with come, and Ilya’s cock gives a valiant twitch. He indulges himself, dipping down and licking his own spend from Hollander’s cheeks and chin, gathering it in his mouth. Hollander makes a little noise of protest, at first, but his hands drag Ilya closer, and so Ilya keeps going.

When he kisses Hollander again, he lets gravity do the work, the come dripping from his mouth into Hollander’s. When he pulls away, Hollander’s mouth is a little open, and Ilya touches his bottom lip. “You can spit,” he offers. There’s a glass on the night stand - he moves to retrieve it, but Hollander stills him with a hand to his wrist.

Hollander closes his mouth and swallows. Ilya fears he will never recover from this.

Ilya has the urge to whisper good boy, but he’s not entirely sure he’s prepared for what it might do to Hollander’s face - good or bad. He settles for dragging his thumb over Hollander’s lip instead, appreciative. “Was okay?”

Hollander nods. “Yeah. I mean, it was a lot, and I need to wash. But good,” he confirms, then looks back at Ilya with big, sincere eyes. “It was okay for you?”

“Rozanov, come on my face,” Ilya mimics, laughing when Hollander grumbles. He grabs Hollander’s face, smushes a firm brief kiss onto his lips. “You are very fun when you win. Is great shame it will never happen again.”

“Fuck you,” Hollander replies.

"Ah, Mr Agitator is back," Ilya teases with a kiss, and Hollander rolls his eyes, pushing Ilya off him and rolling out to the edge of the bed.

"We are not discussing Pallier right now," Hollander states.

"Marly tried to kill him for you," Ilya offers out. He does not say what he wants to say. I wanted to kill him for you, but Marly beat me to the punch.

"Tell Marly I said thanks," Hollander replies, standing up. "I'd tell him to try Ivanov next, but we all know what'd happen if he tried to touch a goalie."

It hits like a punch. It's true, the Russian words Ivanov had spat on the ice were homophobic and violent, but even if he were not a goaltender, Ilya's hands would be tied. Hollander seems to realize the air has left the room, as he mutters out an apology and moves towards the bathroom. 

Ilya follows, crowding behind him, and Hollander looks over his shoulder, brow raised. “You want to wash first?”

“Save water, shower together,” Ilya replies, because he doesn't want to be alone to think about Ivanov, not yet.

Once the shower's hot, Hollander gets in, eyes closed as he looks up into the spray to rinse his face. He looks like he's in a shampoo commercial, and Ilya lets the visual wipe away all thoughts of Ivanov. Ilya retrieves his face wash before he steps in, and tucks the bottle into Hollander’s hand. When Hollander looks down at it, his nose scrunches up at the St Ives scrub.

“Smells like apricot,” Ilya nudges, and Hollander sighs, but works a thin layer into his glassy skin.

Ilya rinses too. He didn’t really get that sweaty or messy, only a smear of Hollander’s come over his thighs and taint, when he’d shuffled up the bed, and some pre-come and lube on his cock, but he likes the routine of a full shower after sex, washing the endorphins down the drain.

Come on my face. Fuck, Hollander is trouble. Hand jobs and a bit of ass play shouldn't leave him feeling like this.

Ilya’s too heavy with sleep to go for another round, but it doesn’t stop him from looking, from watching Hollander rinse himself clean. The water runs rivulets down Hollander’s spine, and Hollander cups his hand, encouraging the water towards his pink hole. He's unselfconscious about washing his ass, a testament to how relaxed he must feel, and Ilya preens. Flush with inspiration, Ilya bats him away, putting one hand on Hollander’s stomach and replacing Hollander’s hand at his ass with his own, splashing water on his asshole dutifully. He lets his wet fingers dip in, coaxes out a little more of the copious lube he’d put there, helps get Hollander back to the squeaky clean Canadian hockey hero he’d been an hour earlier. He is diligent, watching how his work leaves Hollander’s ass clean again, revelling in washing away the mess he himself made.

When he finally looks up at Hollander’s face, he looks destroyed. Soft around the edges. Fuck. Ilya hums, steps away, letting his hands fall down, and watches Hollander slowly shutter back to normal.

Ilya dries off and heads to the main room, to the small kitchenette. There’s a travel kettle there - his own, a much-used purchase from preseason - which he sets to boil, finding a hotel mug for his teabag. He’d considered, at one point, bringing around a tea pot with him also, but it was too much of a bother, and ultimately, bagged would suffice.

He thinks to offer Hollander one, but when he turns around, Hollander is already getting dressed. He likely wouldn’t appreciate the tea, anyway. Too Canadian.

Ilya watches idly as Hollander redresses, tapping a teaspoon against the cabinet. There’s something Ilya’s forgetting, he knows. Something important.

The kettle begins to bubble, a satisfying, familiar sound, and he turns back to the cabinet as it clicks off, pouring the hot water into the mug and thinking. What is it that he needs?

He looks back at Hollander, tying his shoes. Stirs his tea.

What is it that he needs?

Hollander nods at him. Stands to leave.

Ilya needs to do this again.

“Stop,” Ilya commands, just as Hollander’s hand reaches the doorknob. He stalks forward, crowds Hollander against the wall beside the door and holding him there with a single hand on his chest. Hollander lets himself be pinned, and that does something to Ilya, too. “Give me your phone.”

“No." Hollander doesn't move, and so Ilya frisks him for it, to only a little token protest. Once the device is in his hand, Ilya sets to work - typing with one hand, leaving the other heavy on Hollander’s chest.

“So that we can arrange to meet. Next time,” he says, calling himself from Hollander’s phone and hanging up once he hears it vibrating on the nightstand.

“Next time?” Hollander asks. His pupils expand, and Ilya smirks, remembering his earlier promise of what next time would entail. "You don't think it's too risky?"

"Is risky," Ilya agrees. Jesus Christ, it'd be so much safer to stick with women. It's a shame, then, that Hollander is under his skin. "But you are a good time, Hollander. That is worth a little risk." 

"Really?" Hollander asks quietly, and Ilya does not respond. He returns Hollander's phone. Hollander looks down at the contact sheet. “Liam?”

“Jane,” Ilya replies. He doesn’t kiss Hollander again, though he’d like to.

Ilya holds Hollander against the wall as he opens the door so that he can step out first and check the hallway. Satisfied that it is free of Scott Hunter, he turns to the open door, signalling with his hand to beckon Hollander out, like he’s helping a truck do a reverse manoeuvre out of a tight space.

“You’re such a dick,” Hollander whispers. He doesn’t step closer, though Ilya suspects he wants to.

“See you in two weeks,” Ilya replies, circling around Hollander to step back into his own room.

The door closes, and Ilya rests his head against the door. Alone again, thoughts of Ivanov return, crowding his brain and poisoning the last hour. The words Ivanov spat on the ice were full of hatred and violence. They were aimed at Hollander. They apply just as easily to Ilya, and every evening he spends with Hollander only reaffirms that.

Fuck. 

Chapter End Notes

I hope you enjoyed this new chapter! This was a fun sex scene to write - I tried to include nods to canon, but it's definitely not a carbon copy!

Footnotes

• Palaeontologist is, as far as I can tell, pronounced "palaeontolog" in Russian, so I do think Ilya would be able to guess at the word in English.
• Billy Big Bollocks is a very British phrase that McCullock definitely taught Ilya!

Chapter 8: Sore Loser

Chapter Summary

The Ottawa vs Boston score impacts Shane and Ilya's night together.

Chapter Notes

April 2011

Boston

It is embarrassing, how excited Ilya is for tonight.

It’s been less than a month since Ilya last saw Hollander on the ice, but almost 3 months since they last met away from the rink, despite their best efforts, with late night flights and no overnights scuppering any plans of late-night encounters. They’d texted, though. God, had Ilya texted, sending sexts and dick pics and boring ass updates about his 5k and 10k times.

Hollander had texted back; very few sexts, absolutely no dick pics, but plenty of exercise updates. Per the last messages, Hollander is 10 seconds slower than Ilya over 5k, but a minute faster than Ilya over 10k. Infuriating.

Ilya can’t wait to suck his cock again.

On his worst nights, the ones buried in multiple women and copious alcoholic beverages, Ilya had wondered who Hollander was fucking. There had to have been people, in the months since All Stars. They’d be queueing up for a taste of him. It’d be hypocritical for Ilya to expect Hollander to wait - after all, while he was writhing in jealousy thinking of Hollander, he was often balls-deep in a beautiful woman - but still. He hoped whoever else was fucking Hollander knew how good they had it.

In the run up to the Ottawa, Ilya had found himself with an unexpected few days off after the game in Montreal was snowed off - a concerning omen. He spent the next 3 days checking the weather to an obsessive degree. He’s not sure he could have coped if Ottawa didn’t make it to Boston, so he’d spent all morning watching flightradar carefully, tracking the Ottawa Centaurs jet as it coasted down through Vermont and into Massachusetts, not entirely convinced that they wouldn’t hit bad weather and turn around.

He waits until it lands before he sends Hollander the texts. Hollander replies almost immediately.

Ilya looks at the clock. 11am. Fuck. It’s going to be a slow 11 hours.

Shane didn’t realize it was possible to feel this awful.

9-2.

Nine - fucking - two.

It’s the worst NHL loss he’s experienced, and what’s worse is that it was against fucking Boston. Shane doesn’t want to lose against anyone, but against Boston, by seven goals, is a real low point.

God, and Rozanov’s face.

At first, when it was 4-2, Rozanov had looked like he was having fun. He chirped Shane like he always did, rolled his eyes as he scored an easy brace, met each face-off with a smile.

Then the fifth Boston goal went in, and Rozanov fell quiet.

Then the seventh Boston goal went in, and his brow lowered.

Then the ninth Boston goal went in, and he looked furious.

Shane hadn’t been on the ice for most of the goals, and had scored both of Ottawa’s, but that didn’t help the stinging pain of a humiliating defeat. Seeing Rozanov tonight would be such a mistake - Shane isn’t sure he can face him.

But they won’t play each other again this season, and the stars hadn’t aligned for their previous matches, so they’ve not met up since All Stars. They’ve texted back and forth, including a few photos from Rozanov that Shane had saved carefully in a very hidden folder, but other than that, it’s been nothing since January, and this is his last chance to see Rozanov before June. Shane isn’t about to waste it.

As soon as he’s showered and changed into street clothes, Shane calls a car. He’s sharing with Nick for this trip, who seems thankful for the peace for an evening - Selena’s not working, so Shane doesn’t really want to think about what will be going on during their Skype call.

Shane gets himself to Rozanov’s house, and, with a steeling breath, knocks on the door.

Rozanov is in sweats. His hair smells shower fresh, and there is an angry scowl on his face. Shane braces himself for whatever mood Rozanov’s found himself in, and steps into the porch.

As soon as the front door shuts, Rozanov crowds him against it angrily. “What the fuck was that?”

The question catches Shane off guard with its vitriol, and he shoves Rozanov away, buying himself a little space. “The fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“What? You think it is normal for professional team to play like it is their first time on ice?” Rozanov asks, rage lacing every word. “You are too fucking good for Ottawa!”

“I’m too fucking gay for anyone else!”

“Nine fucking two, Hollander!”

“I fucking know that, Rozanov!” He yells back, and then dives forward, kissing Rozanov, fuelled by all of the pent-up rage in his chest.

Rozanov kisses back with just as much anger, pulling at Shane’s hair and biting at his lips.

They don’t let up on one another. Not when they’re stumbling to the bedroom. Not when they’re stripping out of their clothes, seams ripping in their haste. Not when Rozanov’s pushing Shane onto the bed recklessly, letting him bounce with an oomph.

Rozanov climbs over him and reaches for the bedside drawer, pulls out a bottle of lube and a condom, throws them on the bedspread.

Shane slaps the condom off the bed angrily.  “Fuck off, you’re not fucking me like this.”

For a moment, everything stops. Shit. Shane has wanted this for so many weeks, but now? Like this? His words might’ve been instinctive, but they’re right, and he hates it.

Rozanov springs back like he’s been burned. “Hollander -“ He sounds destroyed and guilty, backing away with his hands raised.

Shane takes his wrist. Stills Rozanov’s retreat and pulls him forward, until he is back over Shane. It takes Shane a minute to speak again - he’s breathless and furious, but he doesn’t want Rozanov to move any further away. “I’m not saying we can’t do anything,” Shane corrects. God. He doesn’t want to talk about this - can’t Rozanov read his mind instead? “Just. I’ve not done that yet. I don’t want to be this angry, the first time."

The sentence knocks the wind from Rozanov’s sails. He doesn’t move further away, but he doesn’t come closer, either, stuck on all fours above Shane. He’s silent, and panting, and his eyes are barely lit by the lamps. Shane can’t tell what he’s thinking at all.

“Is it okay? If we don’t do that tonight?” Shane asks tentatively.

Rozanov finally moves, spell broken with a sharp nod. “I am not a monster, Hollander. I will not be upset if you do not want to fuck,” he says, then dips down, placing a brief kiss on Shane’s lips. “Other things, yes?”

“Yeah,” Shane agrees, pushing at Rozanov’s shoulder. Rozanov resists at first, so Shane pushes harder until he gets his way, moving over Rozanov and sucking at his neck, careful not to suck too hard.

