Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Additional Tags:

brief Shane Hollander/ Rose Landry, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Teammates, Shane Hollander Needs a Hug, Drunk Shane Hollander, POV Shane Hollander, little shit ilya rozanov, eating pussy and failing upwards: a shane hollander story, POV Ilya Rozanov, Alcohol, First Time Blow Jobs, Bottom Shane Hollander, Praise Kink, Top Ilya Rozanov, Soft Dom Ilya Rozanov, Autistic Shane Hollander, Sex Lessons, Rivals to Lovers, except they’re both at once. poetry, Craigslist, Face-Fucking, Subspace, Orgasm Edging, Aftercare, Mirror Sex, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, spoilers for Role Model, Choking, Sexual Overstimulation, Friends With Benefits Ilya Rozanov/Svetlana Vetrova, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Rose Landry/Svetlana Vetrova, Subdrop, WIP and additional tags incoming but dw... angst and heavy yearning with a happy ending!, they call that the emonlispenardstreet special, Ilya Rozanov is a Professional Butt Muncher, pioneering this tag, Consensual Somnophilia, Mind/Mood Altering Substances, they smoke the devil's lettuce . lucifer's quinoa if you will, Shane Hollander Wears Ilya Rozanov's Hockey Jersey, Butt Plugs, Light Bondage, Korean Shane Hollander, i called luca swedish once when i was sleep deprived and decided to just go with it, i apologise to the country of switzerland for the erasure

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2025-12-13 Updated: 2026-04-10 Words: 333,333 Chapters: 22/23

don't leave me high (don't leave me dry)

Summary

hollyadmirals24: Male seeking help improving at oral sex. Clean, ready to learn and willing to host. M only. Strictly platonic. Message for details.
 

or: shane and ilya are hockey players for the mcgill marauders. after a disastrous night with rose, shane puts a drunken ad on craigslist asking for help with oral sex. his teammate, ilya, replies.

Chapter 1: two jumps in a week

Chapter Notes

y'aLL i've been a heated rivalry fan for a few years but never had much of an urge to write fics for it until the show came out... then the wait between eps 3 and 4 felt like an eternity until like 20k words flew out of me lol so here's a wild fic inspired by my comfort sterek fic from back in the day, 'no homo' <3

(title and chapters are from 'high and dry' by radiohead!)

EDIT: thanks to everyone for all the love on this fic like you have no idea...!!! writing this for the last few months and engaging with my little corner of this fandom has been so incredible, and i have loved every minute :) as you will soon see i have famously long author's notes because i post as i write and i also love to hear myself talk - in the interest of nostalgia i'm leaving all the notes as they were, including my ensuing promises that this fic would be a oneshot . oh those were the days

(this is also proof if the length of this story wasn't already that i do NOT use ai. as hudson said fuck ai to death)

EDIT: this story also became a sort of... reheated rivalry if you will. i have so much fun in the ensuing chapters being canon compliant with lines and then reworking and inverting them and drawing parallels and shit. basically i went crazy with it, but what do you expect from a fic this length lol <3

enjoy <3

NOVEMBER 2011

“Not as much as Shane.”

Shane blinks and takes another sip of his beer, wincing at the taste. His friends keep saying it’ll taste better, but this is his third one and it still feels like it’s curdling in his stomach. “Huh?’

Hayden just rolls his eyes, apparently not surprised that Shane wasn’t paying attention. “You hate Rozanov the most.”

Oh. Right.

“Of course.”

“Fuck, he’s a good player, though,” JJ comments, and Shane finds himself nodding before he can stop himself.

“The best.”

“Nah,” JJ replies emphatically, jostling Shane’s shoulder. “That’s you, capitain.”

Shane smiles, bashful, but he doesn’t process the words. He’s back to thinking about Ilya fucking Rozanov.

Shane Hollander hates Ilya Rozanov. 

This has been one of the few things to remain a true fact for as long as Shane has known of his existence. First it was just the dim awareness and jealousy of some much-discussed phenom coming to Canada for his final two years of high school, then the famed rivalry when they started to play against each other in the top two teams in North America and people quickly realised that Rozanov was the only player that could actually keep up with Shane—and finally the burning hatred when they both signed for the same team: the McGill Marauders.

Shane had freaked out when he’d discovered that he and Rozanov would be playing on the same team. He ranted to his mom for hours about how there’s no way that would work, that they’d be at each other’s throats the whole time and would never win any games because of it. 

He’d been half right. They’re at each other’s throats always, but unfortunately for him, they also play like one person. They’re the top team in the league, and it’s due in no small part to the two of them.

It sucks.

In many ways, though, his hatred for Rozanov has been a stabilizing fact for him—a nugget of normalcy to cling to as he was thrust into the world of university hockey and began having NHL teams sniffing around and whispering about contracts as soon as he graduated. Even as everything else changed, this was the one thing that never would.

Some would argue that technically made Rozanov the centre of his universe, but Shane would disagree. It just made him… something.

The point is, if there’s one thing Shane likes, it's consistency. He likes definitives, and Ilya Rozanov is definitely an asshole. No ifs, ands, or buts.

He’s glad that many of his teammates agree, even though he knows just as many think that the sun shines out of Rozanov’s ass. He’s been popular with the kind of ease that Shane has known he’d never have since he arrived. Rozanov is arrogant and more than a little abrasive, but he’s also a damn good player, and Shane can admit that he sometimes, just a little bit, understands how some people could think he was also charming and funny. Not him, but… people.

None of those teammates are here tonight, though. He heard there’s some kind of party going on at the Student Union-owned club, but he and his friends elected to stay in and watch the Admirals game in JJ and Hayden’s dorm. Perfect. As the game finishes with a resounding win for the New York team, he takes a moment to be glad for his friends. 

They supported him even as he was elected Captain as a sophomore—practically unheard of—and let him try out all his drills and crazy exercise plans on them with only minimal levels of complaining.

(Maybe a lot of complaining from JJ, but that’s just JJ.)

He feels comfortable with them, is what he’s trying to say. Like they truly understand him. Rozanov would never get that they all want to stay in and hang out, keep things lowkey—

“Yo, Rose Landry and her friends just showed up at the Foundry party,” JJ says, looking up from his phone. “We have to go.”

Never mind.

Shane tries to convince his friends that they should stay in, and then that he should stay in when they all insist on going, but his excuses are all futile. They know he has nothing better to do, and he steadfastly refuses until Hayden reminds him that he’s bailed on the last three team get-togethers. He’s out of excuses.

“Fine,” Shane grumbles, getting up to go to his room and change out of his sweatpants. “But don’t expect me to dance.”

Thirty minutes later, Shane is standing in the corner awkwardly nursing a beer as his friends go wild on the dance floor. 

Five of his teammates are in a circle in the centre, cheering as freshman Luca Haas in the middle shyly steps in then executes a perfect pirouette out of nowhere. Shane smiles, but makes no move to follow them. He’s happier watching, and besides—no one wants to see him dance.

“Your friend has some moves,” someone comments beside him, and Shane jumps.

To his left is none other than Rose Landry, looking simultaneously amused and apologetic at scaring Shane. She’s dressed in a black sequin dress that hugs her curves effortlessly, and her hair shines in golden waves under the flashing lights in a way that makes her dark eyes look even more sultry. Nearby, her friends are joining the team’s dance circle with similarly effortless moves. 

She’s sipping at her red solo cup and looking at Shane expectantly, and it’s only then that he realises he’s just been staring at her like an idiot. 

(Can he be blamed for that? She’s without a doubt the most well-known and beautiful girl at the university, selected for all the brochures and ads both because of her looks and smarts but also because of her recent film that landed her tons of critical acclaim at TIFF in September. No one has any idea why she’s still in school, since apparently she’s gotten movie offers from everyone from Spielberg to Aster, but she can always be seen dutifully going to her lectures and walking around campus trying to ignore the stares wherever she goes. She’s kind of perfect.)

“Yeah,” he finally manages, then swallows. “I knew he used to do ballet, but I thought it was when he was like, five.”

“At least he’s got a backup career if the whole hockey thing doesn’t work out,” she comments, and Shane blinks in surprise that she knows they’re hockey players. She smiles. “You’re Shane Hollander, right?”

“Um. Yes?”

Rose’s smile widens, like she’s entertained by the way Shane is incapable of holding a conversation. “Can I tell you a secret?” she murmurs conspiratorially, leaning in to be heard over the music. Shane’s head jerks in a nod, and she leans closer. “I’m a big fan.”

“Really?” Shane replies, not faking his surprise. “I’ve never seen you at a game.”

She shrugs, blushing a little. “I tend to cause a scene when I go to stuff like that nowadays,” she says, though not in a show-off way. “I haven’t been able to go to many, but when I do I wear a baseball cap and stand in the back. I watched your goal against Toronto last week. Killer.”

Shane blushes back, looking down at his shoes. He can’t believe this is actually happening. “I—um, I saw your movie. You were incredible.”

Rose looks genuinely touched, even though she must hear it all the time. “That’s so sweet, thank you,” she tells him. She smiles coyly.  “So, we’re both fans of each other.”

“I guess so,” he replies, unsure of what else to say. 

Rose has that amused look on her face again. “Wanna dance?”

“Oh, I don’t really—”

“Come on,” Rose says with a roll of her eyes, taking the beer out of his hand to put it on the table beside them. Probably for the best, anyway—as it turns out, beer still tastes just as bad but his taste buds are starting to become numb to it, and he’s a lightweight at the best of times. “It’ll be fun.”

Against his better judgment, Shane takes Rose’s offered hand and allows himself to be pulled into the crowd where they quickly get swallowed up. He spends a few seconds freaking the fuck out, not just about the concept of dancing but about all the people and bodies pressed against him, but calms down when he imagines that he’s just in a celebration pile after winning a game. Bodies never bother him then, so they shouldn’t now.

It seems to help a little, but he’s still not able to loosen up enough to actually dance. Rose must notice the fear in his eyes, because she laughs just as the tempo of the next song slows down and steps closer. 

“Put your hands on my waist,” she instructs, and Shane hesitates for a moment before complying. The sequins are cool and slippery under his fingers, and she smiles encouragingly when one hand moves more towards her lower back to pull her a little closer. 

With a sultry smirk, her hands lace behind his neck and she begins to sway to the deep bass thump of the music. 

Shane is well aware that Rose Landry is beautiful. It’s the kind of beautiful that makes you stop and stare in the street or stumble over your words. Shane’s friends have spent plenty of evenings lamenting the fact that one of Rose’s other stunning friends or Rose herself rejected them at some party, and Shane has always hummed in sympathy. Getting rejected by someone like that would suck, Shane knows in theory, but to him it’s sort of inevitable. People like Rose just seem… untouchable.

But he’s well aware that some people could say the same thing about him. He’s reasonably alright-looking, he knows that, and he has a certain status as the university’s star hockey player and captain. He often comes away from many social events with at least one or two offers of a hookup or something more—but he almost always ignores them. His sexual experience thus far consists mostly of a few awkward high school makeouts with awkward girlfriends and a few more awkward blowjobs. He’s had sex exactly twice, and it was… fine.

The girls didn’t seem to hate it, at least, and they didn’t say anything bad about him afterwards. His reputation is that he’s polite but a little aloof, which his friends say only make him more desirable to girls. 

Wonderful. Just what he wants.

Shane’s never paid much attention to what his reputation is with women, other than making sure he’s not hated. He’s perfectly happy just drifting along, accepting invitations when he feels like it but never going out of his way to chase someone. 

He just hasn’t found his person yet, he supposes.

Rose, though. It’s different.

He finds as the night continues that he genuinely enjoys talking to her. She only laughs when he steps on her foot for the third time and makes a joke about not knowing hockey players were so un-coordinated, and they spend most of the evening after that huddled in a booth talking about anything and everything. They discuss their favourite hockey teams, Rose’s nightmare costar, Shane’s rigorous training schedule, Rose’s rigorous filming schedule. They have even more in common than Shane thought they would but more than anything, he feels truly comfortable with her. 

He’s only a little surprised when they go back out on the dance floor and Rose kisses him. He’d sensed somewhat dully that this was where the night was heading, that the lingering touches on his arm and how close she was sitting were subtle signals and invitations for more, but he hadn’t taken things further and she hadn’t pushed.

When she does move in, it’s with a raised brow in question. Right. Yes. It’s up to him to actually make the move. His mouth twitches up in a smile and he tilts his head down just as Rose lifts hers up, and then they’re kissing. 

He’s surprised to find that he doesn’t hate it. Rose’s kisses are as soft as she is, and her lips aren’t sticky with gloss which Shane hates but rather smooth with lip balm that tastes like cherries. She makes a soft little sigh when he angles his mouth to the side and opens wider, allowing their tongues to brush chastely before pulling back. His hands are on her waist, thumbs skimming over the sequins, and hers are tangled in his hair.

She’s practically in his lap by the time they break apart for air several minutes (hours?) later, startled by whooping nearby. Shane turns his head to see JJ and Hayden standing with a few of their teammates by the bar, all of them cheering and clapping at the sight of their captain getting it on for once.

Shane’s hand tightens on the hem of Rose’s dress automatically, making sure her position curled up on him doesn’t reveal too much to his teammates, and he feels Rose squeeze his shoulder in thanks. 

His cheeks flush and ducks his head, inadvertently burying it in Rose’s neck and inhaling the sweet scent of citrus and something more herbal like sage. He can feel the rumbling of Rose’s chest as she speaks to his teammates, some joke about how they should pay money if they want to keep watching because it’s rude, and hears her laugh as they presumably reply to the skillful brush-off and then their footsteps recede. 

Shane lifts his head. His teammates are, as he expected, gone, but so are most other people in this area of the student club. He thinks that Rose will stand and straighten her dress now, content to have had a decent enough makeout but done now that there’s no audience to observe them, but to his surprise she smiles and leans down to kiss him again.

Shane feels something stirring low in his gut. It’s a slow, roiling heat, like a warm mug of coffee or the hum of an old TV after it’s been left on for too long, and Shane is surprised to feel it. Usually he has to psych himself up a lot more to get this sensation, but like everything with Rose, it’s… easy.

“I don’t know if this is, like, presumptuous,” Rose murmurs, flushing prettily when she pulls away and tucks a lock of hair behind her air. She pauses and doesn’t continue, instead swallowing and looking down. He suddenly knows what she wants to ask him. 

Shane blinks. He should’ve expected this. 

In the span of a few brief moments, his mind runs through all the potential scenarios. He could make up an excuse and leave, something like saying that he’s too drunk (he’s definitely not) and asking for a rain check he has no intention of following up on, but… Rose is nice. She’s nice, and beautiful, and it’s easy with her, and that simmering heat is still slowly flooding his veins.

“Are you going to ask if I want to come back to your place?”

Rose’s eyes flicker up to his. Even in her heels she’s still a few inches shorter than him. She nods once.

“Um. Yeah, okay. If that’s alright.”

Rose smiles at him like he’s the most adorable person in the world, sighing in mock relief. “Of course it is,” she says with a not unkind roll of her eyes and a little laugh, and then she clambers out of his lap. “Let me just say goodbye to my friends, then I’ll be right back.”

Shane bites his thumbnail nervously as she disappears into the crowd, wondering for a moment if this was all some big joke, but just as quickly she’s back and holding out her hand to him. Okay. Back to her place, then.

As it turns out, Rose lives not too far from the Foundry in a quaint neighborhood that Shane knows is impossibly expensive for most students. The walk is eased by conversation even as Shane secretly marvels at the area, and when they go inside he is surprised to find that her apartment is a modest studio with giant windows and an exposed brick wall that makes it feel more like New York than Montreal. 

Movie posters are artfully placed with a cohesive colour scheme that litter the wall above her bed, which is a massive thing with a plush comforter and a mountain of pillows. There’s a small sofa and a TV, and a spacious kitchen where a pot and bowl still sit neatly in the sink waiting to be washed up. 

It’s the perfect amount of lived-in without being messy. Shane always struggles in places like JJ and Hayden’s dorm, where clothes and papers and all sorts of things are scattered throughout the room with no rhyme or reason and are only picked up when Hayden gives in and cleans JJ’s mess. This isn’t that, though, and Shane doesn’t have to pretend as he walks around the room slowly with some fascination, pointing at pictures of her with her family or books she’s read and asking questions about them. 

Rose answers his questions with a tinge of amusement, and Shane knows dimly that he should be jumping her bones as soon as they get into her apartment. He’s genuinely interested, though, and she seems content enough to entertain him while he calms his jangled nerves. 

Eventually he sits down on the edge of her bed beside her, still talking about some vintage movie that she loves. He didn’t catch the name because he was too distracted trying to slow his thundering heartbeat, and now he’s too afraid to ask—instead he just smiles and nods and tries not to sound like a total idiot. 

Finally, there’s a gentle hand on his thigh. He jumps. “You know we don’t have to do anything, if—” Rose starts, and Shane finds himself shaking his head. 

“No, no,” he says quickly. He swallows. “You’re just…”

Rose raises her eyebrows, waiting. “I’m…?”

“You’re so beautiful,” he tells her sincerely, and she smiles. She really does look incredible when she blushes. 

This time he leans in at the same time she does, and the kiss is just as sweet as it was back at the club. He takes his time with it, making a point of categorizing each sound she makes and repeating the swipe of his tongue and nip at her bottom lip to hear the sounds again, but the kiss turns more heated quickly.

She’s in his lap, and his hands tremble a bit as she guides them to the hem of her dress. “Is this okay?” he whispers, his fingers slipping underneath to the soft smoothness of her hips, and she smiles again and nods. 

He lifts the dress off of her and finds only a lacy thong underneath, her breasts falling free as he sets the sequinned fabric gently aside and resists the urge to fold it. She isn’t brazen in showing off but she isn’t shy either, keeping her hands around his neck as his eyes roam over her body with what he hopes looks like hunger. 

“You’re beautiful,” he says again, and kisses her once more.

After a while he trails his lips down her throat, encouraged by the way her head tilts back and her grip tightens on his shoulders. When he puts his mouth on her nipple, she moans softly and rolls her hips against him. He feels his cock twitch in surprise, the thin fabric of her underwear not enough to dull the heat of her even with his jeans in the way, and he does his best to suck at the hardened bud in his mouth the way he remembers a girl—Hailey? Holly?—thoroughly enjoying last year.

Her hips buck again, so he takes that as a yes. When he lifts his head he finds her already looking down at him through hooded eyes, her dark lashes fluttering but not looking away as she reaches down to cup him through his jeans.

He makes a noise and hopes it sounds like one of pleasure rather than shock, jerking into her touch in a way that she takes as encouragement. Wrapping an arm around her waist, he rolls and gently places her on the bed so that he’s above her. 

“What do you want?” he murmurs, as much an attempt at being sexy as a genuine request for instruction. 

He’s expecting her to ask him to take his jeans off, maybe to fuck her—okay—or to blow him—even better. He doesn’t have to think as much when he’s getting head, able to shut his eyes and focus on the tight heat of the mouth around him. 

He doesn’t get either answer. 

Rose runs her fingers through his hair—he’s been meaning to cut it for a while, doesn’t like her sharp nails tangling in the strands as much as he thought he would—and tilts her head up to his ear. “Can you eat me out?”

Shane reels back in surprise a little more suddenly than he means to, and takes great effort to still himself. “I—I’ve never…” he stutters out, which isn’t the best answer but it’s the only one he can find right now.

Rose blinks. She clearly wasn’t expecting that. “Oh. That’s okay, you don’t have to—”

“No, I want to,” Shane says before he can think about it too much. If it’s what she wants—and he doesn’t have to think about his own orgasm, neither staving it off nor making it happen faster—then who is he to deny her?

“Okay,” she says, looking pleased. Her hair is mussed, her face flushed under the warm light of her bedside lamp, and she really does look beautiful laid out beneath him like this. 

Okay then. 