“You can leave marks,” Rozanov offers, and Shane looks up. “The girls I fuck do.”

“You’re such an asshole,” Shane mutters, teeth grazing Rozanov’s pec.

“Come on. Bite me like you mean it,” Rozanov instructs, and so Shane does, nipping at Rozanov’s nipple until Rozanov arches, then laving it with his tongue. He scrapes his nail down Rozanov’s other pec, and moans when Rozanov’s own hands tangle in his hair and pull.  He doesn’t detach; he sucks harder, pressing his stomach against Rozanov’s thick erection.

Rozanov grinds up against him, leaving a wet smear against his ribs. “Keep going.” Rozanov’s voice is gruff, and forceful, and Shane ignores it, continuing to mouth at Rozanov’s pec, until Rozanov tugs at his hair even harder, forcing his head up. “Lower.”

Shane looks down. Rozanov’s cock is reddish pink and desperate looking, and Shane’s mouth waters. Still. He can’t put proper words to his want, and he hopes Rozanov understands. He looks Rozanov dead in the eye as he says, “Make. Me.”

Rozanov looks at him for a long time. Long enough that Shane suspects he’s said something wrong. But Rozanov’s cock doesn’t flag; if anything, it gets even harder. One of Rozanov’s hands lands on his cheek; Shane turns into its touch, opening his mouth to take Rozanov’s thumb inside. Rozanov breathes out, low and slow. “Okay.”

Rozanov uses the grip on his hair - gentler now - to pull Shane off his thumb and lead Shane downwards, towards his cock. “Go on, Hollander. Take it,” he instructs, his words belied by the softness of his touch.

Shane opens his mouth, and goes down as far as he can go, until he gags on it - just a little. Rozanov tries to pull him off entirely at that, but Shane won’t go too far, not now that he’s here.

The head of Rozanov’s cock is rubbing against the roof of his mouth, sending sparks down his spine, and Shane licks at what he can reach, taking care of the rest with his hand. Rozanov’s hand is still guiding him, but it’s hardly forceful. Part of Shane wants to make Rozanov use him, really use him, take every useless thought in his mind and pummel them into nothingness.

Another part of him likes how soft Rozanov’s hands are being, even as his words are rough and crude.

“You are such a whore, Hollander,” Rozanov groans above him, tracing the shell of his ear with a gentle finger. “Trying to deep-throat me like a desperate slut.”

Shane moans around him, and Rozanov closes his eyes. That warrants punishment, Shane decides, pinching Rozanov’s thigh until his eyes spring open.

“Hollander,” Rozanov says, a warning.

Shane does it again.

“Naughty,” Rozanov mutters, his grip turning harder in Shane’s hair. He still doesn’t force Shane down on his cock - though Shane wouldn’t mind - but instead moves with Shane, following him up and down Rozanov’s cock.

It doesn’t take long for Rozanov’s nostrils to flare. He doesn’t close his eyes again, watching Shane move on his cock greedily. He goes to pull Shane off, but Shane is quite happy where he is, thank you very much. He works Rozanov’s cock until it spurts, long and heavy in his mouth, Rozanov moaning through his orgasm. 

Rozanov doesn’t take any time to recover, flipping them quickly until Shane is on his back. “Knees up,” Rozanov commands, manhandling Shane into position.

“Rozanov -“ Shane complains, exposed to Rozanov's gaze, but Rozanov doesn't let up.

“No one has fucked him? Still?” 

Shane looks down at Rozanov, where he is splayed between Shane’s legs. “I’m not exactly rolling in offers.”

Rozanov snorts, and then looks at Shane’s face. “Oh, you are serious,” he says, brows raised. “Your face is wasted on you.”

Shane bucks in his hold, but Rozanov holds him still. “Fuck you.”

“It must be your personality that is the problem.” Rozanov continues, reaching for the lube. “I can play with him again?”

“You can do what you like,” Shane replies, shuddering when Rozanov drips a little lube over his hole, and then frames his ass with both hands, thumbs meeting at his entrance.

“Hello again,” Rozanov whispers, and Shane squirms. “I am angry at Hollander, not you,” Ilya continues, thumbs still stroking gently at the puckered skin, smearing the lube around. “You are innocent victim of our rage.”

“Fuck you.”

“He is so pretty, Hollander. They waste so much camera roll on photos of your face, when he should be on billboards.” Rozanov's thumbs catch on the rim. “Wet and pink and winking at me.”

And then Rozanov rolls forward, and licks Shane there.

“What are you doing?” Shane asks, alarmed, and Rozanov’s head lifts up, brow raised.

“What do you think I’m doing?” He asks blithely. “Is okay?”

“You’re sure?” Shane asks. Rozanov shrugs, as if he’s not sure why Shane’s making a big deal out of this, as if he’s offering to make a pot of coffee, instead of offering to eat Shane’s ass out. “Okay,” Shane agrees. He leans back onto the pillow, and waits.

This time, Rozanov does not just lick over. He licks in. Shane’s breath catches.

He’s licking into Shane’s ass just as aggressively as he’d licked into Shane’s mouth, twenty minutes earlier, and it’s almost too much to bear.

The pair of them are not so good with words, but Rozanov’s tongue feels like an apology.

It gets even better when his fingers begin their apology, too, grinding against Shane’s prostate relentlessly. Shane stares at the ceiling and tries to hold off; a losing battle, he fears, especially when Rozanov wraps his spare hand around Shanes thigh and begins stripping his cock relentlessly. Fuck.

“God - oh, God -“ Shane pants, and then his core clenches, his spend spilling out over Rozanov’s fingers. Rozanov keeps going, only stopping when it borders on cruelty, and Shane thinks he might die.

When it is done, Rozanov kisses his way back up Shane’s body, and it feels almost reverent. He ends with a kiss to the chin, then hovers over Shane’s mouth. “You will kiss me? Or are you too much of a pussy?”

“What?”

“Some men do not like it, after rimming,” Rozanov pauses, then elaborates. “Because they are pussies.”

“Fuck off.” Shane drags him into a kiss. But then, his nose wrinkles, and he tilts away. “Why do you taste like artificial cherry?”

“Flavoured lube.” Rozanov smirks, and Shane pushes him away. He comes back, kisses Shane’s neck instead, and Shane lets his eyes fall shut.

It’s frightening, how tender it feels.

Rozanov rolls off him and hands him a tissue, and Shane wipes himself clean as best he can. Once he is done, he glances at Rozanov, who is staring at the ceiling, deep in thought.

“There is no one else in the league who could have scored your second goal,” Rozanov says, and Shane sighs. Rozanov continues, “Ottawa have highest loss percentage of the league, and yet you score points every week.”

Shane reads between the lines. “So what? You think I shouldn’t have come out?”

“I did not say this,” Rozanov replies. “I am just angry. Is good that you are out and proud, no?”

“No. Fuck no,” Shane replies. His hands find his face, covering his eyes and cheeks, hiding away. “I should’ve stayed in the closet. Then maybe I’d win a fucking game of hockey.”

Shane takes a deep breath, trying to will his own anger away. Because it’s a half-truth at best. As soon as he’d agreed not to go to Cedar Oak, he was always going to end up here. He could’ve pretended he wasn’t gay, maybe delayed the inevitable for a year or two, but then what? Over half the NHL team owners donate to politicians that hate gay people. Five teams run ads on the jumbotrons for the American and Canadian Family Associations. Three players have threatened to kill him for looking them in the eye. Ottawa are shit, but they’re safe. It is good he plays for them. It is good that he is unhappy, and not unsafe.

“Hollander…”

“You don’t get to be angry at me for being on a shit team,” Shane says, before Rozanov can speak further. “You can have your little interviews about a 50 goal season, and your first draft pick, and your playoffs, but we all know which of us is having the record-breaking rookie year.” Shane rubs at his eyes. “And in a few years, Ottawa will be in the playoffs, if I have to drag them there from the depths of hell myself.”

“I’m holding you to that, Hollander.” Rozanov sits up, and Shane looks down. Rozanov’s chest is peppered with red marks; his nipple on his left pec swollen from attention. Shane imagines the cheers Rozanov’ll get, when he walks into the Boston locker room. They’ll ask him which puck bunny left her mark.  “Shower?” Rozanov offers.

Shane shakes his head. Last time they’d ended up in the shower together, Rozanov had nearly cleaved Shane’s chest clean open with his gentle touches. Shane struggled to handle it then; he definitely can’t bear it now, the loss still heavy in his veins. “Early flight. I’ll shower at the hotel,” he says instead.

Ilya nods, climbing off the bed and heading to the bathroom. “You can see yourself out, yes?”

The bathroom door is shut before Shane can respond. Shane gathers his clothes and leaves, as fast as he is able. He wonders if they'll do this again. He suspects, against all odds, that the answer is yes. 

It’s the longest shower Ilya’s ever had. He stands under the pounding water in silence, letting the water drown out his thoughts, and the last drips of misplaced anger run down the drain.

It wasn't how he'd pictured the night going. He'd thought he'd know by now what it felt like, to be inside Shane Hollander in the most intimate way. 

Instead, once again, Hollander had taken him by surprise. Bossed him around. Given Ilya the illusion of control, when really, it was, as always, Hollander who held all the cards. 

Still. Ilya can't bring himself to regret it. Not tonight. 

Chapter End Notes

A shorter chapter this time, with no guest appearances! Coming to you live from an airport. I hope you all enjoyed it!

Footnotes

• The list of donors to US Sports teams is dire. Obviously this wouldn't impact Ottawa or Montreal, but I'm sure many Canadian teams have similar issues.(Citation: The Guardian)

Chapter 9: No Winners Here

Chapter Notes

June 2011

Las Vegas

Jealousy pools in Shane's gut as he watches the three Calder nominees of the 2010-2011 season be introduced. He's at the back of the room, barely welcome, shrouded in darkness. Meanwhile, in glorious HD, videos of Reinhart, Lemaire and Rozanov light up the auditorium. The light casts harsh lines against Shane’s face, and it makes his eyes ache to watch the screen.

Reinhart, a defence-man from LA, is an outside pick for sure, but stable enough, Shane supposes. Defence never makes for that impressive a showreel, but he manages one or two nod-worthy moves in the segment. He's never going to win the trophy, though, and everyone here knows it.

Lemaire, on the other hand, makes for an impressive highlight reel. He’s more than capable of moments of brilliance; it’s just a shame that his cumulative 5 minutes of excellence are spread very thinly over a 9 month season. Based on his showreel, he might be the greatest talent hockey has ever had; indeed, if any of the voters only watched the showreels, Lemaire deserves to win by a country mile.

But, for any actual hockey fans, of the three nominated rookies, there can be only one winner.

Rozanov steps up to accept the award with well-practiced charm. Shane doesn’t listen to a single fucking word he says, lets himself stew in envy as Rozanov holds the Calder in his hands, smiles at the assorted cameras, and lives Shane’s dream. Again.

At least Boston had gone out in the first round of the playoffs. Shane isn’t sure he could have survived if Rozanov had lifted the Stanley Cup too. Ottawa hadn’t even made the fucking playoffs, despite Shane’s best efforts.

After the awards are distributed, when the festivities move to the bar, Shane sits at a table far from the nominees and mentally calculates how long he has to show his face before he can disappear to his room. Rozanov’s already disappeared; no doubt to fuck some star-struck groupie, and Shane feels angry about that too. Not that he’s attached to Rozanov - Rozanov's just the only guaranteed fuck he has, and now that’s gone for the evening, too.

Someone sits down beside him heavily, champagne glass and bottle in one big hand. “Hollzy,” Vaughan greets, clapping him on the shoulder. Vaughan is only here for his involvement in All Stars, just like Shane, but he, at least, seems to be having a better time of it.

“Vaughny.”

Vaughan motions with the champagne glass, nodding at Shane’s ginger ale. “Here, switch with me,” he says, sliding Shane’s ginger ale to himself. The bar had been stringent about no underage drinking, but Shane had already managed a few glasses, and Vaughan doesn’t seem half as concerned as the bar staff. “You look like you could use a drink.”

“That obvious?” Shane asked, necking the champagne. Almost as soon as he’s finished the glass, Vaughan is refilling it to the brim. Shane takes this one a little slower, pressing the thumb and middle finger of his free hand together and trying to find calm.

“Record-breaking rookie season, yet you were sat at the back, instead of up front with the nominees,” Vaughan says. It’s true. He’d hit points totals no rookie had managed before - though Rozanov was only a couple of points behind. He’d been knocking on the door of the Art Ross and Rocket Richard trophy, but in the end, fell short for both. “It was brave as hell to come out when you did.”

Shane snorts. The glass is somehow empty again, and Vaughan refills it. “Stupid as hell, too.”

Vaughan doesn’t laugh or nod. Instead, he falls serious and staid. “In 2009, we had twelfth pick at the draft. A lot of rumours in our camp that we wanted you. I was gutted that Ottawa picked you up,” Vaughan says, and Shane’s stomach twists. On one hand, the Admirals are a lot better at winning than Ottawa. On the other, Scott Hunter could barely stand to look at him. “Ottawa have got a long way to go, but Hollzy? With you there, they might just fucking do it.”

Shane smiles, and wishes Vaughan were a prophet.

One of the league photographers comes near their table, and Shane tries to shift away from Vaughan before they can get their shot, but Vaughan holds him still, frowning.