He gets to work, trailing kisses down her body once more and stopping to suck at the other nipple he didn’t pay attention to before on the way. She makes happy noises as she goes, her fingers still in his hair, and moans when he sucks and nips at her inner thigh. She seems not to notice that he’s distracting himself from the real event for a moment, instead thinks it’s him teasing her. 

Good.

Eventually he can’t put it off any longer, and he shuffles down the bed to settle properly on his stomach between her legs. He hooks his fingers underneath the waistband of her underwear, and at her nod he eases them down her legs and puts them aside on top of her dress on the floor. 

He turns back to her, and. Right. Vagina.

It’s just… vaginas are a little scary, if he’s being honest. They’ve always been a bit of an enigma to him, like there was some secret code to unlocking them that he was missing. He’s alright at fingering, he thinks, has even made a girl cum from it once, and the few times he actually had sex he’s had decently positive reviews, but no one has ever asked him to do this before and he’s much less confident in his skills. 

(He keeps waiting to feel that thing that all his friends talk about, though. They talk about girls sometimes like they’re dying for pussy, starving for it, and he knows plenty of his friends would eat their girlfriends out all day if they could. He never really felt that desperation during sex before, so maybe… maybe this will be the thing that does it.)

Right then. There’s nothing really left but to do it.

He kisses her thighs a few more times, wraps his hands around them and scoots up, and then finally lowers his head, and.

Well.

It doesn’t taste bad by any means, just distinctly skin-like, and she’s very well-maintained down there. No hair gets in his way as he gingerly flicks out his tongue again to taste, considering, and keeps going. All good things, he supposes.

It’s just that it’s so slick and wet against him, and he can feel his mouth and chin getting all slippery. He resists the urge to shudder at the sensation and keeps going. What is he supposed to do? Right, there’s the clitoris somewhere up here…

Rose yelps, and Shane quickly lifts his head. “Sorry, did I—”

“No, no, it’s fine,” she says, reassuring him. “Just be careful with the teeth.”

Shane flushes in embarrassment, but nods and tries to listen to her advice. He keeps his teeth carefully tucked away, but now he realises all he’s doing are little kitten licks that feel more like he’s licking an ice cream cone he doesn’t particularly like rather than devouring her like he knows he’s supposed to be. 

Come on, Shane. You can do this, he chants to himself.

He remembers dimly that Hayden once talked about patterns, like drawing a zig-zag with his tongue all the way down. He tries it slowly, and Rose lets out a little huffing sound of approval. It’s the first sound she’s really made other than a short gasp when he first got his mouth on her, so he focuses on it and tries to repeat the movement the way he did when they were kissing. 

Huh. Nothing. She’s completely silent above him, and as he tries again and again he feels her hips almost jerk back until finally his tongue seems to land in the right spot and she moans again. He feels her getting wetter and is pretty sure he wrinkles his nose, has to pray that she’s not watching him and sees it because he’s too afraid to lift his head and check. 

He keeps going. He tries using his tongue to enter her, but he doesn’t like the spongy feeling and the way the taste sharpens slightly inside so draws back. He tries suckling on her clit, but can’t seem to keep his teeth out of the way enough. He tries more patterns, but eventually realises he isn’t really paying attention to her erogenous zones at all and instead has been attempting to draw a cat with his tongue. 

Fitting. He almost laughs at this, but is pretty sure he’d sound hysterical so he swallows it back. 

Speaking of swallowing, it’s getting necessary with the combination of saliva and other things on his tongue, and even though he knows factually that Rose doesn’t taste bad—she tastes a little sweet, actually, and Shane wonders if asking if she drinks pineapple juice afterwards would be taken as a compliment—he can’t stop himself from grimacing.

God, this isn’t going well. He can tell. He didn’t think he was ever going to get stellar reviews on eating a girl out, sure, but Rose is suspiciously quiet up there and Shane is afraid of what he’ll see when he opens his eyes—he just hopes he looks like he’s enjoying himself when they’re closed.

He doesn’t get a choice but to open his eyes only a few minutes after he starts. The hand in his hair—it had gone still, and Shane doesn’t know when, which is a bad sign—gently pulls at him until he lifts his head and looks up at Rose.

She looks distinctly vulnerable from down here, legs spread as she tilts her chin down to study him, but Shane is surprised to find a mixture of pity and something else that he can’t quite name but knows it’s not pleasure in her eyes. 

He straightens up a little. “I-I’m sorry,” he says, even though he’s not exactly sure what for yet. Inwardly, he cringes.

“No, it’s just…” Rose’s leg twitches, and Shane takes the hint and sits up fully. Secretly he’s a little relieved. “You might want to, um. Study, a bit?”

Shane’s brain stutters over the word. “Study?”

Rose flushes a deep crimson, one hand lifting to twirl a lock of hair around her finger as she avoids eye contact with him for a moment. “To learn more…” she huffs a sigh of frustration and then tries again after a deep breath. “Look, I’ve had a really great time tonight. You’re so hot, obviously, and you’re a great kisser, but—you might need a little more practice, is all. At that, I mean. You seemed a little… timid.”

Shane wonders dimly if he should make an attempt at saving this by saying something flirty like, can I practice with you? but he dismisses the thought as quickly as it comes. He doesn’t want to make things even more awkward and more importantly—he doesn’t think he wants to do that. Ever again.

“Right, um… I’m sorry,” Shane says again, because what the fuck else is he supposed to say?

“No, I’m sorry,” Rose says after a pause, shaking her head as she shuffles down slightly to take his face in her hands. She ducks her head to meet his eyes, and then presses a soft kiss against his lips. “I really did have a great time with you, Shane. I think you’re amazing. Maybe I’m just not—” She stops, studies him for another long moment, and then shakes her head as if to herself and pulls back a little.

 “You didn’t seem to be super into it, that’s all.”

Shane blinks. Is it possible for the ground to swallow him whole? Shane would very much like that to happen right now. 

“It’s not because of you,” Shane tells her honestly, only slightly stumbling over his words. “You’re incredible. You’re so funny, you’re kind, and you’re—you’re sexy as hell. Honestly. I just don’t know if…”

Rose nods. “You don’t have to say anything else, okay?” she says, and because he doesn’t know what he would’ve said, he leans in to kiss her again. When he pulls away, she smiles. “Do you wanna stay for a bit? I could show you that TV show I was telling you about.”

Shane considers it. He really does. He finds he actually wants to hang out with Rose and just watch a show, talking over a shared bowl of popcorn with only the TV light illuminating their faces, but… not right now. 

Not when his mouth tastes like pussy and he can’t look at her without cringing over what just happened.

“Rain check?” Shane offers, and finds he really means it.

Rose smiles—Shane is relieved to see it’s a true, genuine smile—and nods. “Deal.”

Shane makes it back to his apartment in record time. He’s pretty sure he remembers breaking into a run at some point after rounding the corner from Rose’s street, but all he really knows is that he’s flushed and breathless when he gets to the door and he did a fifteen minute walk in eight minutes. 

Jesus, that was bad. Has he always been that bad at sex, and just didn’t notice? He’s pretty sure those girls meant it when they said they had a good time, most of them, and he’s also pretty sure he could spot a faked orgasm if they hadn’t. This, though. This was different.

Shane doesn’t watch much porn, finds it too manicured and antiseptic or just too aggressive for his enjoyment, but when he does he always skips over the eating pussy part of the video. He’s never really thought about that gap in his knowledge before, but it’s never been a section that he enjoyed and as a result he suspects he’s only ever seen it in passing.

Well. That simply won’t do. 

Shane doesn’t like not being good at something. That’s been true of him since he was little, quick to frustration when he couldn’t pick up a new stickhandling technique or figure out his English assignment as quickly as everyone else, and it’s only become more true as he turned into the perfectionist nineteen year old that he is now. 

He sits down heavily on the couch in the living room, his mind whirring, then glances over at the cabinet. Fuck it. He leans over and opens the cupboard, pulling out the bottle of rum that JJ keeps in Shane’s room for ‘emergencies’, and after a pause of consideration he pours it into a tumbler and takes a swig. They don’t have practice tomorrow, and Shane needs some liquid courage to actually think about this.

The dark liquid burns a molten path down his throat as he swallows, but the sharp spicy tang it leaves on his tongue helps to wash the lingering taste from his mouth and helps clear his head. 

What did he do when was bad at something in hockey, or couldn’t figure out that English assignment? That was easy: he studied. 

Shane’s always been a good study.

Shane huffs a laugh, impressed with himself for coming up with the answer so quickly, and stands to grab his laptop from the charger. He wobbles a little when he first stands, but he takes another sip and is able to make it back with his laptop unscathed.

He opens Pornhub, scrolls to—he cringes—the ‘Pussy Licking’ category, and clicks on the first video that comes up. 

It is, coincidentally, of a teacher and a student. The video starts with the girl dressed in what Shane guesses is supposed to be her school uniform, a plaid skirt that only covers half of her ass with a white button-down cinched tightly at the waist, as she walks down the hallway and into a classroom.

She’s pretty, with big doe eyes and dark hair tied in two pigtails, but Shane’s eyebrows raise when he sees the teacher. His sandy brown hair and stubble combined with his piercing blue eyes make him look both rugged and striking, and he towers over the girl as he scolds her for turning in her assignment late. Shane shudders slightly.

She asks if there’s anything she can do to make up the grade—seriously, did they get this plot from Stock-Porn-R-Us or something?—and then a minute later they’re kissing, tongues tangled as the girl moans while her ‘teacher’ palms at her breast with his massive hand.

Shane shifts uncomfortably and scrubs through the video, scanning for the clip he’s been searching for. He skips ahead a few minutes and finds both of them are now completely naked, and the student is spread out on the desk while the teacher kneels between her parted legs and runs a hand up her slit.

He leans in with a growl to lick her, and she starts making noises before he even touches her. His tongue flicks out, and…

Shane hits the spacebar to pause the video so hard he worries for a second that he broke his keyboard.

So that didn’t work. It just feels too awkward, too fake and impersonal to really study from. He’s pretty sure it’s anti-feminist or whatever, anyway. This shouldn’t be the thing he learns from. 

What else can he do? He thinks about the girls he’s hooked up with in the past and wonders if any of them would be up for a repeat performance, this time with him playing DJ. Ew. He’s fairly confident he left them all with decent enough memories of him to hold onto, and he’s not keen to replace that with something he knows for a fact that he’s bad at. 

He considers Rose. He could call her and ask if he could watch that show with her after all, somehow working in a request for another go after he softens her up with his smooth flirting.

Fat chance. 

He takes another drink from the tumbler and finds he’s already drained the glass, pours himself some more. The alcohol is burning deliciously in his veins now, and even though it obviously tastes considerably stronger than the beer, he likes it more. He feels like the burn contributes to the feeling now beginning to fizz through his veins, spreading over him like a blanket that makes his limbs feel heavy and uncooperative. 

What other options does he have? He scrolls through his other opened tabs aimlessly as his mind drifts, wondering if Luca would accept the gloves Shane plans on quietly buying him on Craigslist because he knows the kid is new to the country and doesn’t have the money to afford new ones after his broke last week. 

He’s moved onto the next tab and thinking about when he should start that Philosophy assignment he’s been reading the instructions for when he stops short, clicking back to the Craigslist tab. 

Maybe…

He scrolls to the ‘Missed Connections’ page. He used to read these when he was younger, entertained by all the anonymous people requesting help finding some girl they saw in WholeFoods or for advice on how to talk to the coworker they were secretly in love with. More than a few of them are asking for sex with varying degrees of subtlety, and these are the ones Shane is looking for.

He scans the offers with what begins as passing amusement but quickly turns to ideas of what he would write in his head to fix his little dilemma. 

No. That was insane. But…

Maybe he’d get some tips. Some kind of advice that worked for him, that made him better at this.

Before he can second guess himself, he’s opening the tab for a new post and setting up an inbox. 

He tells himself he’s mostly joking as he does it, twenty percent curious and eighty percent bored and needing entertainment. At the very least maybe he’ll get a few funny responses to laugh at instead of wallowing in self pity. 

Typing is hard when you’re a little drunk, as it turns out, but his nerves sharpen his vision and he’s able to get his message down coherently. He reads and rereads it, checking for spelling mistakes and that he has all the information he wants, before he finally presses post. 

hollyadmirals24: Male seeking help improving at oral sex. Clean, ready to learn and willing to host. M only. Strictly platonic.  Message for details. 

There. It’s done. 

He waits in the dark for several minutes, his fingers drumming against his thighs, and then grabs his remote and puts ESPN on the small TV his parents got for him. Takes another sip of his drink. Waits.

He gets a few texts from his friends finally leaving the party, inviting him to afters or just checking in since they saw him leave with Rose. He ignores them. Waits some more.

Finally, after what he feels have been an agonizing thirty minutes—when in reality it’s only been fifteen—he refreshes his inbox, and blinks at the list of unread messages that pop up.

Okay then. 

The first is just a dick pic. Shane actually jumps when he opens the message, wincing as he trashes the email with his eyes half shut. He’s not as surprised when the second one is the same thing, but by the third he’s starting to seriously regret his decision.

The other few messages he gets are words rather than images, at least, but one is a garbled request for 100 dollars for the ‘lesson’ and the others are spam.

Great. Shane sits back on the couch. That settles it—his brief suspicion of genius when he’s had the idea has officially been snuffed out, because this is stupid. Of course it is. He’d mostly been doing it just to entertain himself, obviously, so. Whatever.

There’s one more message in the inbox. 

Shane clicks on it, intending to round off his shame spiral and trying to guess before it loads whether or not it’ll be another picture, when he stops.

How bad do you have to be at giving head to put this ad out?

Shane pauses. Reads it again.

Well… it’s not a dick pic. Or spam, apparently. He takes a breath, swallows, and begins to type. 

I met a loevly girl who said I needded practicre|

Nope. Not that. Shane backspaces and decides to switch to water for now. Lovely? That’s weird. Keep it simple.

I was told I’m ‘timid’ and not ‘enthusiastic’ enough.

He hits send, grabs some water, and has just unscrewed the lid when the reply comes through.

You just haven’t had a good teacher

Shane swallows again. Um.

Do you have any advice?

The reply is immediate.

I’m more of a hands on instructor. Do you go to McGill?

Right. Yes. He’d filed his ad under /Mcgill. 

Yeah, I’m a second year. You?

Also second.

A few moments later, another reply.

So why were you not enthusiastic? Most are very enthusiastic when they see my dick.

Oh. Shane was not expecting that. He had been imagining a girl on the other end of the screen, and it shortcircuits his brain for a moment. He rereads the message twice, rolling his eyes at the arrogance of the message, before he manages to type out a reply. 

Sorry, I’m looking for a woman to teach me. I’m not gay. Thanks though?

There. Shane sits back again and heaves out a sigh. This really was a bad idea. He didn’t mean to use a question mark at the end but he supposes it illustrates his point even more, because mostly he’s just grateful that this guy didn’t affront him with images of his dick like so many others did. 

Before he gets a chance to close the tab, though, another message pops up.

You put M only on your ad.

Shane blinks, fumbles back onto his laptop to check his post. Fuck, he did. He’d meant to write M4F only. He thought he’d done so well. That explains the dick pics, at least.

He’s typing out an apology for misleading this guy when another message comes through.

I’m not gay either. Bisexual. Sometimes the best teacher is former student yes?

What?

I don’t know…

It’s okay if you don’t want to.

Shane swallows. Types out a message, deleted it. Types again. I didn’t say that.

You’re scared, I get it.

Shane can practically hear the teasing in the guy’s tone. Fuck you, Shane emails back immediately. I’m not scared.

Perfectly normal to be scared. This is usual reaction to my dick.

Several seconds go by before another reply. 

Because it’s so big, get it?

No pressure… but you could at least rule it out.

Shane knows what he means. He’s embarrassed to say he realises it immediately, is so attuned to this stranger’s words that he understands what is being unsaid. He could be…

Huh. 

He’s surprised to find a heat coiling in his stomach for the second time tonight, but this one isn’t a simmering warmth. It’s like seeing molten lava coming from far away, the sensation of the burning before it ever reaches him.

This guy seems confident enough, at least. It sounds like he could have some advice for Shane, even if nothing else. And if something else happens…

I’m in cote-des-neiges. Do you want to come over?

Send me your address.

Chapter End Notes

so this is part one of a planned three part story!! as i always do in every one of my fics, here are some thoughts i have from this chapter and ramblings in general:

i'm sorry if i went into too much detail writing shane trying pussy for the first time but i couldn't stop laughing thinking about rose watching him go through every facial expression brittany broski did when she tried kombucha

yes there is technically no ilya (YET) but you can all see where this is going right... plus the second part is already written and will be going up likely later today :)))))

 

i do also have a plan for the rest of the story after that but am also happy just keeping it as a long one-shot - so feel free to kudos and comment if you want to see more <3

i usually end my chapters with a life update but rn all i can say is i'll be spending the next week crying over the new episode of HR !!! see you soon :))

Chapter 2: bet you think that's pretty clever

Chapter Notes

told you i’d be back… i’m at work but i just couldn’t wait lol here ya go!

Shane spends the time waiting for this mystery guy to come over anxiously cleaning and pacing the hall of his apartment. Why did he do this? The fact that this guy might be a serial killer occurs to Shane more than once, but every time he sits down at his laptop to send another email telling him not to come, his hands still. 

He has to admit that he’s at least partly curious—not just about… that, but about what kind of person would reply to an ad like the one he wrote. He figures he’ll at least have a funny story to tell Hayden tomorrow if some weirdo shows up, if he can make the details sound less embarrassing. And gay.

He checks himself in the mirror. His outfit from tonight—a plain long-sleeved button down and jeans—is decent enough, he supposes, and his hair looks alright. He takes a second to run an anxious hand through his strands, cringing when he gets an unwelcome flashback to Rose’s nails scraping through them earlier in the night, and tries to make it fall effortlessly over his forehead.

It feels a little limp, like the tired ache he’s been feeling in his bones recently has reached his hair follicles, but there’s nothing he can do about it now.

Only about twenty minutes since Shane sent his address, there’s a knock at the door that immediately sends Shane’s heart rocketing into his throat. He glances around the apartment wildly one more time, checking for dishes on the counter as if that’s something he’s ever done, before he gives up and acknowledges that he’s out of excuses.

He hesitates at the door, pausing one more time, but the remnants of the alcohol buzzing in his veins make him bold. He takes a breath, steadies himself, and turns the lock.

The man standing in the doorway is tall, and dressed impeccably in a sharp leather jacket and Hawaiian-shirt combo that somehow manages to look effortless and cool at once. These are the first things Shane registers as his eyes flicker up his body, and then comes to rest on his face. The face wears a shocked expression that it takes Shane a second to place, because he’s usually so used to seeing other emotions on that face—amusement, anger, and annoyance, but never shock.

But Ilya Rozanov is standing in the doorway, and he looks like a strong breeze might knock him over. 

“You—” Rozanov stutters, then shakes his head and holds out his phone. Despite the language barrier, this is the first time Shane has ever seen him truly at a loss for words. Eventually he regains his composure, swallowing hard. “I got an email, but I think I am at wrong— never mind.”

Rozanov looks down the hallway as if he plans on leaving. It doesn’t occur to Shane in the moment that he could just nod and shut the door in Rozanov’s face, let him think that he has the wrong place and hope he just gives up. Later he’ll wonder if that’s what he should’ve done. 

Now, though, he’s so stunned by Rozanov’s presence in his building’s hallway that he just tells the truth. “34B, right?”

Rozanov blinks, looks down at his phone, and then back up at Shane with his brows furrowed. It looks like the situation is beginning to click for him. “You put up this ad?”

“Will you—God, can you come inside?” Shane mutters, glancing left to right to check the hallway is still empty despite the early hour. 

Rozanov steps forward and then stops. “Was it you?”

Again, Shane doesn’t consider a lie. He just wonders for the second time tonight if the ground could swallow him up, then nods once. “Yes.”

“And you—?”

“Yup.”

Rozanov is silent for another moment, and then he begins to laugh. It’s a laugh that comes from deep in his chest, his whole body bowing with the force of it as he clutches at his stomach. Shane’s never actually seen him laugh like this before, and is startled by how much younger his joy makes him look. Despite being around the same age Shane has always felt like Rozanov looked at least five years older than him—he was rugged everywhere Shane was soft, and he had a good few inches on Shane besides.

Shane ignores the tiny flicker of warmth in his chest at the sight of Rozanov so happy when he remembers why he’s laughing.

He tugs him inside so that he doesn’t wake everyone on his floor with his laughter and locks the door, and by the time he turns to face Rozanov—still chuckling—he’s seething.

“Fuck you,” he hisses. “Did you come here just to laugh at whoever placed the ad?”

“No, I came to see if I could teach,” Rozanov replies with a shrug. “I was bored.” His eyes flicker down Shane’s body once, and when they go back to his face they’re filled with mirth. “I did not expect you. This is why I laugh.”

“Well, if you’re just trying to collect blackmail on me to tell the team about tomorrow, you can fucking leave, alright?” Shane retorts with a wave of his hand, turning away as his eyes unexpectedly sting with unshed tears of embarrassment. 

There’s a pause of silence and then behind him, Rozanov says very quietly, “I was not going to tell anyone. It would be… what is the word? Hypocritical, yes?”

Shane hesitates, then looks at Rozanov. He’s surprised to find the other man even looking slightly apologetic, and then remembers what he said in his emails. “You’re bisexual?” he whispers. 

Rozanov nods. “Yes. Besides, I think answering ad is just as bad as making it. Or almost as bad.”

Shane snorts, but he’s not angry anymore. “Did you ever—” he starts, then stops. He’s treading into dangerous territory here, but Rozanov is right—he’s here, and that at least gives him one reason to not want to tell anyone. “How did you know?”

“That answering ad is bad?”

Shane rolls his eyes. “That you were bisexual.”

“Oh.” Rozanov shrugs again. “Simple. I had urges when I was young. Desires. When I got older, I tried it. Here we are.”

“Who? Another player?” Shane finds himself suddenly unbearably curious. 

“No.” Shane doesn’t really know what to do with the swooshing feeling he currently has in his stomach. “My coach’s son, back in Russia.” At Shane’s incredulous look, he just grins. “I like trouble.”

Shane can’t help but steal a glance at Rozanov’s long body currently reclining against the wall beside the doorway, and when he looks up he knows he’s been caught. He licks his lips nervously, doesn’t miss the way Rozanov’s eyes track the movement. “I don’t,” is all he manages to reply.

Rozanov groans. “I know. It is so annoying.”

“Me being smart is annoying?”

“You being boring is annoying,” Rozanov corrects, and Shane narrows his eyes. After a pause, Rozanov relents. “This—” he gestures between them and at the laptop sitting abandoned on the coffee table across the room. “This is slightly interesting. Slightly.”

“What, me having a crisis about eating a girl out?” Shane huffs, folding his arms. 

“More the ad part, but that too.” Rozanov shrugs off his leather jacket without ceremony, the muscles in his forearms flexing as he crosses to dump it on the counter before turning back to Shane. “Can I sit? I want to hear about this disaster experience.”

“I didn’t say it was a disaster,” Shane protests, but Rozanov just cuts him a look. He shifts from foot to foot.

It strikes him then how truly weird it is that his teammate is sitting on the couch in his tiny apartment. In the year they’ve been playing on the same team, Rozanov has never stepped anywhere near his apartment building—they can barely stand to be in the same room at team practices, let alone the odd team gathering they both show up at. This is uncharted territory for them, and Shane isn’t really sure what to do.

“Wait, do you want something to drink?” Shane says abruptly, and Rozanov blinks. “Sorry, I should have offered you something before.”

Rozanov pauses, but instead of laughing he just nods. “Vodka?”

“Um. I have rum?”

Rozanov makes a gagging noise. “Do you have Coke, then?”

“That’s not on our approved meal plan,” Shane says automatically, before he realises he sounds like a robot. “I have, uh… ginger ale?”

Rozanov considers the offer and then nods. When Shane returns with two cans and hands one to him, he takes it and studies the label for a moment before cracking it open. “Huh. Not bad.” His eyes flicker up to Shane’s. “Boring, but not bad. Thank you.”

Shane only rolls his eyes. 

“You also have boring apartment,” Rozanov continues like he’s talking about the weather, and Shane glances over his shoulder to see him pausing to look at the pictures of Shane with his family littering the cabinet. He looks up. “Makes sense. Boring apartment for boring person.”

“You’re such an asshole,” Shane replies, but it’s with the usual level of exasperation he uses when Rozanov is chirping him relentlessly during practice. This, at least, is familiar ground for them. He settles uneasily on one end of the couch, Rozanov stretching out on the other and looking at him expectantly.

Right.

“It was just—what I said in the email,” Shane says. “She said I didn’t seem very into it.”

Rozanov hums in acknowledgement, and then: “was she ugly?”

“What?”

Rozanov shrugs. He seems to love that move. “I’m just saying, that can make things difficult.” He grins and then adds, “I’m sure those are the only girls you can get, though.”

“No,” Shane says firmly, and then again. “No. She was beautiful. She is beautiful. It’s fucking Rose Landry, for God’s sake.”

Shit. He hadn’t intended to mention her by name. He’s more offended than he should be by the implication, he knows, but that doesn’t stop him from bristling anyway. 

Rozanov whistles. “Nice. She is very hot.” He pauses, eyes flickering away for a brief moment. “So it was bad? The sex?”

“No. She's a great kisser. And she said I’m a good kisser.”

Rozanov’s eyes narrow just slightly, but he moves on. “So it’s just the eating pussy part you can’t do.”

Shane wrinkles his nose as if he wasn’t searching through that very category on Pornhub less than an hour ago. “Um.”

“That is a yes.” Rozanov chuckles, then schools his face into a more passive expression when he sees Shane clearly considering throwing him out of his apartment. “Did you do anything before that?”

“Anything…?”

Rozanov seems very entertained, and Shane doesn’t get it. “Any sex things. Grinding, fingering, any foreplay. Did she blow you?”

Shane shudders. Everything seems more crude with Rozanov’s thick accent, but also more… Shane’s not sure. Alive.

Shane swallows down the usual part of him that refuses to discuss details of sex with other people—he’s never exactly been one to share with his friends.“Um, grinding. And I kissed her neck a bit.”

“Nothing else? She did nothing to you?”

Shane shakes his head. “I, uh… kissed her, um—” he makes a hand gesture even as he struggles for the word that makes Rozanov laugh again.

“Tits?” Rozanov supplies, and Shane winces then nods hesitantly. “Well, that didn’t help. She did nothing to get you going first, and you did nothing either. You practically got on your knees as soon as you got there.”

Shane shudders again, though he’s not sure why. “She was wet,” he says, suddenly defensive. “Very wet.”

Rozanov hums in consideration. “Did she taste bad?”

Shane shakes his head, but something must show on his face because Rozanov arches a brow. “No… I mean, not like, objectively. But I didn’t like it. I don’t know.”

There’s silence for a few beats as they look at each other, Rozanov staring and Shane shifting under the scrutiny. Something about his gaze is as cool as ice, and yet there’s this heat just behind that that Shane can’t put his finger on. 

Like seeing molten lava coming from far away, maybe.

“I think I know what problem is,” Rozanov declares, and Shane sits up. Right. That’s why he’s here: advice.

“I’m listening,” Shane prompts when Rozanov doesn’t elaborate. 

"You think too much.”

Shane resists the urge to roll his eyes. “I do not.” This plan really was as stupid as he initially thought it was. 

“You do. It is same reason you are always a second too late with your backhand.”

Shane scowls. They both know his backhand is not a second too late, but… he does hesitate a little, sometimes. He’s still so fast he didn’t think anyone but him noticed. He knows Coach Wiebe doesn’t, always assuring him it’s perfect, but he knows it isn’t.

“I’m not too late. But keep going.”

“You are. But yes, you are overthinking. And doing it all wrong.”

“Which one is it? Am I overthinking or doing it all wrong?”

“Both,” Rozanov says simply, and Shane clenches his hand into a fist where it’s wedged between him and the edge of the couch. “You need to take time, especially with women. Sometimes the foreplay is best part.”

Shane considers this. He can confidently say that is not his experience—the best part for him is when it’s over.

“What should I do?”

“Tease her. Kiss her. Touch her. Do all these things more, and then you can get to work.”

Shane makes a mental note to circle back to the foreplay part. “And when I do… get to work?”

Rozanov adjusts on the couch, making himself more comfortable, and Shane leans in closer to listen. “I am guessing you were trying to follow technique, yes?”

Shane nods. “Drawing—y’know, patterns. Zig-zags and stuff.” A memory surfaces unbidden in his mind, and he resists the urge to laugh. Rozanov must catch the change in his expression, because he gestures for him to explain. “I drew a cat on her. With my tongue.”

A slow smile spreads across Rozanov’s face. “You did not.” He looks like he wants to clap, and not in a supportive way.  

“I did,” Shane insists, suddenly feeling miserable as his humiliation is complete. “I also used too much teeth.”

“The right level of teeth when eating pussy is no teeth,” Rozanov declares, and Shane can only jerk his head in dejected agreement. A beat passes, and then Rozanov comments just as casually, “of course, with men is different.”

Shane’s eyes flicker up to study Rozanov for a moment, before curiosity gets the better of him. “How so?”

“A little teeth used at the right time and in the right place can be nice,” he explains. “It helps, I think, knowing what feels good for you also.”

Shane thinks about it. He supposes having himself as comparison would be be helpful to know what to do, but he still thinks he’d be overthinking it. “How do I get out of my head?”

“Focus on body,” Rozanov advises. “Yours, and theirs. What gets you hard? What makes them moan? What makes them arch into your hands?”

Rozanov has big hands. Shane remembers registering this the first time he watched him play, watching the massive gloves close around the stick just before Rozanov became a blur on the ice. 

But that’s… unrelated.

Shane can’t help but flush at Rozanov’s words. He can’t remember his cock giving more than a twitch of interest the whole time he was with Rose, if he’s being honest, and he thinks she was only passively enjoying it during the moments where she wasn’t outright uncomfortable.

Rozanov seems to read his mind. “See? Even now, you overthink. Is not complicated.”

This makes Shane mad. “It is,” he disagrees, sitting forward to make his point. “There are so many things to think about. Anatomy and tongue placement and rhythm and—”

Rozanov laughs, but not in a mean way. He seems to find Shane’s crisis almost endearing, and it just makes Shane angrier. “This is why you have this problem,” Rozanov tells him. “Imagine pleasure is like a wave, yes? Is just about learning to ride wave instead of fighting it.”

Shane’s face screws up in confusion. He’s not sure he understands. 

With a sigh, Rozanov continues. “So, if a girl says, ‘keep going, don’t stop,’ you don’t stop. You don’t change rhythm, speed up or try to add something else. You should be able to tell from body language where she is in the wave, and follow that.”

Shane doesn’t think he does know how to tell arousal from body language very well, but he nods anyway. He sits back, scraping a hand across his face and groaning. “Ugh. It just feels so complicated.”

“Is not complicated,” Rozanov says again. “Like… you know when you touch someone? And even just touching their waist, or putting your hand on their neck, makes them respond to you. And you can feel the electricity. You know anything could happen, but you… sense the current. You sense what way to go.”

Shane thinks about it. “No,” he confesses. “I’ve never felt that.”

For a moment, Rozanov actually looks sad for him. “Is best part.” It occurs to Shane then that this is the most he’s ever heard Rozanov speak at once. Rozanov also seems to remember where he is after a moment, that he’s talking to his arch nemesis, because he arches a lazy brow. His face contorts into something only more striking, if that’s even possible. “Of course, best part for you is just getting your dick wet. Bet it doesn’t happen often.”

“Fuck you, it happens whenever I want it to happen,” Shane blusters. It’s actually mostly true. It’s almost always his choice to reject an offer and not the other way around, which he feels pretty good about. 

“Really? I am not sure if I believe you,” Rozanov teases, and is stopped from continuing by the pillow that Shane throws at his head. His grin only widens, making him look roguish and dangerous, and Shane feels his cheeks heat. “Maybe you are bad kisser.”

“I’m not a bad kisser, I already said that,” Shane protests. “Rose said I was a good kisser, actually, and that’s not even the first time I’ve heard that.”

Rozanov’s eyes flicker between Shane’s, a sudden heat in them, and sitting this close, he realises Rozanov has flecks of green in his eyes. He doesn’t know how he’s never seen that until now.

“Again, I am still not sure if I believe you,” Rozanov says simply, but there’s a sharp edge to his voice that glitters like a blade and whispers of something more.

Shane huffs and folds his arms. “I don’t care if you believe me or not.”

“Mm… no, Hollander. I think you do.”

Hollander. It’s the first time Rozanov has said his name tonight, and it has an effect on him that Shane didn’t expect. His cheeks redden even more, and from Rozanov’s gleeful expression he’s not the only one who noticed.

“Okay, well—whatever you say, Rozanov,” he stutters out lamely, but he’s saved by using Rozanov’s trick on him. His eyes darken at the use of his last name, and when he leans forward to grab his ginger ale and take a sip he sinks back down into the couch just a little closer than before, spreading his legs and putting a hand up on the backrest. From here, Rozanov would only have to lean over a few inches for his fingers to graze the back of Shane’s neck.

Not that that’s something Shane wants, of course.

They fall into a tense silence for a while, neither of them willing to back down from the unintentional staring competition they’ve gotten themselves into. Shane sort of feels like this staring competition is the epitome of his night so far, a series of decisions and precipices that have somehow led him from a defining sexual experience to… here, sitting on the couch of his tiny apartment with Ilya Rozanov, ESPN blaring in the background.

He still can’t bring himself to blink. The heat in Rozanov’s gaze is so strong that Shane begins to feel himself melting like ice on a summer’s day, though, and he is eventually the one to break the moment with a shaky breath as he looks away.

“Maybe you can show me,” Rozanov suggests, his hand twitching once on the couch before it stills.

“Show you?” Shane repeats. His brain can’t quite comprehend the words. 

“Show me, so I know what you’re doing wrong.”

“I-in sex?” God, why did his body have to choose that word for his voice to break over? 

Rozanov, of course, looks delighted. “No, in slap shots,” he finally replies, his voice dripping with sarcasm and words somehow made dirty in his accent. He takes another drink of the ginger ale. “Yes, Shane Hollander. In sex.”

The first and last name on Rozanov’s lips makes Shane need to look away again.

He still tries to deflect with a joke so he doesn’t have to think about what Rozanov is actually implying. “I didn’t know you had a vagina, Rozanov.”

Rozanov rolls his eyes. “Obviously not,” he replies, puffing out his chest. “I have massive, massive cock.”

Shane can’t help it. His gaze lowers to Rozanov’s spread legs, and when he looks back up he finds Rozanov smirking. Ugh. Fuck this guy. So confident. So arrogant.

So… hot.

The thought pops into Shane’s mind too quickly to stop it. It’s not that this hasn’t occurred to him before, of course—but it’s only ever been a passing thought in the locker room or watching him dance with some girl at a club in a manner that should honestly have gotten them both arrested for public indecency. 

Another image floats to the surface. Another club night, early in their first year, Shane had watched with feigned casualness as Rozanov made out with a girl in a different booth at the Foundry than the one Shane was in with Rose tonight. She was on his lap, knees planted either side of his widespread thighs, and he was whispering in her ear as she giggled and wound her hands around his neck.

He kissed like he wanted to devour, like the only thing that mattered in the world was her and the way she was touching him. Even at the time, Shane noted that he’d never kissed or been kissed like that.

Shane remembers looking at the way Rozanov was holding her and wondering what it was like to be held by someone with that much power in their hands. Someone that could, if they wanted to, break him. 

And then he’d watched as Rozanov grabbed a fistful of her hair and pulled, latching his teeth onto her neck with all the enthusiasm as a vampire as her giggles turned into breathy moans and she began to shift in his lap. 

And the whole time, he was looking at Shane. 

He stared at him with some level of passing curiosity, probably wondering why he and a few of their teammates were staring at him like idiots instead of finding something better to do, but there was also a kind of interest in his gaze. He was intrigued by Shane specifically watching him, and only when Rozanov finally shut his eyes to focus on his task did Shane startle and turn away like he’d been burned. 

He’d felt the cool gaze on him for the rest of the night.

Rozanov is looking at him right now like he knows exactly what Shane is thinking. He keeps expecting Rozanov to pull out his phone and reveal he’s been recording this for the team the whole time or simply get up and laugh at the poor guy that put up a fucking Craigslist ad to learn how to eat girls out, but he does none of those things. Instead he just swallows, and Shane’s gaze locks on the way the muscles in his jaw tick with the movement. 

“So… do you want to show me? Because personally, I think you need some help.”

“Fuck you,” Shane replies automatically, even as every cell in Shane’s body shivers with anticipation and warning in equal measure at the low rumble of his voice.

He’s distracted by it enough to need an extra moment to process his invitation. There’s something in it, too, something raw and vulnerable hiding just beneath the surface of his tone. It says, I’m putting myself out on the line for this too. 

It says, you can say no. You can say no and tell me to leave and I won’t say anything.

Shane doesn’t know why he trusts it—he’s never trusted Rozanov a day in his life until now—but he does. Maybe it’s because Rozanov is here, answering a Craigslist ad in the middle of the night just because, but mostly he just… does.

“Actually,” Rozanov says casually, as if he’s about to change his mind, “maybe not.”

“W-what?”

It takes Shane a moment to register the glitter in Rozanov’s eyes. “I don’t know if you have what it takes. I don’t think you can turn on dishwasher, let alone girl. Or me.”

“I could—I could turn you on,” Shane replies quickly, though he falters in the middle.

Rozanov arches an eyebrow, seeming unbothered. “Don’t think so. Too… timid.”

“Oh, God,” Shane groans, temporarily halted in his thought process by the reminder. He pauses. He consults the part of his brain that makes ideas, finds the department still off at the party the rum took them to. No one to ask if it’s a good idea, then. Oh well. “I bet I could do it.”

Shane’s voice is so low that for a moment he worries Rozanov won’t catch it, but thankfully for him Rozanov’s eyes are already trained on his lips. Somewhere in the back of Shane’s mind, he registers Rozanov shifting forward on the couch. Their knees are brushing now, almost the suggestion of a touch. He’s too focussed on Rozanov’s burning gaze instead. It feels like a magnet, like Shane keeps getting pulled back to him. 

“Oh, you bet?” Rozanov presses. “What if…” he takes a breath. “What if I bet you that you couldn’t make me hard in two minutes. Without touching my cock?”

Shane feels like the lights in his brain blink out for a second, but he’s not pulling away. That is what he was asking for when he said it, besides. Part of him is sort of relieved that, if they’re really going to do this, they can start this off with the one thing he knows he’s sort of good at. 

“What do I get if I win?” Shane asks, just because he can.

Rozanov looks considering. “What do you want?”

You, Shane thinks, but he what comes out instead is, “you have to give Luca a compliment at practice.” It’s the first thing he can come up with that isn’t a garbled request for hands, mouth, something, but he makes no move to take it back.

Rozanov seems just as surprised, the heat momentarily dissipating from his eyes in confusion. “What?”

“The kid worships you,” Shane says, “and he’s really good. The most you’ve ever said to him is that his backhand doesn’t suck.”

“I am right. It does not suck.”

“Yeah, but you have to—” Shane rakes a hand through his hair in frustration. “It would just go a long way coming from you to hear something actually nice about his playing for a change. I know he’s been struggling since he got to Canada in August. You know what that’s like, right?”

“Right,” Rozanov says slowly after a long beat. 

“So, um, yeah,” Shane says, shifting uncomfortably. “That’s what I want if I win.”

“And if I win?”

“What do you want?”

Rozanov sucks in a breath, eyes roaming freely over Shane’s body. The heat comes slamming back into his expression in full force. “We will see.”