“Hey, where you going?” He asks, throwing an arm across Shane’s shoulders and smiling at the camera. “Don’t worry, I know I’m pretty, but you look good too. I promise I won’t outshine you too much,” he teases, and Shane nods, smiles at the camera too, hopes he does not look too constipated.

When the league photographer moves away, Shane shifts, awkward. “By tomorrow morning, half of twitter will think we’re fucking.”

Vaughan laughs. “Oh no, I’ll be linked to the hottest guy in the league. What a burden,” Vaughan teases, jostling him. A waiter drops a drink with Vaughan - he shifts this over to Shane too, a bright red concoction with a cherry on top. “It’ll make a nice break from people thinking me and Scott are fucking.”

Shane pauses, raises an eyebrow. “Scott Hunter?”

“No, Ridley Scott. Yes, Hollzy, Scott Hunter. My captain,” Vaughan replies, jostling Shane’s shoulder again. “I’m sure he’ll come find you soon. It’s tradition for captains to do shots with the rookies on awards night,” Vaughan says, peering around the room.

“I’m not so sure about that,” Shane laughs, self-conscious. “Hunter’s not my biggest fan.”

Vaughan’s head swivels on a dime. “What?” Vaughan asks, sharp and concerned. “He said something to you?”

“No, nothing like that,” Shane replies. Fuck, he’d not meant to say quite so much. The champagne’s loosened his tongue. “He just - he doesn’t want to be around me. It’s fine.” Vaughan’s face says that it is not fine, and Shane shifts in his seat. “Vaughny -“

“That’s not fine?” Vaughan says, aghast. “Jesus Christ. Hollzy. That is not fucking fine.” Vaughan stands up, looking around. “I’m going to sort this, okay? Don’t - don’t go anywhere.”

And then, Vaughan is up and away. Shane looks down at his drink, staring into its depths for too long, and then looks up, over to where Vaughan had disappeared to.

Hunter and Vaughan are arguing at the bar, the kind of whisper-argument that Shane’s parents sometimes have; it makes the pair of them look as if they’ve been married for years. Shane snorts to himself at the comparison; Hunter’d probably have a conniption, just from someone suggesting he was married to Vaughny. Vaughan is waving his hand in Shane’s direction, and Shane sighs. It definitely looks like one of his parents’ arguments now; one where they’d disagreed on how to parent Shane.

Dealing with Hunter right now isn’t the top of his to-do list, so necks the rest of Vaughny’s drink - it’s fruity, and strong, and sweet enough to make his teeth itch - and looks for the best escape route.

Lemaire and his friends are drunkenly sprawled over the main entrance - you couldn’t pay Shane to talk to Lemaire right now - so instead, he heads to the elevator bank for some air, sneaking away before Vaughan can see him. He presses the button for the top floor, desperate to see the sky above him.

When he steps out onto the roof, he’s not alone.

Rozanov stands at the edge against the barriers, silhouetted by the lights of the city before him. He looks lax and calm and collected. He looks like a winner. Everything Shane wishes he could be.

“Congratulations,” Shane says. Getting the word out feels like chewing glass.

Rozanov half turns to look at him, and then down at the award in his own hand, as if he had forgotten it was there. He holds it up, considering, and then out to Shane, offering. “You want it?”

Shane might be sick. “Fuck you!” Shane spits out, furious, blindingly so. He can feel that he’s swaying a little, and he hates it; he feels out of control, and nauseous with it.

Rozanov rolls his eyes, drops his hand down so that the Calder hangs near his thigh. He turns back out to the city, the glow from the end of his cigarette brighter than Las Vegas lights as he inhales. He looks over at Shane, eyes scanning up and down. “You are drunk.”

“I’m not,” Shane protests, though Vaughan’s drinks are hitting hard. “I’m - overwhelmed,” he admits instead, loosening his bowtie and moving to the edge of the balcony. He contemplates the view, and does not look at Rozanov.  “I shouldn’t have come.” He could’ve stayed at home. Should’ve, really. He was only invited as he was on the All Stars winning team, and he’d planned to regretfully decline his invitation, but then his mom had seen it, on the counter, and she’d insisted he should show his face. Get to know the rest of the league, if nothing else.

And now, he is here. Drunk. In front of Rozanov. The man living Shane’s dream. The man Shane shouldn’t want. Shane doesn’t speak again; he doesn’t trust himself to say something inappropriate. Something full of envy or lust or wrath, or one of the other seven sins. He’s fairly sure he feels them all, where Rozanov is concerned. He looks over; Rozanov looks so calm, smoking his cigarette. “Can I have one?” Shane asks, nodding at the cigarette.

Rozanov looks at him a long time. “No.” Rozanov shakes his head. “You do not want it.”

It burns. “What the fuck do you know about what I want?”

Rozanov doesn’t react to the fire in Shane’s voice. He looks Shane up and down, considering. “If you were not so drunk, I would give you something else to put between your lips.”

“Fuck you.”

They lapse into silence again. Shane looks out over the city; it twinkles like it's made of fairy lights.

“I fly back to Russia tomorrow,” Rozanov says. Shane looks across; Rozanov is looking at the Calder, tracing his name on the plate, his face aglow from the city lights. The cigarette is worryingly close to the trophy; Shane would’ve never risked it, were the trophy his.

Shane could not give a shit about Rozanov’s little holiday plans, but saying as much would be rude as fuck. “That must be nice,” Shane says instead. Rozanov scoffs, but Shane doesn’t look at him. “I’m in Ottawa all summer,” he replies.

“Of course you are,” Rozanov says back, disparaging, and Shane doesn’t know what to say to that. “Sitting in your bedroom, twiddling your thumbs, no? Waiting for hockey season to restart.”

“You’re such a piece of shit,” Shane replies. “I have friends, you know.”

“But no one to fuck, hm?” Rozanov says, and Shane feels his cheeks redden with anger. Rozanov turns to face Shane, leaning forward, a cruel smirk on his face. “You will spend your whole summer tugging on your dick alone in your room.” His tone is mocking.

Shane bites back. “Sorry I’m not slutting it up all over Moscow,” he replies, judgement dripping from his tone.

Rozanov laughs meanly. “Yes, too bad for you.” Rozanov stubs out his cigarette on the railing, and pushes himself away. “I am done. Goodnight, Mr Canada.”

It’s tempting to let Rozanov walk away, but something deep in Shane’s gut protests. He wants to be the bigger man. He wants to say the right thing - the polite thing. “Hey,” Shane says, and Rozanov turns around. Shane offers out a hand, formal and staid, as if he's not three sheets to the wind. He clenches his jaw, and then forces the words out. “See you next season.”

Rozanov looks at the hand for a long time - so long, in fact, that Shane starts to retreat. It spurs Rozanov into action; he takes the hand, and walks Shane back, until his ass is pressed against the edge of the glass barrier, and until Rozanov is pressed wholly against his front. It’d be so easy for Rozanov to tip him over the edge like this; no one would know. No one would even suspect it.

And yet, in spite of himself, Shane trusts Rozanov to hold him steady.

Rozanov closes the distance between them hungrily, and Shane sinks into the kiss immediately.

It tastes like stale ash and old vodka, and Shane is suddenly glad that Rozanov didn’t give him a smoke, earlier. Even without the cigarette, his own mouth can’t taste much better, but Rozanov doesn’t complain, his tongue sliding against Shane’s. Shane pours everything into the kiss; all his anger, all his upset, and Rozanov takes it gladly, feeds in his own emotions, one hand grabbing at Shane as they make out in front of the Vegas skyline.

Anyone could fucking see. Fuck, this is such a risk, but Shane can’t bring himself to stop. He moans throatily into the kiss, and Rozanov presses their crotches together, and he sees white.

One of Rozanov’s hands is cupping Shane’s face; the other wrist is at his ribs, the hand otherwise occupied. Then, Shane feels it; the sharp outline of the Calder, digging into his back, dangling over Vegas. He rips his lips from Rozanov’s. “Thought I was too drunk to fuck,” he spits out, pushing Rozanov and his trophy away.

Rozanov looks at him one final time, panting from a safe distance away. He looks flushed and smug, and Shane can’t fucking stand him. “You are.” Rozanov nods once, stepping backwards and saluting with his trophy. “See you next season,” he says, sauntering away, and leaving Shane in his wake, destroyed.

As soon as Rozanov is out of sight, Shane turns back to the Vegas skyline, presses his body against the railing until the glass edge digs into his stomach unpleasantly.

The whole city is at his fingertips. He could go anywhere tonight. Be anyone. Fuck anyone. He could leave the hockey world behind for the night, and become just another Vegas reveller. He could pretend he’s someone that wants that.

Shane sighs, and leans back. He steps away from the edge, and heads to bed.

The Calder is heavier than Ilya expected. A glorified paperweight, as far as he’s concerned, as he tips it into his suitcase, destined for Russia.

Winning against Lemaire and Reinhart was as good as meaningless. Ilya’s also better at hockey than Miss Piggy and Kermit; he doesn’t need a shiny trophy to prove it.

No. He wanted to beat Hollander. He wanted second place to mean something.

Ilya had been naive, before the nominees had been announced. He’d assumed that the journalists who voted on the Calder wouldn’t be biased; after all, they were journalists, not members of the league. When he’d seen the top three, and the lack of Hollander, he’d been furious.

St Simon had been less surprised, as they crowded around Coach’s laptop to read the nominees. They’d already travelled to Brooklyn for their first playoff game, and everyone had jostled him merrily when they saw who he was up against for the Calder - he'd as good as won it, that day. After, when the crowd dispersed, Ilya had expressed surprise about Hollander’s exclusion, and St Simon had rolled his eyes. “Roz, most of the writers are at Crowell’s beck and call. He’s how they get their accreditations. He says jump, they say how high,” St Simon said. “Besides, a lot of them are old school. I doubt they needed much encouragement to leave Hollzy off their voting cards.” St Simon jostled him then, good natured. “It wouldn’t have mattered anyway. Even if it had been you and Hollzy at the top, you’d have this in the bag.”

He would. That had been what was so infuriating about it. Ilya would’ve won either way, because despite Hollander’s marginally better points, Rozanov was excellent in other ways, a classic two-way forward, and now he doesn’t get to celebrate that, not when he had to stand next to dumb and dumber for the nominee photographs. Reinhart was a slight step up from John Sullivan, at least - the third pick of the draft who’d been put on waivers within ten games at the top level.

Ilya wonders where Hollander placed in the vote. He wonders if he even made top ten.

Ilya had been tempted, on that rooftop, to invite Hollander down to his room. He doubts Hollander would’ve let him anywhere near his perky ass - Hollander’d been angry again, and probably hadn’t prepped - but they could’ve blown each other, all angry, just like in Boston.

But then he’d seen Hollander’s blown pupils. His slightly stumbling gait. Rozanov is an asshole in many ways, but fucking drunks is the realm of criminals, not assholes. He’d wanted to berate Hollander, why did you drink so fucking much when we could’ve been together, but that sounded desperate. Needy.

He strips down to nothing, dumps his suit in the suitcase too, and zips it tight. His travel clothes are already on the side, ready and waiting. In the morning, he’ll fly to JFK; then onto Moscow, enough time to drop his bags and head straight out into the city. Sveta will beat him here; she’ll buy the first litre of vodka, he expects. It’ll be waiting for him in the VIP.

8 weeks, he promises himself. 8 weeks of sex. 8 weeks of Russia. 8 weeks of partying. 8 weeks of his father. 8 weeks of Sveta.

8 weeks of not thinking about Shane Fucking Hollander.

Ilya lasts 2 weeks. 

He's balls deep in a beautiful girl named Maria when the thought hits him. Her freckles are lighter than Hollander's. 

His rhythm stutters, and she huffs. He kisses an apology into her breasts as he finds his rhythm again. His eyes close, and he imagines the chest beneath his mouth to be firmer. He replaces the clit beneath his thumb with a cock, the tiny waist with something thicker, more sturdy. When he spills into the condom, he sucks at her neck, and ignores the long hairs that tickle his face. 

He doesn't stay the night. He never does.

That night, once he is back in his own sheets, he texts Hollander. What size is your dildo?

Hollander doesn't respond.

Ilya thinks about him anyway.

Shane spends the Summer not thinking about Ilya Rozanov.

It’s a full time job, really. Everything reminds him of Rozanov. Training (is Rozanov faster?). His parents (how is Rozanov doing in Russia with his family?). Masturbating (why do all his fantasies now revolve around Ilya fucking Rozanov?). Every time he gets out his dildo, he thinks of the unanswered text on his phone. What size is your dildo? 

Shane thinks about the text a lot. He wants to respond. He doesn't dare.

So yes. Not thinking of Rozanov is a full time career. 

It’s easier when Shane’s with his friends. They take up enough mental space as it is.

“I really don’t think this is going to be my scene,” Shane warns, as he walks up to the apartment block with Nick, Selena and Daysha in tow. The final days of Summer are coming to a close; training has been ramping up, and soon enough they'll be in preseason.

But, on this sunny Sunday, training has been put aside in favour of meeting up with one of Selena’s friends. He doesn’t know how Selena met this new person; he’s long since learned that Selena knows everyone in Ottawa. She’ll go to the grocery store and come back with a new friend; Shane sometimes wonders if she collects them, like Pokemon.