They lapse into a tense silence once more, staring at each other without moving, until finally Rozanov grabs his phone from his pocket and shows Shane the timer set at two minutes.

“This is a bad idea,” Shane whispers, almost inaudibly. He doesn’t even know if he’s talking to Rozanov or simply reminding himself.

“What is?”

Despite not taking his eyes off of Rozanov, Shane doesn’t process how close he is until he’s right there, hand coming up to cup Shane’s jaw.

And Shane… doesn’t pull away.

The magnet is still in full force, clearly, because Shane is still as Rozanov sweeps their lips together softly once, twice, and then kisses him properly for another long beat. He pulls away, glancing into Shane’s eyes.

Okay. This is happening. Shane wants it to happen.

Shane is more ready when Rozanov leans in again, and he catches the quirk of an almost-smile before their lips touch, eyes heavy with need, and. Oh. Okay, this is what it feels like to kiss someone properly. He feels like he loses himself, a being reduced down to the hot mouth on him, the massive hands framing his face. 

He was mostly right when he thought that Rozanov kissed like he wanted to devour, as it turns out. He kisses Shane like he wants to take, and Shane finds his whole body buzzing with a total new kind of desire as Rozanov’s hand drops to his thigh and slides up, up. 

He moans softly into Rozanov’s mouth when his cool hands touch Shane’s waist underneath his shirt, skimming along his abs before resting at his side. He’s pretty sure he feels a hitch in Rozanov’s breath at his moan, and he makes another noise—purely to test the theory—when Rozanov nips at his bottom lip. It might be a little louder this time.

Rozanov groans, the hand on Shane’s jaw slipping to cup his chin and tilt it up to meet him. Shane feels hazy with desire, and bold.

At the next press of their lips Shane sweeps his tongue along Rozanov’s bottom lip, making Rozanov growl. 

Rozanov tastes… good.

As in, the taste of him when their tongues touch makes Shane lose his mind a little, the only things he’s able to process being the taste of ginger ale and the reminder to ask Rozanov if he smoked a cigarette tonight. He moans regardless, shifting restlessly in his seat before sliding the hand on Rozanov’s chest down, down, down.

He remembers the rules of their little bet just in time, stopping himself from the instinct to touch taking over. He lets his fingers skim just under the waistband of Rozanov’s sweatpants instead, teasing, and Rozanov’s head lolls back. Shane doesn’t think, ducking his head to kiss the exposed skin, and he feels Rozanov swallow against his lips. He can’t help but dart his tongue out there, too, and finds Rozanov’s skin tastes as good as his mouth does.

Then Rozanov is grabbing Shane and lifting him back up, and if Shane thought he was being kissed before, then this is a whole new level. Rozanov sucks his bottom lip between his teeth, sweeps his tongue inside and does something that makes Shane turn liquid inside all in the span of three seconds. His hands are everywhere, too, ghosting over Shane’s rapidly hardening cock and grabbing his leg. He squeezes once, pulling, and then seems to stop himself.

The squeeze is the only invitation Shane needs, apparently, before he’s sitting up on his knees and swinging a leg over until he’s settled squarely in Rozanov’s lap. As he feels Rozanov’s hands skate up the outside of his thighs he shudders, suddenly remembering seeing him do the same thing to that girl in the club last year. His teeth in her neck, one hand tangled in her hair and the other skating up and over her hip.

Shane remembers feeling like the ground had dropped beneath him when he saw Rozanov watching him, but now is different. He feels solid, real, here.

Rozanov’s chest is heaving as he takes in Shane on top of him, low-lidded eyes and lips parted deliciously. Shane sees his bottom lip glistening with moisture and finds himself thinking half-hysterically, I put that there, and he finds the thought only makes him harder. Rozanov’s curls are mussed on one side and Shane thinks, I did that. He should feel vulnerable sitting in a man’s lap like this, but when Rozanov’s hands move from his thighs to Shane’s biceps and up to cup his jaw, Shane thinks, I might be the one with the power here.

Shane is careful not to settle fully into Rozanov’s lap, perching on his thighs and leaning forward so he doesn’t brush Rozanov’s cock as he kisses him thoroughly. He pulls out all the tricks he can think of, nipping at his bottom lip and pulling back just to watch Rozanov chase his mouth just before he comes crashing back in. He puts his hands on Rozanov’s face and moves them back to tangle in his hair, tugging at the silken curls as he angles his head to deepen the kiss even more.

He’s achingly hard himself, doesn’t remember when that became the case but just knows it’s embarrassingly quickly, and while he wonders dimly if he’s having the same effect on Rozanov he can’t bring himself to pull away and actually check. 

He focuses in on his task, made simultaneously easier and harder by having such a skilled partner. Once or twice he finds himself so distracted by the feeling of Rozanov’s lips that he falls out of rhythm, once Rozanov clenching his waist in frustration and sucking Shane’s tongue into his mouth instead. 

Shane wants to melt when this happens, to shift forward and writhe against him until he’s spilling into his jeans, but he resists the urge. Instead he just moans, gathers himself, and at his next opportunity returns the favour.

He can feel Rozanov stiffen the instant after Shane wraps his lips around his tongue, and for half a second Shane thinks he’s done something very wrong like use his teeth—and then Rozanov makes a noise like crackling fire and kisses back harder.

Shane’s hands slip beneath Rozanov’s shirt, hiking it up. He has an idea. He wants to show Rozanov that he does know a thing or two about foreplay after all.

Lifting his shirt up to his armpits, Shane bends down and kisses his chest once before wrapping his lips around a nipple. This can’t be so different from a girl, he figures, and he’s right—the technique is the same, only this time he’s not afraid to really go for it. He swirls his tongue around the hardened bud, tugs it between his teeth before sucking at it to soothe the skin.

Rozanov lets out a half-whine, and when Shane’s eyes flicker up he sees his jaw tensed to keep the other half down as he stares back at Shane like he can’t believe it’s really happening.

Shane moves to the other nipple, and Rozanov makes another desperate noise. A minute later Shane is being hauled up with Rozanov’s forefinger and thumb gripping his chin, the grip softening to cup his face. His thumb reaches up to trace Shane’s bottom lip.

Without thinking, Shane’s lips part. His tongue is almost brushing Rozanov’s thumb, and there’s a second where nothing happens and in the next Rozanov is pushing in and Shane’s mouth is stretching to accommodate him.

Shane doesn’t really know what’s happening. But he knows he doesn’t want it to stop.

He closes his eyes and sucks, tongue swirling around the digit, and as his head bobs he opens his eyes just in time to see Rozanov mouth something like oh, wow, as he watches Shane thoroughly debauche himself.

Not that Shane wasn’t already, y’know, debauched. This is just—never mind.

Shane has a hand wrapped around Rozanov’s wrist, his other on his chest, and Rozanov hands keep brushing the sides and tops of his ass but never fully latching on anywhere. Somewhere in the last few seconds their foreheads have tipped together and Rozanov appears enraptured as he studies the place where his thumb is disappearing inside Shane’s mouth, and when he finally does pull his hand back it’s to immediately replace it with his lips, and—

Rozanov’s alarm goes off. 

Shane is so startled by the blaring sound that he almost falls out of Rozanov’s lap, the arm the other centre wraps around his waist in a vice grip the only thing keeping him from sprawling on the ground. Rozanov’s other hand fumbles on the couch beside them, eventually finding the phone and hitting ‘OFF’. When he straightens up again, all they can do is stare at each other.

It’s likely Shane probably looks as flustered as he feels. He just hopes his erection isn’t too obvious, and this thought is what reminds him of what brought him into Ilya Rozanov’s lap in the first place: the bet.

Shane hesitates, then looks down between them. Moment of truth.

Rozanov is hard.

Oh.

He’s big, too, the outline straining against his sweatpants enough to give Shane pause for a moment, dizzying thoughts of Rozanov replacing his thumb with that, and Rozanov hasn’t dropped his hands from Shane’s legs yet. He hasn’t declared the game over.

“I guess I win,” he manages, looking up to find Rozanov waiting for his gaze. Shane isn’t sure he looked down the whole time, instead watching Shane as he took in the sight of his cock through the thin fabric, and he finds his eyes filled with want and mischief.

“Congratulations, Haas,” Rozanov drones. “Your captain has won you a compliment from your favourite player.”

“Asshole,” Shane says, but the sentiment is dulled by his laugh. “Sorry for wanting to do something nice.”

“That was nice,” Rozanov comments, conversational even as his hands squeeze Shane’s thighs. He gestures down to his visible hard-on. “You have made me hard. That is something nice for me.”

“Oh, is it?” Shane says mockingly. “Is it nice for you?”

Rozanov looks both horrified and delighted. “Hollander, are you five years old?”

“Oh, fuck off.”

Rozanov just grins. “Yes. Still five.”

Shane flushes, glancing up and finding Rozanov’s eyes not on him but on his hard cock. Unfortunately the jeans have provided only a little coverage, and it’s obvious that his cock is straining at the seam. 

Shane doesn’t think, just grabs Rozanov’s face and shifts forward to slide up his strong thighs. He rocks his hips and there, their cocks are rubbing together and tiny fireworks are going off in his head as Rozanov groans into his open mouth and leans in to kiss him again.

He rolls his hips a few more times, savouring the feeling of the delicious pressure and the little hitches in Rozanov’s breath. Now this feels like power, using Rozanov’s body to get himself off, but Rozanov is looking up at him in a way that makes him feel like he’s got something to prove.

Only a few moments later, Shane can’t take it anymore. He blinks and he’s sliding off the couch and onto his knees, shuffling between Rozanov’s parted legs and placing trembling hands on his thighs. He can feel heat high in his cheeks, doesn’t want to look up and let Rozanov see the want he knows is written all over his face, so he shuts his eyes and leans forward to nuzzle at the bulge in Rozanov’s sweatpants. 

“Fuck, Hollander.”

Shane shudders at this, screwing his eyes shut and mouthing the outline of Rozanov. He gains a little more courage, running his hands up and down his thighs, but makes no move to go further. Yet.

As it turns out, what he’s been waiting for comes only a few moments later. A hand buries itself in Shane’s hair and he initially freezes, unsure if he’ll feel trapped with Rozanov’s large hand holding him or if he’ll grimace at the feeling of his fingernails against his scalp, but then Rozanov moves and—

Huh. The scraping of his fingers actually feels nice against his skin. His nails are blunt, which Shane thinks helps, and he shivers as they rake through his hair before Rozanov smooths over the path with the flat of his hand. He doesn’t feel trapped, either, but likes that Rozanov is keeping him there, that he doesn’t want Shane to move.

What he’s really waiting for, apparently, is Rozanov to speak.

“You want this?” Rozanov asks, jerking his hips up just a little so Shane’s mouth opens over the side of his shaft, and he swears softly in Russian. Shane is probably getting the front of his sweats damp with his mouth, but he doesn’t care. “Look so good like this, on your knees for me.”

Shane keeps his eyes shut, not moving even as he flushes at the attention. He shifts up and down the bulge, categorizing the outline in his head to give him something to focus on other than the heady rush of, as Rozanov said, being on his knees for him.

He must make a noise of approval, though, because Rozanov continues, voice thick. “Want to see if you are any better at this?”

It’s a question, but one edged in razor wire. Shane feels like he’s teetering on the edge of a very high precipice, and all he wants to do is fall.

Chapter End Notes

HHEHEHEHEHE

writing ilya and shane is actually so fun why didn’t i do this before…

i have so many thoughts this time actually but i’ll save that for next time which is ILYA’s pov!!!! eee i love these boys so much

next chapter will be up soon :) thank you for the comments so far i’ve missed being in a very active fandom lol

Chapter 3: don't you boy?

Chapter Notes

i had to get this out so fast y'all i was primed

Ilya Rozanov hates Shane Hollander.

This fact has been true for as long as Ilya can remember, watching Hollander whiz around the ice like he was made for it on a tiny television screen. He hates those onyx eyes, sharp and filled with determination, as he crouches for a face-off, and he hates the way those eyes crinkle with happiness when he celebrates a win. He hates how boring Hollander is, never going on team outings or drinking or eating anything even remotely enjoyable. He hates those stupid damn freckles.

He realises only as he traces the dark constellation on Hollander’s cheekbones, watching him wrap a hand around the base of Ilya’s cock and lean down to kitten lick at the tip, that he might not hate them as much as he thought he did.

Ilya doesn’t know quite how the night turned out like this. One minute, he was at the club dancing filthily with a girl and debating if he should invite her back to his or just pull her into a bathroom stall, and the next she was announcing that she had a boyfriend who liked watching and leaving him to skulk home alone because he didn’t want his friends to see he struck out.

And then he was scrolling through ‘missed connections’ aimlessly, something he does when he’s frustrated by English and wants to get a little more frustrated practicing, and then he sees it. 

He had only a passing fascination at first, was intrigued by the sort of person that would go looking for advice giving head on Craigslist of all places, but he quickly found himself interested. Maybe he could help. Or at the very least, have a funny story to tell his teammates tomorrow—if he found a way to make it sound less gay. He felt a buzz of interest through the emails, somehow, and eventually got out of bed and shrugged on a jacket.

And then Shane Hollander opened the door, and all his thoughts flew out the window. 

I knew I saw you glance at me in the showers last week, Ilya thinks half-hysterically just before Hollander wraps his lips around his cock and glances up at him, like he’s waiting for approval. It looks like he wants it, needs it. Hollander has never looked like this for anyone else, Ilya realises, and the thought makes him dizzy.

Because that hadn’t occurred to Ilya earlier. What if a random guy, not Ilya, had answered the ad first? Would Hollander still have invited him over? Probably, he thinks. Hollander was pretty drunk when Ilya saw him at the club earlier tonight.

(And Ilya saw Hollander. He saw him sat in the booth chatting with Rose, sipping his beer like he wished it was anything else. One of the stupid ginger ales he’d given Ilya earlier, maybe. Ilya had turned back to the seating area later with the intention of approaching Hollander with a good chirp he’d been considering all night, but when he saw Rose curled into his side and kissing him while his hands were planted in what can only be called a polite position on her hips, he’d turned around and stomped off to the dance floor to find someone else to pay attention to him. 

Of course Hollander was the only guy he knew to be able to pull a girl he seems not to have even been trying to get in a nerdy button-down and the same running shoes he’d worn for their morning workout earlier today. Of course.)

So yes, Hollander would’ve had someone over. But would anything else have happened? Would Hollander have climbed into their lap, kissed them thoroughly, and basically asked them to teach him?

No, Ilya decides with a level of ferocity that scares him. 

He nods at Shane in permission, carding his fingers through Hollander’s hair, and Hollander makes a little noise then sinks down until Ilya’s brain short-circuits.

It’s obvious that he’s never done this before, but what Hollander lacks in skill he makes up for in enthusiasm—he bobs his head, pulling off to tongue around the tip and glancing up before swallowing him back down. The look in Hollander’s eyes has Rozanov gripping the armrest of the sofa with his free hand because the way the mahogany of his irses are glazed over with desire has Ilya threatening to come undone.

He looks so focused, cheeks tinged with red underneath his dark freckles, and as Ilya moves a hand through his hair Hollander moans. He’s so responsive, too. Ilya wants to know how he’d respond to… well, everything. Ilya wants to do everything to Hollander.

The third time Hollander pushes his shirt up, he gets the message. Sitting up quickly, he pulls it over his head and discards it somewhere to his right, rewarded when he settles by Hollander’s hands digging into his thighs. He’s grabbing at Ilya like he’d take anything he gave him.

The thought is enough to knock the wind out of him but he doesn’t have time, not when Hollander does something with his tongue that makes him swear in Russian and then swallows around him.

Ilya only half manages to bite down on a noise that sounds halfway between a whine and a growl, and he’s hissing, “oh, stop, stop, stop, stop—” before hauling Hollander up as he tries to control his breathing. God, he hasn’t gotten that close so quickly in years.

Hollander looks bewildered to be half in Ilya’s lap, his bottom lip glistening. “Was that—bad?” he asks haltingly.

Ilya can’t help but put his hands on Hollander’s chest as if to steady him as he says, “no, no, opposite.” He revels in the tiny hitch in Hollander’s breath. “It was too much, too good.”

He watches as Hollander’s crestfallen expression turns to pleased, his cheeks reddening immediately as he blinks and looks down at where Ilya’s cock is still trapped between them, glistening with his spit.

That’s not the cock Ilya is interested in right now, though. He can see Hollander hard in his jeans, definitely the kind of zipper that hurts to strain against, and though his fingers itch to grab at the button and pull, he knows this is the kind of thing where Hollander needs to take things at his own pace.

“So… I guess I’m not so bad at oral after all, then,” Hollander says a little weakly, and Rozanov just barely swallows back a laugh.

“This is fair assessment,” he says, just to watch the way Hollander’s cheeks go pink. And then he can’t help himself. He leans in to Hollander’s ear. “Maybe you just like sucking cock.” He feels Hollander go still and thinks in that half second that he’s gone too far, but the moment breaks and Hollander settles into Ilya’s grip. “Did you?”

Slowly, Hollander nods. “I did.”

“Want me to… lie back and let you do it some more?”

Hollander arches a brow, a slow grin spreading across his face. “Let me?”

Before Hollander can slide to the floor, Ilya reaches a hand out to stop him. He arches a brow, looking down at his appearance—shirtless, his sweatpants tugged halfway down his thighs—and then at Hollander’s fully-clothed form.

“Uh, not fair,” he complains. “Come on, I want to see you.”

Hollander bites his lip. “You see me in the showers all the time.”

Ilya does. He has seen him. But he’s been trying not to think about it.

“I want more,” he says simply, and Hollander complies with another flush. 

He undoes his button-down, slipping it off his shoulders and allowing Ilya to see his hockey-toned body. Ilya resists a shiver as his eyes roam over this torso freely for the first time. He’s only slightly stockier than Ilya is, his defined chest and abs almost completely smooth, and they’ve seen each other shirtless and more hundreds of times by now. Ilya knows what he looks like, but this is… different. It’s one thing to see these muscles from far away, but it’s another to see them ripple as he straightens and then carefully folds the shirt and sets it to the side. Ilya can’t help but grin at this, but he feels his smile disappear a moment later as Hollander clambers off him with shaky limbs and takes off his jeans to reveal the thick muscle of his thighs. 

Ilya looks at him expectantly when he’s left in just his boxers, and after pausing for a second, Hollander complies. He peels the thin material off of his body slowly, and Ilya knows it’s not because he’s teasing but because he’s nervous—this becomes obvious when he puts his boxers down and then just stands in front of Ilya, looking down at himself before looking back up at him.

“Okay?” Hollander asks, holding his hands out a little from his sides. He looks so vulnerable, fidgeting and ignoring his cock bobbing as he shifts from foot to foot.

Ilya’s eyes rake over him shamelessly. His dick is almost as big as Ilya’s—almost, of course—and nestled beneath a patch of dark hair that is as well-kept as the rest of him. He’s hard, too, to the point where Ilya bets it almost hurts, and his tip glistens with moisture already. Ilya licks his lips.

“Come here,” he commands, voice rough, and Hollander does.

He’s taking the single step and clambering back into Ilya’s lap in the span of half a second, but he makes no move to kiss him or shift forward so their cocks rub together. Instead he almost hovers on top of him, his hands on his own thighs as he looks anywhere but at Ilya’s face, clearly deep in thought. He’s stiff as a board while he does it, too, so Ilya makes no move to touch him yet. He just waits.

“So…” Ilya trails off eventually. “What do you want to do?”

“I… don’t know,” Hollander replies in a small voice. 

Ilya studies him for a moment, then leans forward to kiss his chest. Hollander jumps at the intrusion but doesn’t pull away, staying silent as Ilya kisses across each pec and then slowly, carefully takes a hold of him.

Hollander’s mouth drops open when Ilya touches him, eyes slipping shut as he tilts his head back and rocks into the contact just once. Ilya feels half-crazed from the way he looks, but also from the way he feels—he wonders if Hollander would even need lube given how much he’s leaking, at the way another bead drips from his slit just from Ilya thumbing over it once. 