Meeting Selena’s friends isn’t exactly new. Meeting them to spend the Pride Parade together is, however, far from his comfort zone.

The streets are packed full of revellers, some of whom look at Shane with familiarity, and he pulls his baseball cap lower on his brow. They’re not staying at street level for the parade itself, thankfully - Selena’s friend is injured, and has a balcony that overlooks part of the celebration, so they’ll watch from there. Even so, the streets are loud, and they’re bright, and they are out and proud. Shane, in comparison, looks uncomfortable and awkward, like the straightest man to have ever lived; straighter even than Nick, by his side, who (as far as Shane’s aware) has never sucked a dick.

“I promise it’ll be ok, Shaney,” Selena pledges, pushing him into the building and up the stairwell. “It’s just a few drinks with a new friend. And you’ll like Campbell - she likes sports!”

“She likes hockey?”

Selena’s smile doesn’t waver. “No, but you have the rest of us to chat hockey with!” She promises, and Shane knows he looks unconvinced. “I don’t know, Hollander, chat about treadmill speed discrepancies or something, I’m sure you’ll figure it out. And if not, you and Nick can chat in the corner while the rest of us have fun.”

“Hey, I want to have fun too,” Nick protests to deaf ears as they climb up to the apartment.

Selena knocks on the apartment door, and a voice inside tells them it's open. When they enter, they find, on the sofa, an Amazon. She’s at least six foot tall, and almost as wide as Shane, splayed out like a goddess on a rock, her leg bound in a white cast. “Campbell, this is Shane. Shane, Campbell,” Selena introduces quickly, and then pushes Daysha forward. “And this is Daysha.”

Ah. This, Shane understands. 

“Thanks for agreeing to keep me company,” Campbell says, rolling up to shake both Shane and Daysha’s hands. She has a strong handshake, and though Shane doesn't look across to check, he'd bet that Daysha’s got stars in her eyes. “My rugby team have a float every year, but I’m on bedrest,” Campbell says, tapping her crutches sadly. 

“Rugby,” Shane repeats, nodding. He’s not overly familiar with the game, but he knows it’s physical enough that someone with Campbell’s physique would thrive in it. He's about to ask a follow-up question when Selena wraps an arm around his waist.

“We’ll get drinks!” Selena says, ushering Shane to the kitchen, Nick following sedately behind.

As soon as they’re alone, Shane stops Selena, raises a brow. “Are we here to wingman for Daysha?” He whispers.

Selena laughs. “No, we’re here to give you a seminal queer experience of baby’s first pride,” she says back, chucking his cheek. “The wing-manning is just a convenient side effect.”

Shane rolls his eyes, reaches for the fridge. “How’d you meet Campbell?” Shane asks, as Selena moves around the kitchen confidently.

“Women in Sports fundraiser,” Selena says. “You can be my date next time, Nick was useless. Spent half the night talking to some blonde baseball player that ended up being a massive homophobe.”

Nick tries to defend himself, but Selena only teases him more, until eventually, he gives up. Shane watches them fondly, and once their teasing argument draws to a close, he speaks again. “You can ask me to donate to things like that, you know.”

Selena laughs, handing Nick the drinks for Daysha and Campbell and sending him on his way. “It’s cute that you think you don’t already donate,” she teases. “I arrange it directly with Yuna. Now come on, kid. Let’s see the party.”

Shane sighs, and follows her out to the balcony.

They’re on the second floor, not far from street level, and the road is already full of revellers, singing and dancing and partying. On street level, it is crowded; but on the little balcony, Shane feels surprisingly protected from it all.

Down on the street, it is a different world from the one Shane inhabits, and it is glorious to witness. He’s never seen so many visibly queer people in one space before, and it is daunting and awe-inspiring in equal measure. He feels like an observer, watching from a distance, and he appreciates it; he’s not sure he’s ready to be in the thick of it. He’s not sure he ever will be.

On ground level, he makes eye contact with a teenager. She can’t be more than 17, and her eyes go big and round. He can’t hear her voice, but he sees her mouth oh my god, and soon enough, half her friend group are looking up at him.

“Hollander!” Someone yells.

“Woo! Go Cens!”

“Gay Hockey Jesus!”

“Will you sign my jersey!”

Selena looks over, brow furrowed. “Are you okay? Is this okay?” She asks quietly.

Shane holds his hand out and catches a jersey and sharpie, thrown from below. “This is the most normal part, Sel.”

He signs a bunch more jerseys, plus a few t-shirts and napkins, thrown up from the crowd gathered below. Someone throws a dildo; he opts not to catch that one, lets it flop in the air and then sink back to ground level, to a chorus of disappointed boos. Nick comes out at some point, and the crowd call for them to kiss. Nick places a very chaste kiss on Shane’s cheek, and the crowd boo that good-naturedly too.

Then, in the distance, Shane sees the parade. It’s not far down the road; and Shane points it out to Nick and Selena. The revellers below them disperse, too - no doubt desperate for the best view.

Selena whoops. “Shaney baby, come with me!” She bounces inside, arms outstretched towards Campbell, who is almost across Daysha's lap by this point. “I can see the Orcas float. Want us to get you up for it?”

“Hell yeah!” Campbell cheers. Selena is tiny, so Shane steps in, and between him and Daysha, they ease Campbell up to standing, carrying her weight to the balcony and holding her upright so that she can cheer and wave. It attracts attention, especially once the Ottawa Orcas spot her, but for once, no one is looking at Shane.

The rugby float is fun - colourful and loud, with players of all genders throwing foam rainbow rugby balls into the crowd. Once they spot Campbell, they start throwing the foam balls towards the balcony. Shane catches one, and a cheer rings out. "Your rugby team's pretty gay," Shane says to Campbell, and she laughs.

"Dude. That's literally the point," she laughs back, pointing at their banner, declaring them a safe and inclusive club. She laughs again at the little oh Shane lets out, unbidden. 

The Orcas float passes, and they get Campbell back to the sofa. She’s tired and sore, but so thankful. Daysha flops down beside her, and they stay close, whispering quietly to one another.

Shane hurries back to the balcony, not overly keen on third wheeling, and finds Nick there, alone. “Selena's gone down to the street," he says, and Shane looks down. Selena's already making new friends, and he shakes his head. "Come here, man,” Nick asks, and Shane shifts along the balcony, letting Nick pull him into a rough half-hug. They watch the parade quietly, the dancing and revelry loud enough on its own. Nick squeezes him gently, and Shane looks across. “I’m so glad those other teams fumbled you. You’re one of my best friends.”

“One of?” Shane asks, elbowing Nick gently in the ribs. “Nick, you wound me.”

Nick snorts, and they watch a little more of the parade together, before Nick speaks again. “Did you hear about the trade stuff with Montreal?”

Shane had. They’d lost Drapeau and Pickford, one of the better defenders in their squad, plus their first round draft pick, and gained Pike and Boiziau. It wasn’t ideal - their defence was Swiss cheese already - but Pike was a great wing, and hopefully Boiziau and Nick could cover the goalie weaknesses. “We need a better goalie.”

“Nah. With you and Pike, we’ll outscore everyone,” Nick laughs. “Both teams in every game will end up in double digits.”

“Not if you’re doing your fucking job, Chouny,” Shane ribs. “Pike’s asked to meet up for a drink with me tomorrow.”

“That’s a good thing, right? I doubt a homophobe is gonna invite you out for a beer.”

"Yeah, probably not," Shane agrees. 

Selena comes back up eventually; all of them are a little tipsy by the time the celebrations are through, the sun beginning to set in the distance. Nick and Selena are handsy on the balcony - which feels homophobic during pride - and Daysha and Campbell are all over each other on the sofa, in spite of Campbell's cast.

Shane is alone in the kitchen. He looks at his phone, at the text from Rozanov. What size is your dildo? 

The text mocks him. Rozanov's almost certainly not been alone all Summer. Rozanov's had more than an undersized dildo for company. 

Shane hates that Rozanov was right. The summer is almost over, and he’s still only even been kissed by Rozanov and Jeff.

“You okay, Shaney baby?” Daysha asks as she comes in the kitchen, and he tries to look less morose. She looks well-kissed, and for a moment, Shane hates her. “What’s up?”

“Nothing. Just. Feeling lonely,” he says. It's probably too honest, but, well, it's Daysha. 

She raises a brow at him. “Like, I want a boyfriend lonely? Or I want to have some fun lonely?” Shane shrugs in response. “I mean. Shane, if you want sex, just go find some company.”

Shane rolls his eyes, leaning against the counter. “It’s not that easy.”

“Have you seen your face? It’s absolutely that easy. You’re hot shit, Shane.”

“No offence, Daysh, but you’re not exactly my target audience.”

Daysha laughs and comes over to him. “Shane. I’m a lesbian, but I’m not blind. Just because you don’t do it for me doesn’t mean I don’t understand aesthetics.” She straightens his shirt, brushes his hair through her fingers until it falls to her liking. “I know you’re not confident, but you don’t have to be. Shane, I promise, if you go into any gay bar tonight and smoulder by the bar, anyone you make eye contact with will be putty in your hands.” She walks away, going to the fridge to get more beers. “It’s not hard. If you want to get laid, go get laid.”

“Easy for you to say. Didn’t Selena find Campbell for you?”

Daysha snorts. “I slid into her DMs weeks ago, after seeing a photo of her and Sel at that fundraiser,” Daysha admits, and Shane raises a brow. “Don’t tell Selena, let the straight girl think she’s a queer matchmaker.”

Shane hums. “I don’t know if I should encourage this. She might try and matchmake me.”

“Would that be so bad?” Daysha asks, and Shane shrugs. “Come on, practice. Lean against the counter and smoulder, Hollander,” Daysha instructs, and Shane does as she says. He imagines, for a moment, he is Ilya Rozanov, and that people want him. “Okay. So you look around the bar, find someone you like the look of. If they look back, hold their gaze. Not like you’re about to fight them, Jesus. Just. Look at them like you want them,” she says, and Shane tries to imagine it. “Okay, good. They’ll come over. If it’s a quiet enough bar, you might flirt a little. If it’s a club, you might dance. Or, if you look willing enough, they might skip the pleasantries and take you straight to the restroom.”

Shane breaks character, covers his face with his hands. “Daysha!”

"God, Shane. You're such a prude sometimes," Daysha laughs, roughhousing with him. They only stop when Nick clears his throat from the doorway.

Selena is there too, watching them fondly. “Nick and I are heading off,” she announces. 

Shane has no interest in remaining in an apartment with Daysha and Campbell. He doubts their clothes will stay on for long. “I’ll walk down with you,” he says, hurriedly grabbing his stuff. 

The goodbyes are quick, and he walks Nick and Selena to their apartment a few blocks away, promising at the door that he'll get a taxi back home. 

He does not call a taxi. 

Shane follows the sound of revellers through the streets until he finds a club, loud and sweaty. It's not his scene. It's never going to be his scene, and he looks at his phone again. It's not too late to call a taxi, he thinks. He could go home. Have some fun on his own, if he wanted that kind of stress relief.

Then, he remembers Rozanov’s disparaging tone, as he’d talked about Shane spending the summer sitting in his room and tugging at his dick. It steels his nerve, and he walks into the club.

He positions himself at the bar, just like Daysha had said to. He lets his eyes trail around the dark room, taking in every gyrating body under the flashing club lights. It doesn’t take long; soon, with the heavy beat pounding in his ears, he spots someone that makes his pulse race.

Tall. Curly dark hair, built. Shane looks at the man, waits to see if he’ll look back.

He does. Shane holds eye contact, lets his eyes grow deep and heavy, and the man stares, just as much fire in his gaze. The man pushes his way off the dance floor, shifting over until he is right in front of Shane. He doesn’t say a thing, but reaches out, thumbing Shane's lower lip. Shane lets the digit sink inside his mouth, wet and humid, and watches the man's eyes darken even further. The man guides them away, leads them across the dance floor, heading towards the restrooms.

Shane lets himself be led.

Hayden Pike is late. Not the best first impression, but it gives Shane some time to relax before their meeting.

The clandestine thrill of the night before is still buzzing in his gut. Paolo (or Pedro? Peter?) had been a good time - good enough that Shane hadn’t even complained about getting the knees of his pants wet on the disgusting bathroom floor. They’d spoken afterwards, tucked together in the corner of the smoking zone; Paolo-Peter-Pedro was bland as sin and hated hockey, which was enough of a turnoff that Shane had immediately decided they wouldn’t be meeting up again, but God, what a rush it had been, to be on his knees again, and to have Peter-Pedro-Paolo on his knees in return. Suck it, Rozanov. Shane could get laid elsewhere, easy as pie.

He’s so confident in it, in fact, that he finally responds to Rozanov’s text, from a month earlier. He sends Rozanov a link to the dildo Shane owns. 5 inches, black, with a flared base. Skinny - too skinny, really. He regrets not buying a wider one.

Shane can’t linger on the thought too long; he shoves his phone away as the restaurant door bangs open.

“Sorry, sorry!” Pike bustles into the restaurant, hair a mess and bag askew on his back. “The nanny was late for the twins, and there was a chocolate-related incident, I couldn’t leave Jackie to deal with it.”

“Shit happens,” Shane replies, standing to shake his hand. “Nice to meet you properly, man.”