“This okay?” Ilya whispers, watching him carefully as he strokes, and Hollander nods jerkily, grabbing his shoulder.

“Y-yeah, this is…” he starts, and then stops. When their eyes meet, Hollander’s are full of determination. 

More gracefully this time, Hollander slides to the floor, and now when he eyes Ilya’s cock it’s with less fear and even more determination. He pauses, glancing up at Ilya. “Can you—never mind.”

“Use words, Hollander,” Ilya presses, and Hollander glares and then bites his lip.

“I just want you to tell me if I’m doing a bad job,” Hollander says, sort of in a rush, and with that he leans forward and opens his mouth and.

The wet heat of his mouth turns Ilya’s brain off as much as the first time, and he fights to keep control and remember what Hollander just said. Right. He wants advice, because that’s all this is. Just an experiment, a tutoring session. 

Right.

But when Hollander swirls his tongue just right, increasing the pace, and Ilya groans, “da, like that, Hollander,” and Hollander moans and sinks down so far he almost gags, it’s hard to remember that Hollander is just testing a theory.

Ilya fights not to talk too much. He doesn’t want to scare Hollander off with the filthy words he knows can sometimes slip from his mouth during sex, and he was already worried that the alcohol he’s consumed tonight blunted the edges of his English so much that he sounds like even more of a villain than usual. At the same time, though, Hollander seems to love the sound of Ilya speaking Russian judging by the second moan he lets out when Ilya releases a low string of curses when he cups his balls, and… well, he did want instruction. 

Besides, Ilya is testing out a theory.

That’s the only reason he mutters, “shit, Hollander, so good,” and, “yes, relax throat just like—fuck, you learn fast,” of course. No other reason.

Regardless, his words have the desired effect. Hollander moans, shuddering, and the next time he sinks down and Ilya feels his cock bump against the back of his throat, Hollander takes a breath through his nose and opens wider to take another inch or two into his mouth.

“Ah, fuck, Hollander.” 

Ilya feels the pleased hum at the praise around his cock, and it makes his spine turn to liquid and his mouth dry. What did I walk into? he thinks wildly. Shane Hollander being on the other side of that door was not at all what he expected, not even on the top one hundred scenarios—yet alone this Hollander, pleased and desperate and determined and practically purring when Ilya uses the hand in his hair to adjust his position on Ilya’s cock. 

Would Hollander have been like this for anyone who walked through the door, too? Would he be trembling with need the way he is now, desperate and blinking up at Ilya with wet eyes? Ilya doesn’t think so. He’s the one who watches Hollander get praise from Coach Weibe or a teammate after a play everyday, watches the way he blinks twice then looks down every time, his cheeks flushing with a tiny smile at his skates.

He knows how to make Hollander feel good, and that’s more than he can say for any other idiot who would’ve walked through that door.

He sinks lower into the cushions coming back into himself and inhaling sharply when Hollander takes advantage of his distraction to scrape his teeth ever so slightly along the bottom of his shaft.

“Fuck, yes,” he’s saying before he can stop himself, lifting his head to look down with wide-eyes. Hollander clearly listened to what he was saying about giving head earlier, then. Noted. “You are quick study. Made for this, for taking my cock.”

Ilya means to say for taking cock, but the ‘my’ slips out before he can stop it. He doesn’t regret it when it comes out, though, not when Hollander is digging blunt fingernails into his thighs and swallowing around him with a moan, his eyes watering as he struggles to take as much of Ilya as possible. He has a gag reflex, clearly, but he’s working through it, and he seems to have given up caring about not making things messy. He licks and sucks and drools all over Ilya’s cock, and when his eyes flick up again Ilya sees that there are two full tears making salty tracks down his cheeks that he makes no effort to wipe. 

Hollander really is good at this. He seems blissed out as he works, taking note of every piece of advice Ilya gave and paying attention to his cues, too. His hands are roaming, one even coming up to tweak at Ilya’s nipple before retreating back to the safety of his thighs, and he is careful to vary his technique and rhythm until Ilya says, “fuck, don’t stop,” and he doesn’t stop. He keeps the same rhythm, just closes his lips and sucks a little harder, and Ilya can feel the familiar heat beginning to coil in his stomach. It’s quicker than he would’ve liked, but it’s not over yet. 

“Fuck, Hollander,” Ilya gasps, pulling Hollander off with just enough time to stroke himself once, twice, before he’s shuddering and coming all over his hand.

It takes several long moments to come back into himself, to realise that he’s pulled Hollander up onto the couch and is cupping his jaw in one hand. He turns, looking at Hollander’s face—flushed, lips swollen and pupils blown with desire—and kisses him hard. Hollander melts into the touch, kissing him back just as hard, and Ilya groans at the fact that he can taste himself on Hollander’s tongue.

He grins inwardly when he pulls away, sitting up.

“Well, that was fun,” Ilya announces, moving to stand without looking at him. In reality, he just leans over for a napkin on the coffee table and uses it to clean up his hand, but he waits with glee for Hollander’s reaction. He glances back. 

Hollander is huffing out an incredulous laugh, looking at the space Rozanov’s body left with wide eyes. His cheeks are red, and he sort of looks like when they’re running drills and Ilya steals the puck off him just because he can, disappearing across the ice with a cheerful comment over his shoulder, and Hollander is standing there with his mouth agape and brow furrowed—it almost looks like he’s about to laugh, sometimes. 

(Ilya doesn’t get to hear the sound of Hollander’s laugh very much.)

But he can’t stand being mean for that long, so he shuffles back into Hollander’s eye line, wraps an arm around him, and watches as his expression becomes one of guarded relief. 

He can’t help himself after that, rolling them over somewhat smoothly given the tiny couch’s size so that he’s above Hollander now. When he’s positioned snugly between Hollander’s legs, he cocks his head. “You think I am asshole?”

Hollander rolls his eyes. “I know you’re an asshole,” he replies, but the ghost of a grin flickers at the edges of his lips.

“Oh, I would not leave you like that,” Ilya whispers, and he watches Hollander swallow.

“No?”

“No.” Ilya leans down until their lips are almost touching, revelling in the hitch in Hollander’s breath. “Let me show you how to do this.”

It takes some maneuvering, but he’s able to kiss his way down Hollander’s body without breaking any limbs, at least. Once he’s balanced on the end of the couch with one knee on the floor he doesn’t waste any time. He slides a hand up to Hollander’s chest, ducks his head and circles the tip slowly with his tongue before sinking down, down, down with no preamble.

He watches Hollander’s back arch above him, the muscles in his neck flexing as he throws his head back. God, he loves this. He loves watching someone come apart underneath him. He loves how responsive Hollander is to everything, how he trembles when Ilya groans around his cock at the taste and holds the arm that is still groping at his chest, brushing over his nipple occasionally. He puts his other hand on Ilya’s shoulder to brace himself like he’s going to fall over if he doesn’t. 

Ilya’s good at this. He knows this, has been told it enough times by more than a few partners—but it’s different to see the ecstasy play out on Hollander’s body. He takes each moment in one at a time: the way he bites his lip, the way his hand finally buries itself in Ilya’s curls but he doesn’t even pull, just tangles his fingers in the strands and almost cradles his head, the way the groan Ilya lets out around his cock at this makes him leak. Ilya savours it all.

He’s also trying to prove a point, though, so he’s pulling out all of his tricks. 

“Holy shit, Rozanov,” Hollander gasps when Ilya does a thing with his tongue that is always popular, and he feels Hollander’s cock twitch in his mouth.

Ilya hollows his cheeks. 

“Oh, fuck.”

Ilya tightens his grip on the thigh hooked over his shoulder, pulsing his tongue against Hollander’s crown before sinking down until his nose is brushing his stomach.

“Holy shit, Rozanov, you—no, you better get off, I’m—I can’t stop—”

Ilya knows he could pull away, but he doesn't. He doesn’t want to. He bobs his head twice more before Hollander is digging his nails into his shoulder, arching his back and coming into Ilya’s mouth in spurts. 

It feels like he comes for ages, forcing Ilya to swallow. Oh well. A moment ago he’d been considering keeping it in his mouth and feeding it to Hollander, but no matter—that probably would have been a bridge too far for Hollander tonight anyway.

(Save that for another time, then. The thought pops into his head before he can stop it. He tries to ignore it, but...)

When Ilya finally pulls off, it’s with a pop and a thin line of spit still connecting his lips to Hollander’s cock. He wipes his mouth, straightens up and moves to collapse on the couch beside Hollander, who is now coming down from his high.

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry—I didn’t even think—” Hollander stutters.

“What? That you would come so quick?”

“Fuck you,” Hollander shoots back, but when Ilya just laughs he cracks a smile. He pauses. “You didn’t have to.”

“I.. don’t mind.” Understatement of the year, Ilya thinks silently. He can still taste Hollander on his tongue.

Hollander sits up, scratching his neck, and Ilya watches him carefully. He’s looking for regret, for… something.

“So, you’re not gonna tell anyone about this, are you?” Hollander says in a low voice. 

“Me?” Ilya repeats. He goes for sarcasm. “Yes, Hollander, I’m going to tell everyone.”

“Because no one can know,” Hollander presses, ignoring him. 

Ilya levels him with a look. “Oчевидно.” When Hollander turns away, he sits up too. “Hollander, I’m not going to tell anyone.” Hollander doesn’t look over. “Okay?”

“Okay,” Hollander finally relents, but he stays stiff.

They sit in silence for a second, Ilya watching Hollander not watch him, until he sighs. He knows it's time for him to make his exit. “I, uh, should get going,” he finally says.

Hollander blinks and then nods. “Yeah, I have an early workout tomorrow, too.”

Ilya raises a brow as he stands and begins to get dressed. “There’s nothing scheduled with the team. We have the day off tomorrow.”

“I, uh…”

“So you don’t have to get up early,” Ilya argues. “You could just do it later.”

Hollander shrugs, looking over to his clothes like he’s itching to get dressed too, but doesn’t move. “Yeah, maybe,” he says non-committally, and Ilya glances at the clock.

It’s almost four in the morning. He’d say there’s no way Hollander is getting up in just a few hours for a workout, but he knows better. He knows Hollander better.

As Ilya is sliding his jacket back on at the door, he studies Hollander carefully. His brow is creased in thought as he stares into empty space and glances every once in a while at Ilya, his arms folded and leg hitches up to partially obscure his body. Ilya knows this isn’t exactly the kind of body language that screams talk to me, but screw it. He can’t just… leave.

Ilya knows this is stupid. He knows it’s stupid, and dangerous, and could end badly a hundred different ways. But that’s sort of his thing, right? Danger?

“If you ever need another lesson,” he starts, letting his eyes flick up to meet Hollander’s and catch the way his lips part in surprise. “You know where to find me. I think you are good student, but next time I could... teach you even more.”

Hollander nods after a second, cheeks flushed, but stays silent. Ilya hesitates for one more second before he turns, and it’s only as the door is clicking shut that he hears it—a quiet whisper of hope, more to himself than anything, carried to Ilya like smoke in a closing gap.

“More.”

Chapter End Notes

^^^ hopefully you all when i tell you that as of now this is just a one-shot BUT i could write more if it was desired... while you consider that, here are some thoughts:

writing ilya's pov is so fun because god this guy really has been a simp since day fucking dot and i have NO plans of changing that

i also really enjoyed keeping the dialogue close to the book/show in parts because tbh i usually adapt but these boys are such freaks in cannon that it took very little reinvention to pop in my silly little craigslist ad teammates storyline. LOVE THAT.

the one word in russian towards the end is 'obviously' and tbh i just used google translate bc my duolingo russian was not holding up and i was tired soo

y'all if anyone has any show recommendations while we wait for heated rivalry ep 5 please comment, because fr i feel like i've seen everything ever atp and i need a new show to enjoy!!!

that's it from me (for now...). most importantly thanks everyone for reading, as i said last time i love being in an actually active fandom it's like crack to me so much appreciate for providing that for me!!!

even if not for this fic i will likely write more HR in the future because it's so good but just let me know if you want to see more in this one <3

BYE! :):):)

EDIT: more craigslist ad hollanov coming imminently >:)

Chapter 4: flyin on your motorcycle

Chapter Notes

GUESS WHO'S BACK Y'ALL. TOLD YOU. you speak and i listen <3

no beta we die like shane's heterosexuality at the world juniors in saskatchewan so if there are errors then it's totally intentional and part of the ~experience~

anyways this chapter made me remember that one meme about ilya and shane's povs where ilya is like i like SEX and DANGER and this is just TROUBLE and meanwhile shane is sitting on a rooftop like batman staring off into the distance going 'This is Fucked Up. Oh God. This Has To End.' i thought about that the entire time i was writing this and i hope it continues to be more and more obvious as i continue writing both their povs okay thanks bye

enjoy!

Ilya is pacing the floor of his dorm room. It’s 4:23am.

He’s probably pissing off whoever’s living on the floor below him, he knows, but he can’t bring himself to care. He’s still so amped up from whatever the fuck that was at Hollander’s, has been since he got back an hour ago, that he simply can’t sleep until he works through some of the shit in his head. 

He pauses. That’s not entirely true. 

Several shots of vodka later, Ilya’s throat is burning with a comfortable familiarity and he’s at least perched on the edge of the couch. He feels a little steadier now, even though something in him still gives the supreme possibility of wobbling. 

Never in a million years did Ilya think that was how his night was going to go. He didn’t expect Hollander, he didn’t expect Hollander like that, and he certainly didn’t expect to want to do it again. 

But he does. Fuck, he does, he wants to see Hollander spread out below him, dark eyes hazy and lips parted, and he wants to take him apart every way he knows how. With his hands. With his mouth. With his teeth. He wants to teach him what pleasure can be like, watch his eyes glaze over when he tells him he’s doing a good job. He wants it in a way that makes his body ache almost like he has a fever, he wants it in a way that makes him hum with desire, he wants it in a way that makes him throb even though he came barely an hour ago.

He feels torn between screaming into a pillow and going back out to find someone else to scratch this itch with. It wouldn’t be that hard, he thinks; clubs are still open, he could slip inside, grab a drink and hang out by the bar until he spotted someone. That’s all this really is. Tonight was hot, objectively, and he was already pent up after striking out at the club. He just needs to burn off this energy.

He doesn’t want to find someone else tonight, though. He’s tired, doesn’t feel like translating the thick French-Canadian Montreal accent into English and then into Russian and back again. It takes a lot of energy, and right now he doesn’t have any. Besides, he knows he looks thoroughly debauched. His hair is mussed on one side, his lips are a little swollen, and he’s pretty sure sure his hand still smells like his own come.

A shower. That’s what he needs. Ilya turns the knob in the tiny cubicle and squeezes in a minute later, letting the hot water scald his body. It’s not much, and Ilya has to duck to rinse his hair, but it’s free and there’s always hot water.  

He’s quick and methodical in cleaning himself, soaping up his torso and scrubbing under his arms as he considers things. What will their next practice be like, he wonders? Will Hollander say something to him, or will he ignore him as usual? Ignore him, Ilya decides. That one’s obvious. He decides to think of a few lines that he could say that might make him react, and busies himself trying to come up with something that would make Hollander so flushed his stupid freckles disappeared.

Those damn freckles.

They’re the first thing that pop into his head, but as soon as dark eyes hazy with lust appear next, he knows he’s done for. 

Ilya puts a hand on the wall of the shower, leaning his forehead against the cool tile, and hesitates. He could just finish cleaning himself, dry off, and head out for someone to fuck or simply go get a good night’s sleep. It would be so easy. That’s what he should do. 

He’s never been very good at doing only what he should do, though. 

The images are coming thick and fast now, memories of Hollander with his lips wrapped around Ilya’s cock or laid out beneath him and whining as he comes, and at this point Ilya is powerless to stop it.

He's hard. He doesn’t want to think about how long he’s been that way for. 

Ilya comes for the second time that night against the tiles of his shower, one hand braced as he furiously strokes himself, and if he finishes with the name Hollander on his lips then that’s no one’s business but his.

***

Shane wakes up with a pounding headache and a chest full of panic.

He’s brimming with it as soon as he wakes up, takes a second to place why and then has to roll over and deep breathe into his pillow until he can get the courage to face the world again. 

Why did he have to make that ad? Why didn’t he tell Rozanov to leave when he showed up?

And why, why did he like it so much?

He regrets ever meeting Rose in the first place. She was nice, sure, but Shane’s failure with her got him into this predicament with Rozanov, and now he… what? Has a sex tutor? No. He doesn’t know what’s happening in his life now, and he knows he was pretty drunk at the beginning, but he knows that surely he didn’t basically hire Rozanov as his teacher last night. 

Surely. 

But he did have a good time. He had a really good time, actually, feels genuinely great about sex and how he performed during the whole thing. He realises then that he’s curled up on his side, one hand on his own chest as the other brushes against his lips and then drifts up to touch along his cheekbones the way Rozanov had while he was sucking his—

Anyway. 

He just needs to cure this hangover, go for a run and let it all leave his head. Everything always feels better once he gets his blood pumping, the heartbeat thumping in his head drowning out all other noise until all his problems seem so small, so far away—all he has to worry about is the pounding of his feet against the road and the rhythm of his breathing. In, out, in, out. Easy. It’ll all be good after that. He’ll be good—

Shit, Hollander, so good.

Fuck, you learn fast.

Made for this. Made for taking my cock. 

The words appear in his mind without any prompting, and the surprise of it makes his body jerk only to rut his cock against the mattress. He’s hard, because of course he is at the reminder of the hottest night of his life, and he knows immediately that he could come just from this.

He rolls his hips again, testing, and moans. Yeah, this won’t take long. He buries his face in the pillow to hide his shame. 

He’s just pent up, of course. He had a long night of various sexual activities, and he only came once. He was horny from Rozanov’s offer of more sex just before he left, but decided to go to bed before he could do anything about it. He just needs to get it out of his system, needs to spill into the sheets recklessly because he can and then climb in the shower and go for a run where he will studiously not think about anything, and then everything will be fine. 

And if he rolls his hips and tries not to think about anything, if he fails and the look on Rozanov’s face as he said made for taking my cock crosses Shane’s mind right before he shudders and comes against the sheets, then that’s no one’s business but his.

The run helps. A little. He thinks, at least.

Shane’s mind is still spinning when he heads to the library in the afternoon, comforted by the list he’s forming in his head of all the things he has to do. Kinesiology reading. Forensic Anthropology problem sheet. Biomechanics reading. Analyse psychology study. Rozanov, swallowing around his c—

Fuck.

He’s able to find a seat in the library without much difficulty, settling in one of the back corners of a floor with only a few desks around massive floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. It’s quiet, but it’s also for his own privacy—it might not be anything like college football players in America, but hockey players in Canada (especially the captain of the best team in the country) are still a big deal. He doesn’t want to be distracted by a friend of the team showing up or, worse yet, a puck bunny who wants to flirt their way into free tickets to next week’s game. 

It happens more often than people would think. JJ seems to be a magnet for it, announcing he’s in love with a girl before texting the group chat an hour later with a nine minute voice note wailing about how no one ever wants to love the real him, but even Shane’s dealt with them a time or two in the past. Before Hayden started dating Jackie seriously, he used to fall victim to them constantly—he jokes that Jackie put some sort of repellant on him, because now, as if knowing somehow that he’s taken, those girls avoid him like the plague. 

Shane’s corner works well for his purposes, and he soon falls into a rhythm. Focus is never something that he has struggled with; he’s been told more than once by coaches, parents and girlfriends alike that he actually had the opposite problem, his laser focus making him ignore everything else in life to the detriment of the relationships around him. His obsessive tendencies make it hard for him to let it go long enough to act like a functional human being. 