After the rocky start, Pike seems nice enough. They get through the small talk admirably - Pike has a wife and 2 kids, twins, and they’re living out of a hotel for now. Shane offers to help him find a permanent place - in truth, it’s an exciting prospect for Shane, he loves house hunting - and Pike agrees readily.

Then the real talk begins. Hockey. They get through all the usual chatter - Pike is sharp and smart, and Shane thinks maybe, maybe, there will be someone else in the locker room that cares as much as him and Nick, thank god.

They’ve finished the normal hockey talk when Shane brings up his secret curiosity. “What did you make of Lemaire?” He’s endlessly fascinated by Lemaire; he worries, sometimes, that he’s the audience in a victorian freak show, with Lemaire as the freak. Pike played a full season with him; maybe he will finally sate Shane's curiosity.

Pike blows out his cheeks, considering. “Ok. I know we’re hockey players, not fucking Chess champions,” he starts. “But holy shit. Is his one braincell out on loan or something?” Shane laughs, and Pike continues. “I don’t think he’s had a single critical thought in the whole year I’ve known him. On the ice, he has these moments of brilliance, but it’s so spontaneous and totally untrainable. It’s like he’s possessed by the spirit of Le Magnifique, but only for 30 seconds a month against a bottom of the pack team like Ottawa - no offence.”

“They’re your bottom of the pack team now, Pike,” Shane replies, warm. “Montreal are happy with him?”

“They’re trying to make it work, I think. They’ve pumped a lot of money into promoting him,” Hayden says, taking another sip of his beer. “If it were anyone else, I think they’d crumble under the pressure, but fuck. Lemaire is oblivious to it, man. I think he might actually be inoculated against stress.”

“I’d take that vaccine.”

“Amen, pal,” Hayden responds, holding up his beer, and they clink bottles together. 

Shane's beer is nearly empty - his second of the night. He can't have a third, not this close to the beginning of the season, but he finds he's not ready to go home yet. It's a surprise - he'd expected to be bored of Pike after 2 sips. “This has been fun,” Shane admits. “I wasn’t sure if this was going to be another night where a player came out to me. You wouldn’t have been the first.”

“Holy shit, really?” Pike asks - he looks more curious than disgusted, though, so Shane is content. “I’m very happily married to Jackie. She’s, like, perfect,” he replies, stars in his eyes. “Honestly, it’s kind of insane how perfect she is. I have no idea how she ended up with me.” Pike falls silent for a beat, picking at the label of his beer. “I told her something last night, and she suggested I tell you directly."

"Now that sounds like the lead-up to a coming out."

"Fuck off," Hayden laughs. "Look. You probably don’t remember, but we played against each other a few times in the OHL. My last year, your first,” Hayden says, and Shane nods. He remembers playing against Pike back then; he was one of the better players in the league, and Shane took notice. Hayden continues, “You were so quiet and certain. It stuck with me, through the years. Like, on the ice, you’d see the goal and everything else disappeared. I wanted that. I wanted it so much, that certainty. Then, when you came out, it was the same - you stared the NHL in the face and said your truth. Other than marrying Jackie, I’ve never been that certain about anything in my life.”

Shane laughs. “Hayden. I was uncertain about everything to do with coming out.”

“Maybe in your heart,” Pike allows. “But your face? You didn’t blink, man.” He picks at the label some more, then puts it down, looking at Shane seriously. “I guess I just wanted to let you know, before day one of training camp, that I’m in your corner.”

“Thanks, Pike,” Shane replies. “How about Boiziau? Is he gonna have a problem with me?”

“I’ll be honest, I’ve never spoken with JJ about gay stuff. He’s always been a good guy, though.” Pike thinks on it for a second, then snaps his fingers like he’s remembered something. “He donates to Planned Parenthood.”

Shane smiles. “Pike, the chances of me getting pregnant are pretty slim.”

Hayden blushes. It’s quite becoming on him, and Shane smashes the thought down with the fury of a thousand suns. He does not need a crush on a straight man right now. “Fuck off, you know what I mean,” Hayden grouses. “He’s progressive and shit.”

Shane lets his smile spread. “Progressive and shit.”

“Fuck off, man.” Hayden looks at his phone and blanches. "Fuck. I told Jackie I'd be back by 4. This has been great, man. Really," he says, chucking down enough money to cover both of their drinks and grabbing his things.

Shane smiles back, waving him off. It had been great. Really. 

He looks down at his phone for the first time since sending Rozanov the link. There's 12 unread texts from him. Shane reads them all - they're crude and wanting and teasing, and he doesn't let himself read the words fully. It'd only heat his blood, and this is hardly the place. He turns the screen off, and heads out, a pep in his step.

Ilya can’t stop thinking about Shane Hollander’s dildo.

It’s the most boring dildo known to man. Apt, really. Sleek black, 5 inches, skinny, not even a vibrating feature.

He spends every night for a week imagining Hollander fucking himself with it. The noises he’d make, the way the sweat would pool in his collarbone. The frustrated little crease between his eyebrows, when he realized it would never be big enough to really please him.

It's a dangerous path to dance along. That singular link is the only communication he's had from Hollander all summer; it's hardly confirmation that Ilya will get the chance to do what he really wants and fuck into Hollander with abandon. 

He considers filling the gap with Sasha, just for a night, but casts the thought aside just as quickly. He's only seen glimpses of Sasha this Summer; usually coked off his face in expensive clubs. Ilya had only interacted with him once; he'd given Sasha ₽10,000 and angled him towards Petr, the only dealer in the club that didn't cut his coke with toxic shit. 

Sveta would kill him if he fucked Sasha, Ilya suspects. Sasha's head is gone, even more than usual. According to Sveta, last season Sasha's father did little more than sit on his armchair and spew slurs at Hollander; it had resulted in Sasha developing a strange fascination with Hollander by proxy. 

Join the club, Ilya had thought, not unkindly. 

Ilya is on his sofa, musing on Sasha and Sveta and Hollander, when Boston's 4th line wing sends a TMZ link in the group chat, along with a load of emojis. Ilya clicks it, curious. 

Exclusive! “Take me back!” Plea from Shane Hollander’s one time lover!

He skims the article briefly. There's a single blurry photo - Hollander in the corner of a smoking zone, a handsome man close by his side. After that, a brief depiction of their meeting, as told by the man - blowjobs in a club bathroom. The man - Pedro - rhapsodizes over Hollander's dick for a full paragraph, then the rest of his quotes in the article are lamenting that Hollander wouldn't give him his number. 

A few follow up messages from the Raiders come through - mostly in the form of eggplant emojis - before their captain tells them all to cut it out. 

Ilya’d be a hypocrite to judge Hollander for having a bit of fun this summer. After all, he’s fucked half of Moscow this month. And yet the idea that this man, Peter, got to see Hollander on his knees - a sight Ilya’s not been able to savour for months - sends him into a tailspin.

He opens his phone, and brings up his chain with “Jane”.

Ilya closes the chat with a smile, and opens up his calendar. 15 October 2011. Mark the day; the day he will finally get Shane Hollander out of his system. 

Chapter End Notes

Let me know what you think, your comments give me so much joy <3

Also watch this space, I'll have a 25k+ Hollanov oneshot out this week (part of the reason this chapter was a little delayed, I thought I was doing a polish on the 10k I'd written, but it grew out of control...!)

Footnotes

• A rookie has never won the Art Ross or the Rocket Richard trophy. I know there were some people speculating that Shane might manage it, but even a record-breaking rookie season doesn’t necessarily mean you’re beating the veterans unfortunately.(Citation: Wikipedia - sorry to any of my old professors...)
• The Calder Trophy for Rookie of the Season is voted on by the Professional Hockey Writers’ Association. From my research, I couldn’t tell how intertwined they were with the league, but I think it’s not beyond imagination that Crowell would have some influence there, so if it is inaccurate, please consider this artistic license! (Citation: PHWA)
• The Ottawa Orcas are (very loosely!) based on the Ottawa Wolves, a gay rugby team that play in the city! We will be seeing much more of them in future chapters, I have big plans for them...(Citation: Ottawa Wolves)
• I got a lovely comment from Miss Kate on chapter 6, asking after JJ and Hayden. I didn't want to spoil it at the time, but surprise! I decided I wanted them in Ottawa, and I think it's not an unrealistic trade. I think having a player like Shane in their ranks would make the head honchos at Ottawa more daring with their trade moves, and more willing to take a risk.
• I won't link to it, but for any visual learners out there, the dildo Shane bought was the Lovehoney Slimline Silicone Suction Cup Dildo 5 Inch.
• In 2011, ₽10,000 was the equivalent of around $350 USD. Adding this here as the current value of ₽10,000 is about $120 USD and probably wouldn't get Sasha very far... (Citation: FX Top)

Chapter 10: Keep Coming Back

Chapter Summary

Previously on To Thine Own Self Be True:

Shane Hollander came out as a teenager, and was drafted to the underperforming Ottawa Centaurs. He began hooking up with Ilya Rozanov - while the league does not see them as rivals, they consider each other to be competition.

Half the league treats Shane as a pariah, including the league's golden boy, Scott Hunter.

After attending Pride 2011, Shane hooked up with a guy who sold a kiss-and-tell on him. Rozanov teased him about it, and then asked Shane to hook up after their next game in October.

Shane agreed.

Chapter Notes

A note on tags (includes spoilers!)

Shane/Scott (minor) has been tagged since Chapter 1 as an additional tag. I’ve changed this to be a relationship tag due to what happens in this chapter. I wish there was a way to keep the word “minor” in there, but that’s not how relationship tags work, so c’est la vie. Sorry to anyone who is hoping for a torrid Shane/Scott love affair, but that’s not what you’ll get here - there’s a reason I’ve tagged them as “apathetic mutuals with benefits”. I’ve also boosted Shane/OMC to be a relationship tag, due to his relationship with Bobby. This fic is Hollanov end-game, though there may be bumps along the road.

I'm sorry this chapter has taken so long. I won't bore you with the reasons! I've got my head screwed back on now, and made this chapter extra long to make up for it :)

12. October 2011

The season starts off… better.

Shane can’t pretend it’s good. It’s not. But it’s better.

It’s easy to pinpoint when things shift. After a big loss to Philadelphia, some of the other players on the Cens start planning their night out. Shane and Nick aren’t invited - no surprises there - but the guys extend an invite to JJ and Hayden. JJ’s reputation for enjoying a good time precedes him, and Shane assumes the other guys regard Hayden as JJ’s new +1, two new additions for their party group.

“We are celebrating what?” JJ asks, brows raised. J  He looks around the room, a judgemental frown on his lips. “Calisse, you go out after every rout?” The words are said lightly, but carry a weight to them, and some of the Cen veterans flinch at the implication. “Non, my friends. We will save the partying for after we win!” JJ wraps an arm around Shane, jostling him. “I will get Hollzy on the dance floor and we will party the night away!”

The other players grumble, but reluctantly agree.

Two nights later, when they win at Detroit, as promised, Shane joins them on the dance floor, much to the cheers of his teammates.  JJ, Hayden and Nick cheer the loudest. Shane sticks to ginger ale, but stays out, more nodding his head than really dancing, until well after midnight.

JJ tries, that night, to set Shane up. The man he drags over is attractive, but Hayden pulls Shane aside to say the guy is from some local reality show, and Shane politely declines the man’s approach.

“He was hot, Hollzy!” JJ bemoans, as the man walks away.

“He’d definitely kiss and tell.”

“So?” JJ asks, and Shane raises an eyebrow. JJ continues, hands cupping Shane’s shoulders. “I understand, my friend, that you are private, but you cannot lock yourself away in a tower! Let them talk, they will soon get bored!”

Shane nods and laughs, but still goes home alone that night. In the car home, he redownloads Grindr, then deletes it. Again.

The fallout of the TMZ article had been awkward. No one had made him feel particularly bad, and Farah had shielded Shane from anything the league had to say (thank God), but it hadn’t felt great, his friends and family finding out he’d done, well, that. Farah didn’t think it’d be big news if it happened again - after all, hockey player has casual sex was hardly groundbreaking journalism, it’d have ended up on the cutting room floor if it weren’t for Shane's profile and the gay angle, and surely eventually that would lose its intrigue - but still. Shane was spooked.

His mom hadn’t spoken to him about it at their end-of-summer barbecue. Thank god.

His dad had awkwardly slid him a pamphlet on how STDs could be transmitted through oral sex, which Shane had done his best to forget about. His pre-season tests came back clean. Small mercies.

In the cab, Shane opens his messaging app on his phone, looks at the last texts from Rozanov. The chat has been silent since the end of Summer - but the last texts are all but a promise that Rozanov will be up for meeting next time they’re in the same city. Which they will be, in two days, when Boston come to Ottawa.

Meeting with Rozanov is a terrible idea, as it always is. They hate each other, and if the league found out, Crowell would probably hunt them both down with a crossbow.

And yet, Rozanov is a frighteningly safe option, too. He has more need for secrecy than Shane. He’s never going to TMZ. He won’t even tell his best friends.

He’s also astoundingly good with his mouth.

As casual sex goes, Rozanov’s perfect.

Shane types the message. Looking forward to Saturday.

He rereads the message, snorts to himself, and deletes it. The taxi pulls up outside the hotel, and Shane heads inside, the promise of Boston lingering on the edge of his thoughts.

The Ottawa visitor’s locker room is small - likely intentionally so, and it feels like the Raiders are on top of one another as they dress for the night's game. Ilya likes it. It’s boisterous, sure, but makes them feel like a single unit, one multi-headed beast that’s about to eat Ottawa for dinner.

Shoulder to shoulder with his team, Ilya doesn’t dare get out his phone and check the text chain with Hollander. It’s a shame. He’d love to send a teasing little message and get under Hollander’s skin.

All things going well, tonight should be the night. After texting and flirting and craving, tonight, he'd get to fuck Hollander. The thought has him shifting in his seat - inappropriate, given Marly's shoulder is literally pressed against his own. 

Ilya wipes Hollander from his mind for now, and focuses in on the conversation around him.

Fordham, their veteran Captain, is talking strategy. “It’ll be the same as last year. They only have one plan: Hollander.”

So much for wiping Hollander from his mind.

Phillips snorts. He’s their new rookie, a cocky defence-man Boston picked up in the draft, sitting a few stalls down from Ilya. He’s not great; Ilya hates playing him in training, he's lazy and arrogant, a grating combination. He’s not fun, either; he is a sloppy drunk, and they'd all been forced to take turns wrangling him into taxis, the nights after preseason wins. Embarrassing. Save it for the big games. “We’ve got nothing to fear. Hollander’s not even that good. It’s all hype.”

It’s as if the aux cord was pulled out of a speaker, all other conversations dying a death, and everyone turns to look at Phillips. “What?”

“I mean, there’s a reason he wasn’t nominated for Rookie of the Year last year, right?” Phillips continues, oblivious to the amount of ears suddenly pointed his way. “People want to see him as this hockey god because he is great for their diversity posters, but his stats are all boosted by Ottawa’s style, and really he’s just an Asian queer who’s miles behind Rozy.”

For a moment, the silence lingers. And then, the locker room erupts.

“That’s the stupidest fucking thing that’s ever come out of your mouth, Phillips.”

“Jesus Christ, with that attitude you’ve not got a chance against that cocksucker.”

“Tell me you’ve not watched enough fucking game tape without telling me you’ve not watched enough fucking game tape.”

“I heard Muhammad Ali was an average boxer at best, but you know, great for diversity…”

“He’s going to fucking destroy you and I’m going to enjoy watching,” Marly snorts, and Ilya bumps shoulders with him.

Then, it is time to get on the ice.

Boston win, because of course they do. 7-5. Hollander still manages to get a hat trick. For one of his goals, he moves so easily around Phillips that the rookie might as well not be on the ice. After the game, Phillips looks shell shocked, and Ilya wonders if he can convince the coach to never let him play again.

He texts Hollander. 1 hour?

Hollander responds with a thumbs up and an address. Get the cab to drop you a block away.

Losing never gets easier.

It's a relief, really. Shane would rather die than become apathetic. 

In the grand scheme of things, it wasn't a bad loss. 7-5 against Boston is miles ahead of anything they achieved the season before. 

A loss is a fucking loss, though. It sits heavy in his bones, even as he drags himself around the house tidying - drags himself into the bathroom, too, and tidies himself. Ready for what's to come. 

Rozanov. Fuck, he'd looked good on the ice tonight. His line moved like a single entity with Rozanov at its heart, slicing through the ice. It was so fucking annoying. 

It was so hot. 

Soon enough, the house is spotless, Shane is spotless, and the supplies are ready. There's no more articles to read, no more time for research. There’s nothing left to do but wait.

Shane leans against the cupboard in the hall, barely a meter from the front door. It's too eager. It's not close enough. 

Rozanov has barely knocked when Shane wrenches the door open, dragging him in and pressing him back against the door firmly. He doesn't bother with small talk; just wraps himself over Rozanov greedily and dives in, letting the kick of endorphins wash away his disappointment at the game.

Rozanov flips them, pressing Shane into the door instead, and Shane can't help the aroused groan it coaxes from his lips. Fuck, it's embarrassing how much he wants this. 

Rozanov rips his lips away, avoiding Shane's needy attempts to chase them down. Shane doesn't need or want pleasantries right now, and is about to complain, but pleasantries are not what spill from Rozanov's lips. “What did you think of Phillips?”

It takes a second for Shane’s brain to come back online. “Who?”

Rozanov looks at him, impatient. “#37. Defence. Rookie.”

Shane frowns. “The one that skates like there’s molasses on the ice?”

Rozanov nods, still examining him closely. “Yes. Him.”

This Phillips chat is slowly killing the arousal in Shane’s gut. Bad hockey is a real mood killer. “Why do you want to talk about him?” He asks, pissed off.

Rozanov smirks, crowding in close again. “Never mind. Is not important,” Rozanov replies, hands roaming around Shane's torso greedily. “So, tonight…” Rozanov’s words trail off, while his fingers trail down Shane’s spine, coming to rest on the crease of his ass.

“I prepped.”

“Yes?” Rozanov asks, and Shane nods. “Good little Boy Scout.”

"Go fuck yourself," Shane mutters back, kissing Rozanov again. He pulls away for long enough for Rozanov to kick his shoes off onto the stand, and then Shane is pulling him into the house. "Come on."

They stagger through the living space, occasionally stopping to feel each other up a little more. It's intoxicatingly good; Rozanov is rough with him, as desperate as Shane feels. 

They reach the bedroom and Rozanov goes to push him down, but Shane resists. “Wait,” Shane mumbles against his lips, and Rozanov stops with a frown. Shane pulls away, and picks up the towel he’d put at the end of the bed. At one point, twenty minutes into his wait, Shane had thrown all of the decorative pillows off the bed and spread the towel out across the bedspread, ready, but it felt presumptuous, and he’d folded it away again, put back one or two of the pillows.

He spreads it out again now. It’s a bath sheet, a bit ragged, but it’ll do the job. When he turns around, Rozanov has his brows raised, and Shane frowns, defensive. “For cleanup.”

“Boy Scout,” Rozanov repeats, and before Shane can argue against it, Rozanov is there, pushing him onto the towel and crowding above him, wrestling both of their t-shirts off. It would be easier if they were both still standing, but apparently Shane’s the only one with fucking foresight around here.

He wrestles Shane's sweatpants off next, leaving Shane exposed. Rozanov holds him by the hips, hands squeezing as he stares at Shane's crotch unabashedly.

“Rozanov -“

“Sh. Let me look,” Rozanov demands, pinching his hip lightly, and then letting go, bringing a finger to trace down Shane's cock like a massive fucking tease. “This is the cock that essays have been written about.”

Shane rolls his eyes. “You’ve seen it before.” He shifts, tries to reach for Rozanov's sweatpants, but Rozanov bats him away. 

“Hm. Did not look closely enough.” Rozanov continues to stare, and Shane flushes as his tip leaks. Fuck. “Is long. Sensitive. Red.”

“It’s fine,” Shane bites back, closing his eyes. Fuck, he'd thought about that text from Rozanov too much, these last few months. “That’s what you said over text. Fine.”

“Maybe a little better than fine,” Rozanov concedes, running a finger down Shane’s length again and making him shiver. “Am surprised your teammates do not salivate in the showers for a taste of it.”

“Fuck off,” Shane mutters, eyes still closed. They open sharply when a hot wet tongue runs up his length, and Rozanov laps at his slit, spurring a desperate moan from Shane's lips. 

Rozanov slides off his cock with a smug pop, using his hand to smear his spit up and down Shane's cock. “Is a shame that he is not the main event today,” Rozanov laments teasingly. “Do you have lube?”

"No, I thought you could fuck me dry," Shane deadpans, and Rozanov pinches his hip again. "Top drawer," he instructs. Rozanov moves to collect it, but as soon as it's in his hand, Shane tenses. “I can do it. If you don’t want to.”

“I want,” Rozanov mutters, coming up for a kiss, which he drags out, coaxing. And then, somehow unexpected, his lube-wet fingers are resting at Shane's entrance. 

They've done this part before. It shouldn't feel so vulnerable. It feels good, and too much, and Shane arches into it as the first finger slips inside, shifting his head to the side to hide his face away. 

Rozanov has worked up to two fingers by the time he speaks next. Shane can hardly hear the words, his blood is pulsing so hard. “You have not done this next part yet,” Rozanov says, accenting his words with the firm press of fingers to Shane’s prostate, and Shane squirms. “With someone else.”

“No,” Shane replies. A self-conscious laugh leaves his lips unintentionally. “I mean. It’s bad enough my dick being dissected on TMZ. I don’t need my ass there, too.”

Rozanov hums, looking at where his fingers disappear into Shane. Rozanov’s gaze is too much; Shane’s not shy, but it feels exposing, spread out like this, and the feeling wobbles on a tightrope between arousing and uncomfortable. “Maybe I will kiss and tell on you.”

Shane barks out a single laugh, this time more genuine. “To the Moscow Times?”

“Mm. A tale of capitalist greed,” Rozanov teases as he adjusts his hand, slips in a third finger, and Shane tips his head back. He can’t look at Rozanov now, not when he feels like this. It’s too much. Far too much.

“I’m ready,” Shane mutters through gritted teeth. He feels out of control. He wants Rozanov out of control, too.

“I say when you are ready.” Rozanov keeps going, rubbing at Shane’s swollen prostate, teasing at his cockhead with wet lips, plucking at his nipples, until Shane is a puddle, boneless and desperate. His orgasm is on a knife-edge, and Rozanov won’t let him tip over, no matter how much he pleads, and he feels torn open, exposed, and he hates Rozanov, hates him. He says it aloud at one point, and Rozanov laughs at him, kisses him meanly, whispers I hate you too between the kisses.

Finally, Rozanov pulls out his fingers, slapping Shane on the thigh. It’s not a stinging slap, but the wet clap of lubed-up fingers against thigh makes Shane squirm. “Now, you are ready,” he declares, moving forward until he is cradled in the vee of Shane’s legs. He shifts Shane up, until he’s slightly in Rozanov’s lap, and it’s even more vulnerable than fingers had been.

Rozanov’s cock presses in, slow and careful, and Shane’s glad that Rozanov made him wait. It’s blunt, and big. Really, really big. Big enough that Shane’s own cock starts to flag a little at the stretch. It’s not a sharp pain, but a constant, dull ache, like leaning too deeply into a yoga pose, and Shane breathes through it. “Is okay?” Rozanov asks, stilling his hips, and Shane nods.

“Keep going.”

“Okay,” Rozanov replies, working the final few inches inside and then stilling once more.

It doesn’t feel bad, but it doesn’t feel good, either. Shane’s so full, and warm, and a little overstimulated, surrounded by Rozanov. The foreplay felt better than this, and he’s almost tempted to ask Rozanov if they can go back to that.

Shane takes a breath instead, forces himself to sink a little deeper into the towel. “You can move,” he whispers, and Rozanov nods, but doesn’t move.

Rozanov leans down, lips meeting Shane’s, and it’s an improvement. He’s even more surrounded by Rozanov than before, but the kiss takes him out of his head, leaves everything warm and thick. Rozanov’s hand squeezes his waist, then rolls up to grab his pec, and that’s nice. That’s really, really nice.

Rozanov breaks the kiss, but their faces stay connected, even as he tilts his head to look between their bodies. “Ah, good. You are getting back in the game. I was worried we had lost you.”

Shane looks between their bodies too. He’s getting hard again. Thank god. “Just needed to warm up a bit.” 

Rozanov smiles at that, then dips down again, his necklace tapping gently against Shane’s chin as he kisses his brow, and finally, fucking finally, begins to grind his hips.

Every rough grind feels better than the last. Better still when Rozanov begins pulling out a little further, thrusting in earnest, pumping his hips against Shane's ass firmly. They build a rhythm like that, Rozanov pumping forward, Shane grinding back, and it's incomparable to anything else he's ever felt. It's everything. Everything. He's so close, and they've barely been going five minutes. 

Rozanov pulls out and flips Shane over, like he weighs nothing. Fuck. It’s so fucking hot.

When Rozanov thrusts back in, Shane can feel it in his throat, and it is perfect.

“Touch yourself,” Rozanov commands, and Shane wishes he could, he’s so close. He tries to move his hands, but the rut of Rozanov’s hips is too intense, he’s too well braced on his elbows, and he doesn’t want them to have to stop and rearrange. “Fuck, Hollander, touch yourself, I am close - Need you to come -“

It turns out Shane doesn’t need to touch himself. Rozanov’s cock is firm against his prostate, and his voice is insistent and unlocks something deep, deep inside Shane.

He gasps once, and then -

And then -

“Are you - Oh God, Hollander -“

Shane comes hard, spilling down onto the towel without a hand to help him get there.

His whole body pulses with it. His cock, his chest, his ass. God. Clenching down on Rozanov’s cock is like nothing he’s ever felt before. Not just from the size; the warmth of him, the fact he’s still grinding, still chasing his own pleasure, not like Shane’s dildo that stops moving as soon as Shane loses concentration. Shane drops from his elbows to his chest, gasps punched out of him as Rozanov fucks into him hard enough to stretch Shane’s orgasm into a languid, endless thing.