He’s always loved hockey, but he’s pretty smart, too—part of the reason he’s at McGill. Still, he knew he wouldn’t be able to focus on business and economics like Hayden and didn’t want to do something that was a total joke such as communications like JJ, so he settled on sports science. He figured it would be close enough to his love of hockey to keep him interested but unique enough that he wouldn’t get bored, and he was right—he finds most of the classes genuinely interesting, and he does well in them. He figures it’s a good foundation for whatever comes after, too, whether that’s playing professionally or coaching or whatever. 

Once he’s set on a goal, he’s locked in on it. This level of concentration has served him well, enabling him to learn plays quicker than his peers but also not have any difficulty keeping up with the required grades to remain a student athlete. In high school, he had perfect attendance, graduated top of his class, and got an academic scholarship to every school he applied to. He was also captain of his team, won every championship there was, and led the league in scoring.

The point is that Shane knows how to be busy, and he knows how to balance things and focus. 

Usually. 

Except now he’s doing his kinesiology reading, looking at the diagram of the man showing different muscle groups, and instead he imagines Rozanov. He sees him lying down with his arms and legs apart like in the picture, golden curls fanning out on a pillow as twinkling hazel eyes blink up at him, his lips curled into a half-smile as if he’s poised to make a joke. He kind of always looks like that, unless he’s… exerted himself. When he’s panting on the ice or under Shane’s mouth, he finally seems a little more undone, more vulnerable as he heaves for breath with his dark lips parted. 

Shane sees the moles dotting his back like constellations, imagines tracing them with his fingers. 

Fuck.

Because he wants more, too. He wants Rozanov to make a meal of him, to take him apart and to show him how to do the same in return. He wants to stroke him and feel the heady weight of Rozanov’s cock in his mouth again. He remembers feeling drunk on the sensation but the memory is already fading, and he doesn’t know what to do about it.

(Well. He does know something he could do.)

Shane shuts the thought out as quickly as it comes, ignoring the fact that he’s chewing his hoodie string again. That was a stupid idea. It had been a bad idea in the first place, a drunken mistake. At the same time, of course he’s daydreaming about it and associating pleasure with it. It was a mistake, but it was also quite frankly the only truly pleasurable sexual experience Shane has had, so he’s allowed to think about it.

Only for a little while, though. Because Shane has a job to do, schoolwork to complete and a team to captain. Never mind that Rozanov is on that team. He can remain professional, because he has to. Rozanov is a teammate that… might say something, but probably—likely—not, because like he said, they have the same secret. Not that Shane is like R—whatever.  The point is, Shane and Rozanov are teammates and rivals. Nothing more.

Nothing has to change.

Focus, right? Shane knows how to do that.

Practice. Okay. This, at least, is familiar to Shane.

During the full day since his epiphany in the library, he has been trying (and failing) not to think about Rozanov at all. He’s lacing up his skates, rehearsing the speech in his head. It’s mostly just listen, we can just pretend last night never happened, okay, and then a bunch of pleading question marks that Shane isn’t sure how to translate, but it’s getting there. He’ll just find a time to pull Rozanov aside, after practice maybe, and then say it.

But when Rozanov strolls into the locker room five minutes late, his script is forgotten. Rozanov is wearing one of those stupid Hawaiian shirts—this one with tiny pinup girls on it—under his leather jacket despite the weather, and seems not to care about his tardiness as he begins to leisurely undress.

The guys all jeer and boo Rozanov for it, all of them already in gear, but he just blows them a kiss. 

Normal. Shane just needs to act normal.

“Nice of you to join us,” he says caustically, glancing up from his skate to catch Rozanov’s eye. 

The problem is that Rozanov is shirtless now, and naturally Shane’s eyes need to travel up to meet his gaze, and by the time he reaches it Rozanov is grinning. 

Without dropping eye contact, Rozanov bows low with his arms outstretched. “It is an honour, Your Highness,” he drawls, eliciting whistles and titters from their teammates, and his accent thickens the sarcasm in his words until it almost chokes Shane. 

“Just get dressed, Rozanov,” Shane mutters with a roll of his eyes he hopes looks authentic, aiming for dismissive and tired of his shit. He thinks it lands because most of their teammates turn away, uninterested now that it won’t be a blow-up like they sometimes have, but Rozanov is locked in. 

He stares at Shane with a level of heat and intensity that Shane has never seen in his eyes anywhere except on the ice or two nights ago, where he looked at Shane like he wanted to eat him alive. 

Shane does his best to control his shudder at the thought, staring back without looking away, but Rozanov just chuckles, shakes his head and turns to pull his practice jersey on. 

The moment snaps like an elastic band, and Shane jerks back into movement. His left skate isn’t tied properly, he knows when he stands, and he hates having to move in skates that feel off, but he hates the idea of being in this gross locker room with Rozanov not looking at him for one moment longer. 

“Don’t keep Coach Weibe waiting, guys, alright?” he says as he leaves, and he hears a few ‘yes, mom’s coming from JJ and a few others but they’re followed by the familiar soft clack of skates against the rink floor. 

The air feels fresher when Shane leaves the locker room, and not just because he can no longer smell feet. He feels like the air itself was thick with tension, and spends the short walk through the hallway to the ice overthinking about whether anyone else noticed. 

(He knows the answer is no. He just can’t get his brain to know that. Does he have I just gave my rival a blowjob eyes? He’s not sure. He should check in the mirror when he gets home.)

Practice itself is relatively normal to start. Shane takes them on their usual laps and then they circle up, Shane leading the stretches as they casually chat about how their weekends were and make plans for next week’s game against Toronto. Rozanov then claps his hands, taking over.  

“Okay everyone, go to goal line!” he shouts, and Shane dutifully skates over with the others. Ilya always leads the sprints, a short game to get their blood pumping, in part because he invents new twists to keep it interesting basically every practice. 

Today’s is a version of ‘never have I ever’. They’re going to play, Rozanov explains with some glee, ‘never will I ever.’

“Is same, but for future,” Rozanov continues. “For example, I say ‘never will I ever play for Minnesota,’ and if you would play for this awful team, then you skate.”

“Hey!” Hayden, born and raised in Minnesota and a lifelong Wild fan, shouts in protest.

Rozanov just shrugs. “Sorry. Is the truth. So, does everyone understand the rules?”

The Marauders all nod, and Shane crouches in preparation. The first few questions are designed for all of them to skate, clearly, since they’re things like ‘never will I ever pay in the NHL’ and ‘never will I ever marry Dykstra’s mother just for her meatballs’. 

Once they’re warmed up, Rozanov starts throwing out more selective ones: ‘never will I ever drink soda if every one had a little drop of piss in it’ and ‘never will I ever wear white after Labour Day’ (which confuses a lot of the guys.) Coach Wiebe watches from the sidelines, shaking his head in that half-fond, half-exasperated way he reserves only for Rozanov. 

“C’mon, Roz, give ‘em something they can all skate to,” he calls. “Only Barrett’s skated on the last three prompts.”

Troy Barrett, who is apparently the only one with a desire to watch Matt Damon’s entire filmography, just shrugs. “I love even Damon’s slop, Coach,” he deadpans, making the team laugh. 

“And to be fair, Coach, Hollander probably doesn’t know who Matt Damon is,” Rozanov supplies cheerfully, and Shane scowls at him while the rest of the team laughs even harder. 

(And maybe Rozanov is right. Shane’s scowl just deepens. He’s never going to tell him.)

“Okay, fine, fine,” Rozanov says, holding up his hands. He mutters something in Russian, probably a litany of expletives, that echoes across the ice. Shane wants so badly to know what he’s saying. “I do normal ones now. Actually, any requests?”

Dallas Kent taps his stick on the ice, and Shane fights the urge to roll his eyes. There’s no scenario where he’ll be impressed by whatever Kent has to say, and he’s right.

“Never will I ever not fuck a set of twins,” he says with a grin, and everyone groans.

Even Rozanov doesn’t seem impressed. “Okay, how about… never will I ever have another one night stand?” he suggests, and almost everyone skates, including Shane. He can feel Rozanov’s eyes burning into the back of his skull the whole way there and back.

“I’ve got one,” JJ calls from the other end of the ice. 

“Go, Jim Jones,” Rozanov says. The team has been telling him about notable people with those initials, and Rozanov insists on using a different one for JJ every time. He says it’s helping him learn English. Shane totally, definitely does not find it endearing.

“Never will I ever eat pussy again!”

The team jeers, but several of them jokingly take off at a sprint and every single one of them skates. Shane is left standing on the goal line for a long beat, staring at Rozanov’s jersey disappearing down the ice. Did he pay JJ to ask that? Even as he thinks it he knows it’s absurd—JJ is a prolific lover of eating girls out, and has no qualms telling everyone about it. All the time. 

Still, he narrows his eyes at Rozanov as he takes off, and Rozanov cackles. When they pass each other in the middle of the ice, Rozanov leans in. 

“Liar,” he says in a low voice. 

Shane is practically vibrating with rage by the time he makes it back to the goal line. How dare Rozanov say that to him? He doesn’t know anything. He thinks he’s discovered this secret about Shane, or worse that he’s ruined him for anything else, and that doesn’t fly with Shane. They don’t know each other like that. They’re not friends. They’re not even acquaintances. Sure, he knows he has a reputation for being a little more low-key and private with girls, but he’s not a prude and Rozanov knows that. 

He could eat pussy again. 

Maybe. If he was, like, really drunk. Or super keyed up. Or had no reflex to gag at the taste. 

Rozanov doesn’t know him in the slightest. He makes sure to check the other guy for it later, too, slamming him into the boards on his way past and then nutmegging him with a slap shot a minute later. He keeps waiting for Rozanov to hit him, braces for it every time he comes near, but the shove never comes.

Instead, Rozanov just gets that heated look in his eyes again. Since they’re both usually centres, they face-off during every practice—Shane has gotten used to glaring at Rozanov up close and personal. It’s just that he didn’t know how much gold Rozanov had in his eyes before the other night, and now…

It’s distracting, alright? It’s especially distracting when that gold turns into something molten like the sparks of a firework or a flickering ember, and it’s even worse when they crouch for the face-off after the nutmeg. 

His lips are curled into that damn almost-smile again, too. 

“Shane Hollander,” he says conversationally as he puts his stick against the puck. “Fun weekend?”

“Kind of boring, actually,” Shane replies in a similarly uninterested tone as he lowers his stick to the other side, revelling in the way Rozanov’s eyes flick up from the puck to his face. He keeps his gaze lowered, pretending to be focussed. “Nothing to write home about.”

“Oh, I see,” Rozanov murmurs. “So you can’t tell your mother whatever happened then. How sad. Was it too…embarrassing? Or too hot?”

Shane probably looks like both are the truth—-which… isn’t wrong—-because Rozanov just laughs. “You need to stop,” he hisses.

“Stop what?” Rozanov asks innocently. “I am not doing anything. I just play hockey, drink my vodka, fuck beautiful women…”

“Exactly. Stick to that,” Shane mumbles, not feeling so confident at the last part.

“...Give secret sex lessons to hockey player,” Rozanov continues, cheerful. “Is good life, yes?”

“That last part seems like a bad idea,” Shane mutters, because he doesn’t know what else to say. He can feel the heat radiating from his cheeks. 

“Oh, is worst idea,” Rozanov agrees. Out of the corner of Shane’s eye, Coach Wiebe raises the whistle to his lips. “I look forward to doing it again.”

Rozanov wins the face-off.

Shane is doing agility drills alone on the ice. Coach Wiebe has already left, reminding Shane as he always does to let Pete the Zamboni driver know when he’s done—and to tell Pete that the money for the favour he now does for Shane several times a week is in Coach’s office waiting to be collected. 

He loves practicing with the team, but he likes having some time alone on the ice, too. He likes the quiet, how all he can hear is the sound of his skates carving into the ice and his own breathing. It feels more peaceful and meditative than the chaos of a hockey game, though Shane finds both calm him in equal measure. Shane likes hearing the crowd roar, the buzzer of each goal and the slapping of his teammates’ sticks against the boards, but that’s more of an adrenaline-induced flow state than actual calm.

In moments like this, he can slow things down. He works on agility, on power, on endurance, and all of these he does in the slow incremental way he prefers—practicing a drill, breaking it down step by step, and repeating it over and over again until he can put it all together. He always works better when he can break a play down section by section, and that way he’s better at explaining it to his team.

He’s not a very good coach, though. He’ll leave that to Wiebe. He is pretty good at making corrections, so he spends another half an hour running through common errors in the drills he’s created tonight and working through solutions for each. If Hayden is struggling with the backward-skating-on-a-curve-backhand-fake-out like Shane thinks he will—Hayden is nimble but only on one side, and he has to learn to switch between effortlessly—then Shane can have him do this quickstep combo that will help improve his dexterity. 

He heads for the boards feeling a lot better. He always relishes these chances to be out here alone, but he’s needed this now more than ever—none of his distractions from The Mistake (as he’s dubbed it in his head) have been working very well, but hockey is a whole other ball game. There’s no time to think about anything else, there’s only action and reaction. 

“These are new exercises for kiddie camp, yes?”

The voice makes Shane jump half out of his skin, but he recognises its owner immediately. He frowns against the spotlight on the ice, trying to see the shadowy figure leaning against the plexiglass, but he doesn’t come into view until he’s already reached the boards. 

Rozanov is out of his hockey gear, but he’s wearing workout clothes and has one earbud out and looks sweatier than when he left the ice. Shane pointedly does not look at the bead of sweat rolling down the side of his throat, half-illuminated by the light of the ice. 

“Don’t scare me like that, Jesus,” Shane chastises, and then narrows his eyes at Rozanov’s getup. “Where’d you come from?”

“Wedding,” Rozanov drawls, holding up his bare left hand and wiggling his ring finger. “Big ceremony. We are having—ебать, what is the word? After the church with the food and the dancing?”

“Reception?”

“Da. Reception.” Rozanov looks annoyed at having to interrupt his joke to ask for a translation. He shrugs. “Sorry you missed it.”

“I’m heartbroken,” Shane replies flatly. “I must have missed the invitation.”

“Maybe I sent to wrong address. Yours is 1221 Boring Avenue, yes?”

“Fuck you, you know exactly what my address is,” Shane retorts before he can think of something snarkier to clap back with.

Rozanov has that look in his eyes again. Slowly, he licks his lips. “True.”

“So—um, what did you—did you go on the treadmill or something?”

Rozanov seems entertained by Shane’s inability to speak, but doesn’t comment on it. He just groans. “No, exercise bike. Cardio should be illegal.”

“Totally,” Shane agrees, even though he thinks cardio is objectively better than weightlifting. He pauses. “You never usually stay after practice.”

“I didn’t know you did,” Rozanov replies, gesturing to him on the ice. “I thought you stayed after with Coach to rat on us all, or something.”

“Did you actually?” Shane can’t keep the worry from his voice. If his team thinks that he’s cosying up to the coach, trying to grab some insider information that he can relay back—

“No,” Rozanov says, clearly reading Shane’s anxiety, but it doesn’t sound entirely truthful. He opens the gate, and Shane steps through. 

In his skates, he’s a little taller than Rozanov. The thought makes him a little dizzy.

“Why’d you stay today?” Shane presses. He decides to push his luck. “Had some energy you needed to work off?”

Shane means it to be light and a little biting, an opening for him to say by the way, that was really dumb and we should never do that again, but instead his mouth clicks shut. Rozanov doesn’t let him pass by, standing in the box and blocking his path as he stares Shane down—or up, technically. 

“I did,” Rozanov says, licking his lips. They gleam with moisture in the dim light, and Shane wants to kiss it off. “Lots of energy today. Not quite used up yet.”

With that, he turns and heads for the locker room. Shane doesn’t move, frozen by Rozanov’s magical eyes, and for a moment he thinks Rozanov will leave without acknowledging him again.

“You coming?” he throws over his shoulder.

Hopefully soon, Shane thinks to himself, and then is immediately horrified by the thought.

Still…Shane, against every instinct in his body, follows.

Rozanov is already in the shower when Shane enters, humming softly to himself. Shane doesn’t rush to join him—he takes off his gear with the same care and precision that he always does, folding his pads into the bottom of the bag and tucking his CCM undershirt on the side before moving onto his lower half. He’s always liked the ritual of dressing for a game, putting everything on in the same order every time and taping his stick just how he liked it alongside his teammates. That’s when he feels like the game really starts. 

The locker room is completely empty, he knows it is, but he still checks the whole place twice before he follows the sound of running water.

When Shane does enter the shower, Rozanov doesn’t turn around. Fine. Shane pointedly selects a showerhead directly opposite Rozanov, putting his back to him as he squirts some soap into his hand and begins lathering himself up. 

They wash in silence for a while, and Shane sneaks glances at Rozanov’s body as he goes. He’s lean but super muscular at the same time, his shoulders and back muscles rippling as he bends to scrub at his legs. And…

God, his ass sort of makes Shane want to die.

It’s just so perfect, and impossible to look away from. It’s a great ass, Shane tells himself. Objectively. That’s all. More than once he catches himself staring and just barely manages to turn around before Rozanov looks up, because he’s intent for some reason on winning this nonchalance game they’re playing, even though he knows—he thinks, at least… yes, probably—that Rozanov can feel the tension in the air.

But then Rozanov stretches his arms over his head, popping his back, and then he twists to the side and turns his head and finally Shane isn’t quick enough and gets caught gazing at his body. 

Rozanov just arches a brow. “Do you need something?”

“Me? No,” Shane replies quickly, turning back to the wall with his cheeks flaming. He should probably say something else, something self-deprecating or snarky, but he can’t think of anything. Thankfully, Rozanov seems content to drive.

“Do you always stay on ice after practice, Hollander? Run drills, conditioning, all by yourself?”

Shane is silent for a long time. He doesn’t quite know how to answer under the rules of their game, turning it into a joke or a sexual innuendo or an invitation for more, so he goes for the truth. “Most of the time. When I scrape up the money to bribe Pete to stay late on weekdays when we have night practices, at least.”

(His parents chip in sometimes. He’s not ashamed to admit that… just not to Rozanov.)

“Why?”

Rozanov sounds genuinely curious. He can hear that he’s speaking into the middle of the room now, has turned to face Shane as he waits for a reply.

Shane keeps scrubbing his torso and faces the wall.

“Because I want to be the best. It’s how I work it all out in my head, and—”

“Work it all out? What is ‘it’?” Rozanov interrupts, and Shane can practically see his brow furrowing.

“The game,” Shane retorts, more defensive than he intended. “The game, okay? It’s easier to see the plays and skate them on empty ice.”

Rozanov doesn’t reply, but Shane doesn’t dare to turn around. The glances at Rozanov’s form were enough, anyway, because he can feel his cock beginning to grow hard. Eventually, he hears the soft splash of Rozanov shifting and when he speaks again he’s turned back to his own wall. 

“Makes sense,” he finally says. “You need the calm. Calm in the chaos.”

“And you’re chaos in the calm,” Shane responds, almost to himself.

It sounds a little deeper than he meant it initially, but he thinks it holds up. Rozanov is almost always in motion, skating around Coach Wiebe while he talks or putting a glitterbomb in Dallas Kent’s locker and dodging his angry swipes or dancing in a club somewhere, sweaty and mouthing at the neck of a nameless girl. He seeks chaos, attracts it like wildfire and makes himself gasoline. 

But he has calm in him, too. Stillness. Shane has seen it before, on the ice during a face-off or under him on his shitty couch two nights ago. In both he’s poised for action though, on the precipice of chaos, and Shane doesn’t know if that’s the same kind of stillness he has in his own body.

He’s so deep in thought that he almost doesn’t hear Rozanov’s reply. “You do not see the other meaning of what we are saying?” He sounds amused.

Shane repeats his last words back in his head. You’re chaos in the calm. “Oh, fuck you. You’re just a pervert,” Shane shoots back. 

“No, I think you also have dirty mind,” Rozanov says, a low rumble that makes Shane vibrate, and he sounds a little closer now. Fuck, are those footsteps?

Yes. Shane can hear Rozanov getting closer. 