Rozanov’s hips stutter, and Shane wishes he could see Rozanov’s face as he comes inside Shane. He’s panting, out of control, a delightful sound, and then slowly he lowers down, kissing his way along Shane’s spine. Shane didn’t think it was possible to sink his chest down further, but somehow, he manages it, ass still high in the air as Rozanov curls around him.

When Rozanov slides out, the loss feels infinite. Rozanov leans away as he does so, and when Shane tilts his head to see, he finds Rozanov looking at his ass, a thumb against the rim. “What are you doing?”

“Was your first time. Just checking I did not damage you,” Rozanov says, coming up to kiss at Shane’s shoulder. “I am very big, after all.”

Shane snorts. “Your ego can be seen from space,” he says, using the corner of the towel to wipe the last remnants of come from his own stomach. "Water?" He asks, and Rozanov nods. 

Shane reaches for the bottles he'd placed while he was tidying. It was a tip he'd read on some forum - fucking was thirsty work, apparently. There's still icy condensation on the bottles, and Shane realizes his mistake at the same time that Rozanov realizes what Shane has done. "Did you get these out of the fridge, just before I arrived?" He asks teasingly, groaning when Shane hides his face. “Hollander you are killing me.”

"Don't be a dick about it, do you want the water or not?" 

Rozanov takes the bottle, takes a hearty swig. Shane watches his bare throat swallow, and licks his lips. He opens his own bottle, and drinks half of it in one gulp. 

Ilya muses on what to say to Hollander, as they stand at the doorway of Hollander's home, waiting for Ilya's cab. He's never been one for silence, and now that the sex is done, Hollander seems to have fallen into his usual awkward persona, far from the fun desperate mess he'd been thirty minutes earlier. 

Not that Ilya is one to talk about desperate. 

Fuck, but Hollander had been impatient about sex. Trying to rush through the foreplay, get fucked before he was even half-stretched. He'd practically begged for it, and Ilya had eaten it up with a spoon, dragged the whole thing out, made Hollander wait until Ilya was on the edge of coming himself, without being touched even once. 

And then Hollander had come without even a feather touching his cock.

Personality wise, they might clash, but fuck are they suited to fucking each other. 

“Is unfortunate for you, that I am the first person you have fucked. All others will pale in comparison,” Ilya declares. He's sincere about it, even though Hollander rolls his eyes. 

“Oh yeah?” Hollander asks. He steps forward, bringing a bold hand to rest at Ilya's waist. “We’re in Boston next month. You want to show me what I’m missing?”

It shouldn't happen. “Bad idea.”

Hollander nods. “The worst.”

Ilya gives Hollander his address, watches him write it down in a little address book under the name Liam. It's the behaviour of a 90 year old pensioner, not a 20 year old Speedo model.

It shouldn't get Ilya hot under the collar. It's fucking embarrassing.

“You will remain celibate little monk until then?” Ilya asks, trying to get the upper hand once more. 

“Fuck you,” Hollander replies, though he still sounds too fucked out to be angry. “I don’t want to end up on fucking TMZ again.”

Ilya crowds him against the door. His phone buzzes in his pocket. The taxi is outside. “Then fuck someone who’s in the closet, Hollander,” he whispers with a kiss. 

Hollander's eyes are big and wounded when Ilya pulls away. “I don’t want to date someone who wants to keep me secret, Rozanov.”

Ilya holds his chin, looks him dead in the eye. “You are looking for marriage? Or you are looking for someone to fuck?” He softens his words with another kiss, slow and gentle. “Find a closeted man to fuck, Hollander,” he whispers against Hollander's lips, as if it's what Ilya wants, as if the possessive curl in his gut does not exist. “And if not… you will have to wait until I see you next month.”

Ilya pulls away and leaves. He does not look back. 

November 2011

In New York, under the bright lights of the Admirals' Arena, Shane is buzzing. 

They're leading against the Admirals, away from home. It's too early to celebrate - they're only one period in - but Ottawa are winning against a playoff contender. 

It's the biggest sign of progress they've had all season. The Admirals look frustrated as they leave the ice; Shane revels in how unfamiliar it is. The locker room is boisterous, even with over half the game to go. It's like they believe they can win. 

It feels remarkable. 

Then, as they're heading back out, something unexpected happens. Vaughan pushes a reluctant-looking Hunter in Shane’s direction. Hunter approaches like Shane's the hangman.

“Rook,” Hunter nods. He looks back at Vaughan, and then sighs, addressing Shane again. “Come round to mine for a drink after. There’s something I want to talk to you about.”

Behind Hunter, Vaughan is throwing Shane a double thumbs up. Shane sighs to himself, but nods. He hardly wants an enemy out of Crowell's golden boy. 

The rest of the game is a hard-fought slog. The overtime loss hurts, but last year Shane had been embarrassed at how easily the Admirals had steamrolled them. The frustrated locker room is bliss compared to last year’s quiet acceptance.

Before long, Shane is ready to go.  Hunter only lives a few blocks from the stadium, so Shane walks, thinking to himself about the night ahead. It’s already 10pm, he’d rather go to his hotel and sleep forever, but fuck it, he’d said yes, and intends to see it through.

Hunter's far from the first player to ask Shane to meet in private, and the meetings usually fit into one of two clear categories.

1. The player wants to show how totally cool they are with gay people. This was the most common way these nights went; there were a whole host of reasons that players felt the need to prove this, the most common being a) their girlfriends. b) their sponsors and c) their teams.

2. The player was gay, and wanted to come out to Shane. This was rarer than Category 1 - so far, it had accounted for four of Shane’s private chats. After the second time it happened, Shane had developed a formula, to keep things quick, caring enough to not seem like a monster, but not enough to invite weeping (and boy, had there been weeping for one Florida defence-man). Ultimately, he only cared about one question: are you going to come out too? So far, he’d asked the question four times, and had four firm nos.

Scott Hunter, obviously, belonged to the Category 1.c. See, Carter, I’m totally cool with gay people! Shane couldn’t begrudge the meeting; he’d rather have more awkward allies than a whole host of dicks throwing slurs at every game.

And that is why Shane forces himself to trudge over to Scott’s apartment, even though he’d much rather spend the evening relaxing in his hotel. He’s still not entirely convinced that Hunter is the good guy he pretends to be, but homophobe pretending to be accepting is better than homophobe committing hate crimes, so Shane will take what he can get.

“Thanks for coming, Shane,” Hunter greets when Shane arrives. He’s in sweats, just like Shane, but Hunter’s look almost tailored to him. Even at his most relaxed, he has to be perfect. He looks at Shane a little too long, that strange assessing stare that Hunter has always sent his way, but then steps aside, letting Shane into his home.

It’s a nice fucking apartment. High ceilings, pristine surfaces, big, floor to ceiling windows. The decor is a little too Patrick Bateman for Shane’s liking, but he lets it slide. He stands at the entryway, awkwardly looking for the shoe rack. “Where can I put my shoes?”

“Just keep them on,” Hunter replies. Shane forces himself not to make a face. “Make yourself comfortable,” Hunter invites, waving Shane towards the living room.

“Thanks, man,” Shane replies, heading in, trying to sound relaxed. He’s not sure he hits his mark. Hunter heads to the kitchen, opening the fridge. "I can't stay long. Early flight."

“No problem, man. This should only take ten minutes. I got the juice you liked,” Hunter calls, shaking the same sad carton of juice from concentrate that Shane had been reduced to drinking at All Stars. Great. "Good game tonight."

"Thanks. Glad we gave you a fight, this time," Shane replies, making his way to the sofa. 

"Won't happen again, I can promise you that," Hunter calls back, and Shane laughs stiltedly. God, he's too tired for small talk and half-hearted chirping. 

Shane sits down gingerly on the stiff white sofa, turning his attention to the coffee table. It is pristine, everything at sharp right angles, other than one book, which lies open on the table. Shane picks it up, looking at the cover. Spree Killings: The Mind of A Murderer.

Jesus Christ.

Shane flips through a few pages, alarmed to see that Hunter has underlined a few phrases. Shane skims them, brow lowered, rereading the most recent underlined quote.

To control whether another human lives or dies requires a uniquely focussed mind.

“It’s all about spree killings, and the psychology behind them,” Hunter says, suddenly directly behind Shane, and Shane jumps a foot. “It’s really interesting. I don’t think I could do a spree killing myself.” Shane watches with wide eyes as Hunter comes around the table, sitting in the armchair.  Hunter takes the book from Shane’s hands, closes it. Puts it on a right angle on the coffee table, just like all the other books. “It’s just a special interest of mine.”

Great. Shane hadn’t considered that there might be a third category for why Hunter invited him over.

Scott Hunter has brought him here to murder him.

The worst part is, Shane’s Canadian manners have kicked in, and he can’t bring himself to throw the disgusting orange juice in Hunter’s face and run for the hills.

Only Vaughan knows that Shane is here. Vaughan is a good guy, but he’s Hunter’s best friend. He would probably believe whatever tale Hunter spins about Shane’s disappearance. He might even cover for Hunter.

Shane chugs half the orange juice, then looks at the glass with wide eyes. Is it poisoned? Christ. He needs to leave. “Look, Hunter, we don’t have to stretch this out,” he says, affable and kind and not at all terrified. “I get it, you don’t have to like me. I’m not going to go around telling people you’re a homophobe just because you don’t want to hang out with me.”

Hunter shifts in his seat, a frown on his face. “Rook, it’s not that -“

Shane keeps going. He wipes one sweaty palm on his sweatpants. He looks at the book again, shifts in his seat. Has Hunter killed before? “I get it. I honestly do. You’re a good guy. You don’t have to do this.”

“Shane -“ Hunter stands up. Fuck, he’s tall. Shane’s gonna have to fight dirty if he wants to get out of here alive. He could smash the glass? Would that work?

Shane stands up too. Forget manners. He needs to leave. “It’s fine, Hunter. So long as you’re not committing hate crimes, I really don’t give a -“

“I’m gay,” Hunter says, a burst of energy, and Shane freezes. Hunter’s shoulders collapse in on himself, and suddenly, he doesn’t look quite so tall.  “Please don’t tell anyone.”

Well.

Shane sits back down slowly. “You’re not going to kill me.”

“What?” Hunter asks, confused and upset. “No. Is this about the book? I just like true crime.”

Shane nods, looking at Hunter, who is slowly easing himself back into the armchair. He’s so highly strung he looks like he might pass out, and Shane suddenly feels like he’s looking through a portal. Is this who Shane would have been, 10 years from now, if he hadn’t come out? Forcing himself to control everything, everything, in the hopes of pretending he didn’t want men?

The thought gives Shane an ounce of sympathy for Hunter, and he tries to recalibrate for Category 2, though every part of him wants to walk out and leave this awkward evening behind. He forces himself to remember his practiced speech for when players come out to him. It’s impersonal and vague; perfect, as far as Shane’s concerned. “Thank you for telling me. I know coming out can be daunting. Are you considering coming out to anyone else?” The words come out like he’s a robot, but he can’t help it. He’s still recalibrating.

Hunter laughs wetly, head in his hands. “No. God no. I hadn’t even planned on coming out to you.”

Shane nods. “I get it. I hope that one day, hockey will be accepting enough that you can come out to your team,” he says. God, now he sounds like a PSA, but still. Steps one and two of how to deal with someone coming out to you complete. Time for step three: a swift and graceful exit. He should probably wait for Hunter to look a bit less seasick, but fuck it. Hunter’s in his thirties; what comfort could Shane even offer? The sooner Shane left, the sooner Hunter could phone someone that could actually help.

Shane finishes the dregs of the sad orange juice and stands, suddenly glad he’d not had to remove his shoes.  He’s already turned to the door before he next speaks. “Thanks for the juice, I’m going to -“

“That’s it?” Hunter asks, and Shane freezes. “Sorry, I thought maybe you’d have a bit more of a reaction to finding out you’re not alone.”

The words curdle in Shane’s gut, and he turns back, slow and intentional. “Do you think you are the first player to come out to me?”

It catches Hunter off guard. “What?”

“It’s always the same. You’re the only one who understands, Shane. Please don’t tell anyone. I’ve been carrying this for years,” Shane mocks, and Hunter bristles. It doesn’t stop Shane. “I came out. I dealt with the backlash. And now I listen to other players tell me they know what I’m going through, that they’re dealing with the same struggles as me, that I should be thankful that I’m not alone, when they get to keep pretending that they’re just like everyone else.”

Hunter is frozen, scanning Shane's face as if he doesn't believe there could possibly be other gay players in the league. “How many?”

“You’re the fifth.” Shane sits back down, heavy, his head falling to his hands. “I’m fucking sick of keeping other people’s secrets.”

“Okay,” Hunter says, leaning forward himself, and looking at Shane with big, sad eyes. “Tell me one of your secrets, then.” Shane looks at him, considering, and Hunter repeats himself. “Tell me a secret, Rook.”

“I fucked another player.” Shane doesn’t mean for the words to tip out of his mouth, but they do. It’s a relief to say it out loud. “More than once. They’re not out. We’re not exclusive or anything, but yeah.” Shane drags a hand over his face. 

The room falls silent. 

“You fucked another player,” Scott repeats eventually, as if the words don’t make sense.

“Yes.”

Scott licks his lips. “And you’re… not exclusive.”

Shane’s never been the best at social cues, but he’s fairly sure he doesn’t mistake the look in Hunter’s eyes, and just like that, the evening shifts.

The fear, the anger, they sink away, but the adrenaline remains. He remembers Rozanov's words to him, find a closeted man to fuck. Hunter would tell nobody; he seems even more scared of his secret coming out than Rozanov.

Hunter’s hot. Talented. Available. Old, but fuck it, he's far younger than Jeff had been. "No. We're not exclusive. We're not anything, really. Just a bit of fun." Shane's not exactly a pro at flirting, but he lets the silence afterwards linger, until Hunter shifts in his seat, and Shane smiles. “Why don’t you give me a tour of your place, Hunter?” Shane asks. His voice is steady; far smoother than he feels inside.

“Well,” Hunter starts, slowly standing up. He doesn’t look away from Shane, not for a moment. “The living space is all open plan, so what you see is what you get,” he says, motioning for Shane to follow. “That door right there is my gym. Just a few dumbbells and a pull up bar.” He walks down the long corridor, coming to another door. “And this is my bedroom.” He swings the door open.

Shane pushes his way into the room, coming to stand in its centre. It’s the most standard bedroom Shane has ever seen. As much personality as a Marriott. “Mind if I make myself comfortable?” Shane asks, and Hunter nods.

“By all means.”

Shane slips out of his shoes first. Then his sweatshirt; there’s an armchair nearby, and he drapes it over the arm to keep it neat. He looks to Hunter; he nods for Shane to keep going, and so Shane strips, until finally he is stood naked in the centre of Hunter’s bedroom.

He hopes he doesn’t look as awkward as he feels. 

“Naked is your idea of comfortable?” Hunter asks, calm and collected, so far from the stressed man he had been in the living room.

Shane wants to ruin his cool. “You have the heating set to tropical,” he chirps, watching as Hunter walks slowly closer. “I know pensioners get cold easily, Mr Hunter, but really -“

Hunter shuts him up with a kiss, firm but brief.

“Get on the bed,” Hunter instructs, and Shane scrambles over so that he can watch Hunter strip. Sure enough, it’s a pretty impressive view.

When Hunter slides his underwear down his legs, his cock is cut, and Shane resists the urge to tilt his head like a dog, curious.

Then, Hunter turns off the overhead light, and the room plunges to darkness.

Shane can feel Hunter climb onto the bed, but Shane can’t see a fucking thing. “Can we turn on a lamp?”

“They are on,” Hunter says, hands grabbing at Shane in a pleasing enough way. Sure enough, when Shane looks over, the bedside lights are glowing - a pitiful amount.

“Can we turn on something brighter?”

Hunter huffs. “Do you really want to worry about the mood lighting right now?”

Shane is tempted to argue. It’s in his nature. Still, he lets it go. “Fine.”

Sex with Scott is precise. He does everything at a steady pace, like he’s running on a treadmill, and touches Shane predictably.  It’s not a quality Shane thought he would enjoy, but it is reliable and satisfying, like watching an episode of Columbo. Columbo will catch Patrick McGoohan and Shane will get an orgasm. Everyone wins.

It’s impersonal, at first, but Shane coaxes Hunter into kisses and tells him to open his eyes, and that improves things. They stick to hand stuff - Shane hadn't prepped, hadn't even considered that the evening might turn into this - and it's nice. Fun. It doesn’t take long for Shane to come; not much after that, Hunter’s coming too, and they both lie side by side, catching their breath.

Shane glances over at Hunter, and then straight back at the ceiling. Fuck. Even in the pathetically dim lamplight, it’s clear that Hunter is looking at him like he’s hung the moon. Shit.

Shane flounders for a moment, trying to think of what to do. Why was Hunter’s face like that? Maybe he is going to kill Shane after all, and wear his skin like a meat suit. Shane tries to think of how to break the strange mood, and settles on something that makes him comfortable. Hockey. More specifically, chirping. “Wow, Mr Hunter. It’s an honour to sleep with someone I’ve looked up to since I was a kid,” Shane says. When he glances over at Hunter, the starry eyes are replaced with annoyance. Far preferable.

“Fuck off, Hollander.”

Shane doubles down. “A real childhood hero.”

Hunter scrapes a hand over his face, shuffling up a little. “Damnit, are you even old enough to drink?”

Shane smirks. “In Canada.”

Hunter groans, both hands covering his face. “Get the fuck out of my bed,” he grouses, and Shane laughs, heading for the en-suite.

When he emerges, dry and dressed, Hunter is sat up in the bed. He stretches out a hand, and Shane steps closer, but doesn’t close the gap entirely, and doesn't take the outstretched hand. “I was kidding, earlier. You can stay,” Hunter offers, patting the empty side of the bed invitingly.

Christ. Shane would get a marriage proposal by Christmas at this rate. “I need to get back.”

“Okay,” Hunter agrees, his face still blindingly sincere. “We could get takeout, next time you’re in town.”

Shane looks away, bites his lip. “You’re nice. And hot. But if you’re thinking a date…”

Hunter leans forward until he can reach Shane's hand. Holds it in his own. “Would it be so bad?”

It would. Shane knows it, and he suspects Hunter knows it too.

The worst part of it all is that Hunter doesn’t even fucking like Shane. They aren’t friends, every conversation they’ve had has been stilted and awkward, but Shane is there. He’s there, and he’s gay, and he won’t tell anyone about Hunter. And Hunter is so fucking lonely that he’d take that and run with it.

It takes Shane to recognize the emotion bubbling in his own belly. Pity.

“Ok. No takeout. Take me to a nice restaurant. Hold my hand at the table,” Shane offers, though in truth it's the last thing he'd want, too. It works; Hunter slowly lets go of his hand, and Shane can breathe again. “I’m not going back in the closet. And I get the impression you quite like it in there.”

Hunter's eyes are a little wet, even in the dim lighting. “Would you come out? If you were me.”

Shane doesn’t answer. He can’t, not really. Yesterday, he knew what he’d respond. Today he’s not so sure. “Call me when you’re in Ottawa. We can do this again," he offers instead. 

He doesn't let Hunter respond, just turns on his heel and heads out, lets the door lock behind him. 

In the elevator back down to ground level, Shane wonders idly what his response would be if Rozanov had suggested dinner before a fuck. In truth, the idea is so laughable that he can't even imagine it. He's tempted to joke with Rozanov about it, when they meet up next week. 

It doesn't take long to make it back to the hotel. He enters the room quietly, but he needn't have bothered; Nick is still awake, lounging on his bed, tapping away on his phone. 

“Oh good, you’re back,” Nick greets him. “Do I have to kill Scott Hunter?”

Shane balks. “What?”

“I bumped into Vaughan at the bar. He said Hunter was going to apologize to you for being a dick…?” Nick trails off, looking at Shane expectantly. 

“Oh.” Shane wants to laugh, but bottles it up firmly. “No, no need to kill him. We're cool now. Thanks, Chouny.”

"Love ya, man."

For someone that doesn’t exactly get around, Hollander is good in bed.

It drives Ilya fucking insane. Even in his post-orgasm haze, when everything should be fuzzy and warm, he’s angry about it - mostly because he’d had plans tonight, plans that didn’t end with him coming prematurely into Hollander’s wet hot mouth.

Still. He returns the favour, drags an orgasm out of Hollander that makes him curse and groan, spilling between Ilya’s lips in hot pulses.

Ilya swallows distractedly as he looks at his watch. It’s still early; they’d not made it past the entryway of his apartment, and they’re both still dressed, with shirts rucked up and pants half-down. “You are one-and-done today?” Ilya asks, tucking himself away.

Hollander looks at his own watch. “I’ve got some time. Twenty minute break and we go again?” He asks, and Ilya nods, pointing him towards the bedroom. There’s a bottle of ice-cold water on the nightstand, and Hollander glares a little at Ilya, even as he reaches for it. He goes to sit on the bed, and Ilya tuts.

“No outside clothes on my bed,” Ilya warns, and Hollander rolls his eyes. “Strip.”

Hollander huffs.

Ilya waits. Watches. Hollander strips as he always does; slow, concise, folding his clothes as he goes. He looks fucking good naked. 

It drives Ilya fucking insane. 

Ilya strips next, unashamed of his nakedness, even when Hollander’s eyes linger on his soft cock. What can he say? Even soft, he looks good, and he knows it.

“I slept with someone who had a circumcised dick,” Hollander says, eyes still pinned to Ilya's cock, and Ilya stares at him. Hollander looks up, meets his eyes. “What? I don’t exactly have anyone else to talk to about this stuff.”

A thousand questions run through Ilya’s mind. Most of them make him sound like a jealous wife, and so he bites them back, settles on something safe. “Did it look cold without its coat?” Ilya asks, and Hollander shrugs. “What did you think? Better, worse?”

“Neither, really,” Hollander answers. Ilya wants to follow up, force him to say he likes Ilya’s dick best. It’s a fucking good dick. Before he can press, Hollander continues, “I think I prefer uncut. It’s more familiar, you know?” He replies, waving vaguely in the direction of his own uncircumcised dick.

Ilya smirks, slow and languid, like a lion. He climbs on top of Shane, until their groins are pressed together. “Ah. Yes. You are Narcissus. Obsessed with your reflection.” He grinds his hips down, enjoys how Hollander squirms beneath him, overwhelmed. “Is why you like mine so much, no? We could be twins.” He looks between their bodies. “I am bigger, older, more handsome twin, of course.”

“You’re not bigger,” Hollander argues back. “And I’m literally older than you."

“Hm. Semantics.”

“That’s an Ivy League word,” Hollander says, and Ilya shrugs.

“Is same in Russian,” he says back, still propped over Hollander. “Half your words are kidnapped from other languages, then you make us feel like fools for not speaking your language,” he says, and then kisses Hollander, because he can. 

“So it’s a Russian word?” Hollander asks, curious, and Ilya shakes his head. 

“No. Not originally.” He smirks. “We steal words with pride.” Kisses Hollander again, and then remembers that someone else had kissed these lips, not so long ago. Fuck, it had only been a month since they last met up. He thought it'd take far longer than that for Hollander to be brave enough to hook up with someone else again. “Who was circumcised guy?”

“Just some guy.”

It's not enough. If Ilya is going to be jealous, he wants a name to hang his emotions on. “Same just some guy that you did hand stuff with many years ago?”

Hollander shakes his head. “A different one.”

Ilya tries a different tactic. “What does he do?” Fear flashes briefly across Hollander’s face, and it’s enough for Ilya to know. Ilya pushes down another sharp flare of jealousy - he never was good at sharing his toys - and instead lets his curiosity take over. “Oh my god, Hollander. Another hockey player?” He asks, and Hollander’s eyes go even wider. “This is the most interesting thing you have ever done. Who?"

“I’m not telling you,” Hollander replies immediately. Before Ilya can whine about it, Hollander’s protests continue, and he bucks up, trying to dislodge Ilya. “No! I’m not. You wouldn’t want me to tell them your name. I’m returning the courtesy.”

Ilya lets out a groan as if he were in pain, rolling off Hollander. “You will kill me. I will die of curiosity, like a cat,” He laments. “You are so cruel to me.”

“I’ll make it up to you,” Hollander says blandly, sitting up. “Where do you keep the lube?” He asks, and Ilya waves him vaguely in the right direction. Ilya startles when, after retrieving the lube, Hollander straddles him. He gets with the programme quickly enough; lets Hollander pour lube over his fingers and gets to work stretching Hollander open. Hollander’s own hands, a little tacky with lube, brace against Ilya’s shoulders.

“You will ride me?” Ilya asks. He wants to hear Hollander say it. I’m going to ride you, Rozanov.

“I said I’d make it up to you, didn’t I?” Hollander replies tartly instead.

Jesus Christ. Hollander would be the death of him. 

Hollander slaps a condom on his chest. "Are we going to do this or what?" 

Ilya nods, and gets to work. 

Chapter End Notes

I hope you enjoyed this chapter! No footnotes this time as it was mostly sex.

For this chapter, I used the chapter summary for a recap of where we're up to - if anyone has any feedback on whether this is useful (or annoying) please let me know, I wanted to try it out as it's something I've liked as a reader on other fics.

I really enjoyed writing Scott/Shane - it’s absolutely not something I ship, but it was really fun to think up some of the things that Kip loves about Scott (his intense sincerity, his slightly weird interests, how big he is), and how much Shane would fucking hate them :) (can you IMAGINE if Ilya had tried to have their first time in the dark, like Kip and Scott’s was in the show? Myshane is a visual eater, let him seeeeee) (but also on a much more serious note if that’s what the actors were comfortable with then good for them for asserting their boundaries!!!!)

I know RR has said that Shane has a smaller dick than Ilya, but let me give Shane a big dick in peace please :)

I made a small change to chapter 1 of this fic - definitely not enough for anyone to need to reread. If you want to know what it was, see spoiler below.

Chapter 1 Changes

Originally, I had Shane growing up in the church. I changed this so that while Yuna was always a churchgoer, Shane only started joining her once he met Bobby.

The reason for the change was that I saw a discussion online about how there’s no religious trauma for Shane in the books (this fic was mentioned, the horrors of being perceived lol). Rereading HR, it did read like Shane was some flavour of atheist, and since the only thing I really want to be “different” in this fic from canon is that Shane met Bobby, I decided this was a pretty simple fix.