He turns around and finds Rozanov right there, not quite crowding his space yet but enough that Shane feels backed into a wall before his shoulders ever hit tile. The height difference is so much more stark now, too, and the high of being taller than Rozanov in skates is long gone when he’s confronted by the entirety of the man standing less than an arm’s breadth away. Why did he think Rozanov’s height was such a bad thing, again?

“I’m innocent,” Shane says, half-mocking himself, just to see what Rozanov will say. He watches the other man’s eyes flicker down to his lips. 

A slow grin spreads across his face. “Mm, no. Thie is lie. You are not experienced. There is difference.”

Shane’s throat feels suddenly dry. He considers backing up and letting the stream of water flow into his mouth and possibly drown him. “What’s the difference, then?” Shane asks, but it comes out whispered instead of authoritative.

Rozanov’s smile is dripping with honey. “You have not done so many things, but you want them anyway.” Shane opens his mouth to protest, and that’s when Rozanov steps into his space. Shane fights the urge to hiss as his back presses against the cold wall, because it’s worth it for the way he has to tip his head up to look Rozanov in the eye. “I know. For example, you never sucked cock before, but you still begged for it.”

“I didn’t beg!” Shane splutters.

Rozanov’s grin widens. “Right. You just let stranger come to your apartment for no reason.”

“To—to talk.”

Rozanov’s laugh is dripping with derision. Fuck, Shane is fully hard now. Don’t look down, don’t look down, he chants at Rozanov in his head. “Yes. To talk.” He hums in consideration. “Actually, you did not beg. Not really.”

“Thank you.” Shane actually feels quite relieved, but he thinks he’s going to regret it when his eyes flicker up to meet Rozanov’s.

Rozanov leans in to his ear, his voice lowering to a whisper. “When I make you beg, Hollander, you will not forget. I know these things.”

Shane can’t hide the way his breath catches. Fuuuuuuck. He squirms under the attention and at the thought, but Rozanov grabs his chin and lifts it up so they’re looking at each other once more.

“Same way I know you are scared to be doing this here,” Rozanov murmurs, “but you also kind of like it.”

“I—I don’t,” Shane struggles out. “And I’m not scared.”

“Not first time I have heard that,” Rozanov reminds him. “And anyway, you lie both times. But no one is here, Shane Hollander.”

“Pete is here,” Shane answers automatically, just as Rozanov leans down to nose at his neck. He finds himself tilting his head to give him more access, and Rozanov places a line of surprisingly chaste kisses along the column of his throat then sinks his teeth into the junction of his neck and shoulder.

Shane yelps, and Rozanov’s hand claps over his mouth. He can’t help it. His eyes roll back in his head as he moans at the firm grip and the other hand pinning his waist against the wall, but unfortunately Rozanov chooses exactly that time to pull back and catch his face.

Rozanov stares at him, slack-jawed, for several long beats before he recovers. He hasn’t moved his hand. “Fuck, Hollander,” he murmurs roughly. “You have to stay quiet or Pete will hear us.”

In his second bout of bad luck in ten seconds, Shane’s cock decides to twitch at the thought and Rozanov decides to look down. He raises a brow at Shane’s cock, hard and leaking, and then lifts his mischievous eyes to Shane’s face.  Slowly, Rozanov takes him in his hand and begins to stroke. “Or maybe you want him to hear.”

Shane shakes his head, cheeks flushed with desperation and humiliation. He kind of wants to die, but he also kind of wants Rozanov to get on his knees. It’s a difficult combination of emotions. When Rozanov finally moves his hand, it still takes Shane a second to speak. “N-no.”

Rozanov’s grin is wicked as he leans in closer. “Maybe you want someone to see how good you are at taking my cock, hmm?”

Fuck. Shane trembles at that, and he goes willingly when Rozanov pulls him up to kiss him. Shane is gripping everywhere he can reach, fingers digging into his biceps before tangling in his curls and pulling. Rozanov moans, and Shane uses the opportunity to sweep his tongue into his mouth. 

(He remembers vaguely that he had a script for this interaction—that this is definitely not following—but he already knows he won’t say a word of it. Those pleading question marks he’d been trying to translate, he realises, were really a request for this.)

It’s messy and clumsy and more than a little desperate, but Shane loves it. He loves the way Rozanov is holding him with one hand on his jaw and the other pulling him even closer, like he’s been waiting for this for the past two days and not going about his life fucking whoever he wants like always. Like he’d do anything Shane wanted. He loves the way Rozanov kisses to claim, too, because his mouth is just like how he is on the ice—bruising, lightning fast, and an absolute fucking marvel.

A machine whirs to life in the distance, and Shane jerks away from the kiss. It’s just the Zamboni setting off on the ice, he’s sure of it, means Pete will be busy for a while now, but it’s a perfect reminder of where they are.

Shane shoves Rozanov back. He doesn’t look entirely surprised. “Are you kidding? We can’t—not here. Fuck.”

Rozanov just shrugs, but he only pauses for another second before taking another step back. “Okay.”

And then he walks back to the other showerhead, still steaming on the opposite wall, and continues washing himself as if nothing happened. He’s hard, Shane felt it, and he can see his cock bobbing as he turns to rinse his hair, but he makes no move to touch himself. Or acknowledge Shane at all.

The water suddenly feels cold without Rozanov’s body pressed up against him. 

“Just… not here, okay?” Shane says again, because he needs Rozanov to know… something.

Rozanov is quiet for a while. “But you want it somewhere. You—want me to teach you,” he states, and it’s not a question. 

“Yes,” Shane whispers anyway.

They’re silent as they finish their respective showers, and stay quiet when they step out into the locker room. They stare at each other openly when they dress. Rozanov knows that Shane wants him, obviously, so Shane figures he might as well not try to hide it when he has the chance. 

Rozanov seems to want Shane just as much, judging from the way he takes languid sweeps up and down his body with his eyes before lingering on his face for several more beats. 

“So… when do you—”

“We need rules,” Shane blurts out, because apparently he’s not done embarrassing himself today. 

Rozanov looks both endeared and impatient. “Rules?”

“Yes. You—you can’t make jokes and try and tease me during practice. It’s unprofessional. And we definitely can’t do anything here.”

Rozanov rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t push. He seems to understand. “Fine. What else?”

“Um. I don’t know yet.”

“Right.” Rozanov slips his shirt over his shoulders, and Shane silently wails at the loss of the view.

“I’ll think of some, though. And you should too.”

“What rules would I want?”

“I don’t know. Just think about it.” Shane pauses. “And come to my apartment tonight. We can talk then.”

“Talk?” Rozanov echoes, his brows raised.

“Not just… talk,” Shane grits, flushing, and Rozanov snorts. 

“Sex?”

Shane wrinkles his nose. The term kind of sounds antiseptic, but he also isn’t one hundred percent sure what constitutes sex for two guys. He knows ass stuff counts, obviously, but what about what they’ve done so far? Does Rozanov want to fuck him? Tonight?

“Okay, first step in lesson plan: teach you how to say the words without making that face. That might help.”

Right. Lesson plan. This, at least, is familiar territory. 

“I can bring a spreadsheet for you to map the plan out on,” Shane says, teasing, and Rozanov grins.

“Bet that would turn you on, nerd,” Rozanov replies, shouldering his duffel, and Shane hesitates. Rozanov must see his face. “What is it?”

“Think about what you want out of this, too,” Shane says, his voice small. He still can’t shake the feeling that this whole idea is a) stupid, but more importantly b) an uneven deal. He just doesn’t see why Rozanov would want to, if he’s being honest. He knows he has an assortment of much prettier, much more talented lovers he could have instead.

Rozanov’s eyes rake over Shane’s still shirtless form one more time, but they travel no higher than his cheeks, for some reason. 

“I am sure I will think of something,” Rozanov says slowly, and then he winks and is gone.

Shane leaves the arena lost in thought, and as a result he’s walking past the library when he slams into someone as he rounds the corner. 

For a moment he thinks he checked the girl so hard that she passed out against the wall, but then she blinks up at him and smiles in surprise.

Oh fuck me gently with a chainsaw Jesus Christ why can’t someone strike me with a bolt of light—

“Rose, hi!”

“Shane?”

“I’m—fuck, I’m so sorry,” Shane says, reaching out to pull her up from the wall. She seems more stunned than anything, and is uninjured. Thank fuck. Shane isn’t sure what would happen if he injured Rose Landry’s face right before she starts another film, but he’s pretty sure he’d have to, like, pay a fine or something. “I didn’t even see you, I—”

“No, no, it’s okay,” she says as Shane bends to pick up the stack of books she dropped. On top is what looks to be a script, covered in sticky notes and highlighter marks, and she gestures to it apologetically. “It’s my fault. I wasn’t exactly paying attention.”

“No, but seriously—are you okay, though?”

Rose shrugs. “I can cross ‘shoulder-checked by a Marauder’ off my bucket list,” she replies with a grin. Once her books are in her arms, she pauses. “Do you want to grab coffee? I have an hour before my next class, and if I walk all the way home I’ll never come back.”

Shane is… aware of where he’s just been, what he’s just been doing, but he’s also aware that he might not get another chance to talk to Rose about the other night after this. The universe is presenting him with a chance to atone.

So Shane finds himself in an empty coffeeshop with Rose Landry fifteen minutes later, secluded behind a large pillar and both sipping their drinks in silence. 

God, Shane hates English Breakfast. Why didn’t he just get something other than tea when they didn’t have Earl Grey?

The quiet stretches out endlessly before them, and the soft jazz twinkling through the shop is enough to grate at Shane’s nerves. He should say something, right? Apologise? He wishes for a moment that Rose could’ve been one of those regular hookups that just ignores you forever after, but then she grabs his arm gently and smiles at him and he thinks maybe this won’t be as humiliating as he thought it would.

“I should apologise, Rose—”

“Shane, I’m sorry th—”

They both stop, laughing, and Shane shakes his head. He needs to get this out. “Please, me first. I just wanted to—I’m sorry for the other night. I promise I’m usually a little more… adept. Well, not good, but I swear I’m not that bad,” Shane says, and Rose smiles softly. He decides to keep going. “You make me nervous, I guess.”

Rose’s eyes are kind when she replies, “to be honest, you make me a little nervous, too.”

“No, I don’t,” Shane responds without thinking. He’s not trying to be self-deprecating, he just genuinely disagrees with this version of events. 

“You do,” Rose insists. “I swear, it took me a full fifteen minutes to work up the courage to talk to you in the Foundry the other night.”

“Well… I’m really glad you did,” Shane tells her. “I really did have a good time, besides… y’know. The end.”

Rose laughs again. “Me too,” she says, and she seems to mean it. 

Her eyes are still soft, and her hand is still resting on his wrist, so Shane decides to go for it. He can do this.

“I’d really love another chance,” Shane says, sure to maintain eye contact. “I–I think there’s a spark between us, you know, and I’d really like to explore that more.”

Rose blinks. For some reason she seems not to have been expecting this. “Shane, you—” she starts, and then stops. “I really appreciate that, and I think you’re super sweet, but… I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Oh.” Shane can’t hide the genuine hurt in his voice, and quickly tries to mask it with an understanding smile. 

“Not because of what happened,” Rose rushes to explain. “I just—I got the sense that I’m not your type, is all. Feel free to tell me to fuck off if I’m wrong, but I get the feeling you need a friend more than anything right now… and that’s what I need too, if I’m being honest. Life is so busy and I just want someone to talk to like we did the other night.”

Shane nods, but he can’t leave it be. “It’s not that you’re not my type,” he insists. “Really. You’re so incredible. And beautiful.”

Rose smiles. “Thank you.”

“It’s not—” Shane tries, then gives up.

Rose squeezes his arm. “Like I said the other night, Shane, I understand completely. And it’s okay.”

Rose is looking at him like she does understand, actually. And he doesn’t know if she heard something, or saw something, or simply has magical powers, but right now all his instincts to question her go ignored and he just nods in agreement.

“So… friends?” he asks, his voice small.

Rose intertwines their fingers and squeezes again. “Friends.”

Shane squeezes back.

Chapter End Notes

speedrunning shane and rose's resolution and becoming friends because i NEEd him to have a friend he can talk to. you best believe if he and rose talked more often and he was more honest then the entirety of TLG would never have happened because rose landry and svetlana vetrova would run that relationship like the fucking NAVY

anyways things are progressing. like, people and plots and stuff. wow! i'm writing this with less of a plan than i usually have with my fics because it was originally just a planned one shot but i DO have a plan. what i DONT have is an accurate chapter count, so we're going with 7 for now.

it will probably (definitely) be longer. please note my intended 20k buddie high school football camp au is a wip sitting at a concise little 148k. i do NOT have the intention to do that again, but all i'm saying is never keep me beholden to promises of word count i make at any time because i am always wrong (em from the future: LOL i’m so funny)

also no slander to the communications major community on behalf of shane, except like, a little bit of slander.

anyway i'm SO excited to keep writing and i hope this has done a good enough job of getting more of a peek into shane's headspace and signposting a few plot points going forward <3

i'm gonna go back to writing my international criminal law essay due tomorrow now. BYE.

(SEE U SOON XOXOXOXOXO)

Chapter 5: watching all the ground beneath you drop

Chapter Notes

in this episode: shane and ilya compete, face-fucking is hard, and sometimes cuddles do not cure everything.

this is i think my longest chapter yet and it's actually just absolute filth that i didn't know what to do with so i'm throwing it to the wolves like HERE TAKE IT

What’s a respectable time of night to show up to your rival’s apartment to talk about rules for the sex lessons you’ll be giving him?

Ilya isn’t sure, but he guesses 9. 

Well, he got here at 8:50, but he spent so long pacing in the back alley trying not to look eager that he lost track of time and didn't knock until 9:06.

He doesn’t even have a second to fix his hair after knocking. Hollander is already opening the door, glancing furtively into the hallway before widening the gap for Ilya to step inside. Ilya makes a point of edging past a little closer than might be strictly necessary, relishing in the sound of Hollander sniffing at the air as he goes by.

He might be wearing some cologne. Just a little.

“Nice place,” Ilya says to be polite.

“You’ve been here before,” Hollander reminds him. 

Ilya just shrugs. “I did not want to look around before.” It’s true; he’d barely glanced at the decor for more than a second the whole time he was here the other night, too ensconced in the sight of Hollander instead. Fuck, maybe he was revealing too much. “Just as I thought first time: boring.”

Hollander just rolls his eyes at this, going to the fridge. “Do you want some water, or a ginger ale? Or I have, um, tea.”

Ilya would really like some vodka right now, actually, but he bites his tongue. “I’m good, thanks.”

Hollander arches an eyebrow at him over the shoulder. “You’re good? Wow, Rozanov. So Canadian of you.”

After Hollander gestures to the couch, Ilya sits and spreads out with a contented sigh. “What can I say? I am native now.”

He expects Hollander to laugh—or at least snort derisively—but he doesn’t do either. Instead he just nods. “You’re very Canadian.”

“Pfft. Liar.”

“No, you are,” Hollander insists as he takes a seat, turning to face Ilya. “Um… you have a sweet tooth, right?”

Ilya narrows his eyes. “How do you know that?”

Hollander looks down, pink colouring his cheeks. “Marly posted a video of you demolishing a pancake stack last week. But—anyway, my point is, you like maple syrup more than any Canadian I know.”

“Liking maple syrup does not make me Canadian, Hollander.”

“It’s not just that. You’re nice, you’re just more of an asshole about it than Canadians.” Hollander bites his lip. “You look good in red.”

Ilya glances down at his red hoodie and smirks. Noted. 

He doesn’t know quite what to do with this, though—with Hollander inadvertently helping cool anxieties he’s had about sticking out like a sore thumb ever since he came here. It feels like he’s waiting for a ‘gotcha’ moment he knows isn’t coming, because Hollander is incapable of sarcasm ninety percent of the time. It’s just… Hollander being nice. Ilya isn’t familiar with that, so he returns them back to more comfortable territory.

“You are being too kind to me,” Ilya points out. “I feel buttered.”

“Buttered up.”

“Yes, that. You are buttering me up. Before I am killed, I think.”

“Fuck off.”

“Should I call the cops? I think I must report crime. Shane Hollander rubbed butter all over me and now—”

“Fuck off, that’s not how the saying g—”

“‘Help, help!’ I will say, and police will come running because I am good damsel in distress and—”

“Fuck off,” Hollander says again, leaning across the couch to whack him in the arm. 

Ilya grabs the outstretched hand, and without thinking he pulls until Hollander is half leaning into his lap. “Hi,” he says stupidly when they’re close enough that all Ilya would need to do is duck his head to kiss him, because any suave comment he had planned goes out the window when he gets those dark eyes up close and personal.

Hollander blinks. Fuck, his eyelashes are long. “Hi.”

“So… I do not actually think you will murder me.”

“Thanks?”

“But your attempt at flirting is sort of scaring me. Shall we discuss rules?”

Hollander pauses, then nods. “Yes. Um, rules.” He looks down at his position, one elbow propped on Ilya’s thigh and the other on his chest to brace himself, and scrambles up. Once he stands, he seems to need a moment to remember what he was doing before he heads for the kitchen counter. 

He returns a minute later with a navy blue notebook. When he opens it, Ilya catches glimpses of pages and pages filled either with large blocks of scrawled handwriting or with scribbled diagrams of plays and smiles to himself. Of course.

“Okay. Uh, so these are just a few that I thought of that might help, y’know, keep us on the same page. Um. Number one, don’t tell anyone.”

“We covered this before. And is obvious.”

“Well, I’m saying it again,” Hollander says. “Because seriously, Rozanov. No one. If anyone in the league finds out… that’s our NHL contracts gone. Not to mention the team.”

“I agree. Would be stupid. What’s next?”

“Speaking of the team, rule two: we can’t do anything when we’re with them, or at the arena. And you can’t do any of that innuendo or flirting shit at practice, okay?”

Ilya struggles for a moment to translate the word ‘innuendo’, but he thinks he gets the point. “Okay. Anything else?”

Hollander looks down at his notebook and his cheeks promptly turn a different shade of red, a dark crimson that Ilya has only ever seen here. He’s also biting his lip. 

Ilya’s cock twitches. Fuck.

“You teach me,” he says slowly, not looking up for a long moment. Then he meets Ilya’s gaze. “Teach me how to make you feel good.”

Ilya is hard so quickly it actually makes him dizzy.

In an instant he ’s crossing the sofa to crash into Hollander, their mouths colliding together as he clutches at biceps and shoulders and tries not to let the sheer vastness of his want consume them both.

“What do you want to do?” Ilya asks into his mouth. 

He’s dismayed when Hollander pulls away to reply, but rewarded with the kiss-bitten lips and glazed onyx eyes that have been haunting his dreams for the past two nights. He looks so thoroughly debauched and fucked out already that Ilya kind of wants to make him literally fucked out, to find out how much it would take, but he already promised himself on the way over here that Hollander set the pace. So now he’s waiting.

But God, he hopes it’s something with Hollander’s mouth involved. 

Or fingers.

“No, first—” Hollander’s voice is rough, and he pauses before he speaks again. “I want an answer to my question from earlier.”

“What question?” Ilya just wants to see Hollander blush. It’s worth it, even when he scowls along with it.

“I… want to know what you get out of this. I’m sure you have, uh, terms, because I’m still not one hundred percent convinced that you’re doing this out of the goodness of your own heart. So…?”

Ilya considers what Hollander might think his ulterior motive is. Blackmail, maybe? Ilya does love a prank, but that’s not what that is. Besides, it would be hypocritical.
(Hollander taught him that word.)

He looks down at the way Hollander has half-climbed into his lap already and sucks in a breath. In the hours since their encounter in the shower he’s thought up a million ways to answer this question. More than a few of those had been ending it, apologising and saying it really was a bad idea, but he knew even as he thought of them that he wouldn’t say it. He already knew he couldn’t. Not when Hollander was Hollander.

“I get this out of it,” Ilya says finally, gesturing to Hollander’s position. “I like to teach, you like to learn. Besides, I must make sure you never do to anyone what you did to Rose Landry.”

Hollander relaxes with his indignation, scoffing. “You make it sound like I committed a crime.”

“You did. Crime is ‘Eating Pussy and Causing Boredom’. Stealing… uh, time.”

Hollander’s mouth twitches. “Teethery.”

A beat. “Is that—are you making a joke on thievery? That was bad, Hollander,” Ilya groans, but he knows he has a dumb grin on his face. “But yes. I want to check you will not commit a crime.”

Hollander looks pleased. Ilya still doesn’t quite know how they got here. “So… you want to?”

“Do I want to what?” Ilya prompts. It’s quickly becoming his favourite game.

Hollander’s brow furrows. Ilya notes that he only ever sees Hollander do that on two occasions—when he’s frustrated, like now, or when he’s trying not to make any noise while Ilya strokes his cock with his hand over his mouth.

“Teach me?”

“Was this not answer already?” Ilya asks, gesturing to the tent in his sweatpants. Hollander blinks down at it, and it appears to be the first time he’s noticed. He still doesn’t reply, though, so Ilya grabs Hollander’s hand and guides it to cup him over his sweats, pulling him in for a biting kiss before moving back just enough to meet his gaze. “Yes. I want to teach you. So now, back to my question. What do you want to do?”

“I want… your mouth.”

“Where?”

“Anywhere.” Hollander sounds a little breathless. “C’mon, you know where.”

“I am not sure ‘How To Receive Blowjob’ is in my lesson plan. What are you learning? How to moan?” Ilya teases. “Already you are pretty good at that.”

He huffs in frustration even as he blushes again. His fingers dip under Ilya’s waistband, and he looks up at him through his eyelashes. “I want it both ways. I want… I want to suck your cock.”

Ilya isn’t sure Hollander knows how sexy he actually is, especially when he talks like this, but he might give something away by pulling him into another heated kiss and rocking his hips up into his touch. 

He thinks about how he wants to teach Hollander. The first thing that comes to mind is that he doesn’t want to be on this dingy couch again. When Hollander climbs into Ilya’s lap, Ilya just kisses him some more and then squeezes the backs of his thighs. 

“Hold on,” he says with a wiggle of his brows, and then he’s standing up. 

It’s not particularly hard—Rozanov knows Hollander can squat twice his own bodyweight, and besides, when Hollander is picked up he kind of clings like a koala bear so it’s easy to move—but Hollander still moans when he lifts into the air.

He feels Hollander lock his ankles at the small of Ilya’s back, and they keep kissing as Ilya begins walking…

“Wait, where is the bedroom?” he asks, pausing in the middle of the small hallway. 

Hollander blinks. “You want to go… to my bedroom?”

“Yes. Your couch is very scratchy.” He leans in to mouth at Hollander’s neck. “And I want to see you like that. In bed, laid out. So…?”

“Um.”

“You do not have bedroom?” Ilya looks around. “You do not sleep, so you are vampire? Or can you not afford the bed? Couch is pull-out, yes?”

Ilya is ready to be adaptable, but Hollander shakes his head. He swallows. “It’s the door on the left.”

Ilya listens to his instruction and manages to open the door without much difficulty, Hollander complaining about being carried the whole way but making no move to get down himself. He seems quite content to be in Ilya’s arms, and he can feel that he’s quite aroused. 

Ilya can’t stop grinning the whole time, especially when he sees Hollander’s room. It’s no nonsense and a little plain, just like Ilya had guessed it would be, and it’s lived-in only in the way that Ilya can see Hollander living here—he probably reads in bed with that bedside lamp on, setting that book on the side table and falling asleep wearing something as sensible as the rest of him. He probably has one of those pyjama sets. With buttons.

Ilya doesn’t know why he looks at Hollander’s bed sheets and thinks, blue. I knew it. He wasn’t aware that he’d thought about the colour of Hollander’s bed sheets before.

It’s worth it for the ‘oof’ sound that Hollander makes when he drops him back on the bed. He shuffles upwards, wide-eyed as Ilya crawls over him, and yeah. It’s much better here, where he can plant arms on both sides of Hollander’s head and press their bodies together until he can feel his heartbeat thumping against his own chest. 

He kisses Hollander’s neck again, biting playfully, and Hollander squirms. “No marks,” he gasps, but he sounds reluctant to remind him, at least.

“Boo,” Ilya mumbles into his throat, but he backs off, nipping once more before pulling away.

Hollander flips them over, looking triumphant when he settles himself against Ilya’s legs. Another point for beds, Ilya thinks to himself. With a smile, Hollander cocks his head and leans over him. “Did you actually come up with a lesson plan?”

Ilya had considered it. He certainly has a laundry list of things he wants to teach Hollander, to do to him, but he knows he’s not the one flying this plane. He decides to go for honesty.

“I want to do many things with you, Hollander,” he says, tilting his chin up to kiss him. “So question is, what do you want to learn?”

“I want to suck you again,” Hollander says, and this time he doesn’t sound embarrassed at all. 

“Okay,” Ilya says slowly. His voice sounds a lot calmer than he feels. “But I maybe don’t think we can start with that.” 

“Oh.”

“You do not start with sucking cock during hookup, yes? Other things first.”

Hollander wrinkles his nose. “Foreplay.”

Ilya laughs, and has to kiss Hollander again for that. “Yes. Foreplay. Is not a bad thing. Kissing, kissing body is foreplay. Grinding and groping is foreplay. Touching, stroking, biting. All foreplay.”

Hollander’s brow furrows in thought. “So basically… anything is foreplay? Anything sexual you do with someone before the actual sex?”

Ilya nods, then shrugs. “Actually, does not have to be sexual. Anything that turns you on is foreplay.”

“Why would something non-sexual turn me on?” Hollander replies. 

Ilya arches a brow. “You have never seen someone hot get out of a pool, all wet and dripping? Or lick an ice cream? Or bend over?”

Hollander narrows his eyes but nods. “Okay, I get it. So… what do I do?”

“Kiss me. Kiss down my chest. The nipple thing you do, this is good example. Hot.” Hollander flushes at this, and Ilya resists the urge to grin—or worse, cancel their lesson and flip them over so he can put his mouth on him. “Teasing can be fun too.”

“Teasing. Kissing.” Hollander looks like he’s trying not to get up and grab his sex notebook from the coffee table to write it down. “Got it.”

“So…” Ilya removes his hands from Hollander’s thigh—a massive loss, but has to be done—and spreads his arms wide. “Ready any time.”

Hollander rolls his eyes but leans down to kiss him anyway, trailing his hands down his chest. His touch is featherlight, and totally mismatching his lisses. 

Hollander kisses him with almost as much need as Ilya is feeling. He takes the hint quickly when Ilya puts his hands under his hoodie, and he sits up to yank it off before hesitating and then firing it in the general direction of the floor. Ilya smiles into his mouth. No time for folding now, apparently. 

Hollander’s movements are clumsy, but not with the shakiness of nerves—with the fumbling of desperation. He pulls Ilya’s shirt off too, ducking to mouth across his chest and wrapping his lips around a nipple, and he moans when Ilya murmurs, “yes, good, like that,” and bites down on the flesh of Ilya’s pec. 

Ilya makes a noise, but it’s not one of pain. Hollander licks over the tiny indent of his teeth marks as if to soothe a sting that isn’t there, and then his eyes flick up to Ilya. He peppers kisses around the area, kisses down his stomach and on Ilya’s waistband but doesn’t go any further than that. 

His fingers ghost over the outline of Ilya’s cock, but he doesn’t grip it or dip into his sweats. Instead he just drifts his hands back up, skating over Ilya’s biceps to grip his face and kiss him again. 

He pulls back and arches a brow. “How’d I do?”

“Oh, you are done now?”

Hollander glares at him and then leans back down. His kisses are more biting this time, punishing and proving a point, and this time when he reaches down to cup Ilya through his sweats he squeezes as he kisses down Ilya’s chest. 

He makes the trail with some impatience, and Ilya realises with a little swoop in his stomach that he’s still remembering what Ilya said about foreplay but doesn’t want to waste time. 

Well. It’s not like Ilya isn’t achingly hard already. He decides to take pity on him. 

“C’mon, Hollander. I want to watch you suck my cock already.”

He’s rewarded with Hollander mumbling, “asshole,” but the sentiment is a little undercut by how Hollander is pulling his sweats down and off, settling on his stomach and licking at the underside of Ilya’s cock like he’s dying for it all in the span of five seconds. 

“Fuck, so good,” Ilya says, relishing how Hollander moans around him. Hollander swirls his tongue around the crown, pushing Ilya’s foreskin back from the head. “Fuck, fuck.”

Hollander raises his eyebrows at him, a little see? happy now? that Ilya finds ridiculously adorable, and then zeroes in on his task. Hollander sucks cock with a mind-boggling combination of laser focus and borderline delirium, sucking and licking with such enthusiasm that Ilya doesn’t even notice how unskilled he is. 

It’s hard to say he’s unskilled, too, because he’s instantly better than the other night. One hand goes up to grab at Ilya’s chest, and Ilya holds his wrist as Hollander swirls his tongue with expert precision and then dips down to take more into his mouth. 

He’s been taking notes, then. He’s remembered what Ilya did to him and all the things that made Ilya moan before and is now applying them with dedicated precision, cataloguing each response. Beneath the heady veneer of lust, Ilya can practically see his inner dialogue: tonguing his slit makes him gasp. Cupping his balls makes him moan, but he only gets that lower pitch when I roll them in my hand. He grips my hair harder when I hollow my cheeks. 

Hollander is just as turned on by doing this as Ilya is by feeling it. He keeps making these little noises around his cock, his cheeks flushed, and he seems not to know he’s doing it but keeps rolling his hips against the bed. Could he come like this? Ilya wonders, but dismisses the thought because that gets him close way sooner than he’d like. 

And then Hollander tries to take too much at once, pulls back spluttering with tears welling up. 

“You okay?”

“Fuck off.”

Ilya had actually been trying to be nice, but whatever. 

“Be careful. I would like to see ‘died from choking on Ilya Rozanov’s cock’ on your gravestone, but you probably do not.”

“How do I—“ Hollander starts, then cuts himself off to bite his nail while he glares at Ilya’s cock as if willing it to be smaller. Ilya preens—he knows he looks good, but it’s even better to make sure Hollander knows it. Hollander lowers his hand and looks at Ilya seriously, the aroused haze in his eyes now hiding beneath the intellectual sharpening. 

“I want to take more,” Hollander announces. “Show me?”

Ilya swallows. “Da? You want me to fuck your mouth, Hollander?”

Hollander hesitates, then nods slowly. “Like this, though.”

Ilya agrees, and when Hollander lowers his head it takes him a second to realise what’s happening because he’s overcome with the wet heat of his mouth. 

Right. Yes. Lessons. 

“Imagine throat is one long tube,” Ilya instructs, and Hollander keeps licking long stripes up his cock as he raises a brow. “Right. It is. But—ah—is bent in middle, yes? So aim is to relax that part. Breathe through nose and keep steady rhythm, and don’t tense up. Makes worse. Fuck.”

Hollander stops doing that thing with his tongue that makes Ilya’s leg jerk and lifts his head. “How many guys have you deepthroated? Or have deepthroated you?” he asks, and it clearly comes out more accusatory than he intended because he shakes his head. “I mean, you’re very… detailed in your instructions. You’re a good teacher, so I just wondered, y’know.”

Ilya pretends to think about it. “Hmm… more than one. Less than one hundred.”

Hollander scowls. “Forget I asked.”

“Little busy right now, Hollander,” Ilya reminds him, gesturing to where his hand is still gripping the base of Ilya’s cock. He huffs. “I have sucked cock several times. My cock has been sucked many more. This is enough detail for you?”

Hollander pauses, then nods in acquiescence and lowers his head again. When he returns to his task, though, it’s much more pointed—messier, harder, more. It’s like he’s trying to suck hard enough to erase anyone that came before. 

“Fuck, Hollander, just like that,” Ilya groans a few minutes later, feeling Hollander’s throat flutter around him as Hollander lowers his head further. Hollander moans in response. 

He feels blunt nails dig into his thighs and his hips jerk up a little involuntarily in response, hitting the back of Hollander’s throat in the process. This time Hollander doesn’t gag, though; instead, his eyes roll back into his head and he trembles violently, his own hips spasming against the bed. 

“Holy fuck, are you—”

“Oh God. Oh God.” Hollander is still shuddering, his face buried in Ilya’s thigh as he rides out his orgasm. 

“You just came… untouched. From me fucking your mouth.”

“Fuck off. I was keyed up, alright?”

“Keyed up?”

“Pent up. Aroused.”

“Yes. So you blew your load into your jeans from me fucking your mouth.”

Hollander is flushed all the way down to his chest now and Ilya kind of wants to trace the path with his tongue. He goes to turn away, sitting up, and Ilya practically leaps forward to grab him. God, he’s so fucking hard it hurts. 

“No, Hollander, no, please. It was so fucking hot. You are so fucking hot.”

Hollander stills, slowly turning his head to reveal a cautiously pleased expression. “Say it again.”

“I mean, you are alright,” Ilya tries with a shrug, and Hollander whacks him in the arm. “Okay, okay.” He pulls Hollander up until they’re face to face and kisses him, saying his next words into his mouth. “You are very fucking hot. Like the sun.” He puts a finger on Hollander’s skin and hisses, pretending to be burned. “Ouch.”

The truth is, Hollander is hot. He has practically every girl he meets swooning over him, and more than a few guys. Of course, Hollander is oblivious to all of it. And maybe that’s what makes him even hotter—the fact that he doesn’t know how attractive he is, how everyone he meets melts over those dark eyes and that floppy hair and those damn freckles. 

Ilya has been aware that Hollander is good-looking since they met. Before that, actually, when Shane Hollander was just a pixelated figure on his screen back in Russia, watching reels of his soon-to-be rival. It’s an objective fact. 

He’s just never allowed himself to look before. Well, he’s looked. He just hasn’t let himself want. He’d avoided falling for a straight teammate for his entire life, and had no intention of changing that. Let alone his archenemy. There was no point, it was exhausting, and it left too many opportunities to ruin his life. 

And then Hollander opened that stupid door. Why’d he have to open?

Hollander bites his lip then leans down to kiss Ilya, and Ilya suddenly loses his train of thought. Never mind. 

“Can I… go back to what I was doing?” Hollander asks. 

“You want to?”

Hollander nods, his eyes sparkling, then closes the gap between them until their lips are touching. “I want you to fuck my mouth.”

***

Shane has one more rule he wrote down but didn’t tell Rozanov, and he’s already broken it. 

Nothing in the bedroom. Shane’s room, specifically.

It just felt… too far. Like it was too intimate, somehow, which didn’t make sense because  they’ve been intimate already. He doesn’t know how to explain it. He didn’t want Rozanov to look, to judge.

He’s really glad he didn’t say anything. He’s not sure it’s legal to have continued living without knowing how it feels to press Ilya Rozanov against cool sheets and suck him down. 

Rozanov barely looked around, anyway. He didn’t notice the plethora of pictures of him and his parents on the shelf facing the door, or comment on the Herb Brooks biography he has on his bedside table. He didn’t spot Shane’s glasses lying beside the biography. He isn’t interacting with the space, just… in it. So it’s fine. 

Besides. Shane loves sucking cock. 

It’s unfortunate, but it’s true; he loves the weight of it, the silky skin and salty taste and all the sounds Ilya makes beneath him. 

It is, as it turns out, even better when Rozanov fucks his mouth. 

Almost as soon as he has thrust halfway into Shane’s mouth, a polite test like a starter before the main meal, Shane’s cock is giving a valiant twitch back to life. 

(His come is already drying in his boxers. He’s trying not to think about it.)

When Rozanov starts fucking his mouth properly, Shane thinks for a second he’s going to lose his mind. He thinks he might be stuck like this forever, lids fluttering and cheeks flushing and whining the whole time. The feeling of Ilya’s cock hitting the back of his throat, the feeling of it pushing further, has Shane threatening to float away. 

Rozanov sticks to short thrusts, gripping Shane’s hair tightly in his fists. Shane is discovering he likes having his head in Rozanov’s hands, feeling like he is just a thing to be maneuvered around for pleasure. Somewhere in the back of his mind he thinks he should feel embarrassed at being used like this, but the thought is too far away to do anything about it. 

Drool is leaking from Shane’s open mouth as his eyes water hopelessly, obscene noises filling the room. Shane should be embarrassed, but he isn’t—he’s too busy listening to Rozanov instead, zeroing in on the litany of curses and strings of Russian leaking out of his mouth like he can’t stop himself.

“Fuck, fucking—yes, Hollander, take it,” he growls, and Shane feels himself getting hard again. Fuck. “Shit, you love it. You love it. Oh, just like that.”

Rozanov’s pace is punishing, and Shane likes it that way. It feels like Rozanov just wants to take, and all Shane wants to do is give.

(He especially likes the moment in between, though, when Rozanov pauses to adjust his grip on Shane’s hair and Shane feels his cock jump in his mouth, knowing without a doubt that it’s because of him, that he’s doing that to Rozanov.)

No one else.

“I’m—ah, fuck—I’m close,” Rozanov bites out, and Shane just hollows his cheeks. He wants to taste him again. 

Rozanov practically shouts as he empties himself into Shane’s mouth, and Shane greedily swallows it all down. Fuck, he actively likes the taste of Rozanov’s come. What does that say about him?

Before he can swallow it all, Rozanov grabs his chin and hauls him up to be level with him. “Don’t swallow,” he instructs.

Shane’s brow furrows, but he nods. He can feel the salty liquid blooming across his tongue the longer he holds it there, Rozanov just watching him, and then Rozanov grins wickedly.

“Kiss me,” Rozanov whispers, and Shane is all too happy to oblige.

They both moan when Rozanov sweeps his tongue into Shane’s mouth and tastes himself, and it quickly devolves into a messy makeout. Shane strokes his tongue over Rozanov’s and sucks on it, and lets Rozanov do the same to him. He’s sure the entire bottom half of his face will be glistening with a combination of come and spit, and he’s hopelessly turned on by the idea—Rozanov put that there.

Eventually Rozanov reaches down to touch Shane’s cock, and Shane realises with some dismay that this is the first time Rozanov has touched him tonight. Their activities are in service of a different goal, Shane knows—I am not sure ‘how to receive blowjob’ is in lesson plan, Ilya had said—but he wants it all anyway, wants to feel Rozanov’s hands or mouth or something. 

He could just blow on it, if Shane is being honest. He’s pretty sure that would be enough to finish him off.

Thankfully, Rozanov doesn’t do that. He reaches into Shane’s boxers and begins stroking, swearing into Shane’s mouth and pulling away to look down.

“Fuck, you are so wet,” Rozanov comments, and Shane feels himself flush.

“Shut up.” His voice is rough.

“This is… you are wet like girl,” Rozanov breathes. Shane doesn’t know what to do with the full body shudder that overtakes him. 

Rozanov does. He crashes their mouths together, and Shane finishes like that just minutes later, whimpering and whining into Rozanov’s mouth while Rozanov whispers fuck, yes, and just like that, and come for me, Hollander. He doesn’t know how, didn’t think there was anything left after earlier, but somehow his eyes roll back in his head as he complies. His body spasms as he covers Rozanov’s hand and his own stomach in come, and when he’s done he collapses on Rozanov, completely boneless.

Rozanov chuckles, making Shane’s head wobble against his chest, and his arms come up to encircle him. It occurs to Shane that they shouldn’t be doing this, that it violates the terms of their deal somehow, but it doesn’t. It’s just a form of intimacy Shane hadn’t thought to account for.

Rozanov doesn’t let him go for a long time, and Shane soon realises why. The floaty feeling that had overtaken him during it all begins to fade, leaving Shane bone-tired but anchored by the steady contact of Rozanov’s warm hands stroking his back. He feels like he can’t even speak.

Rozanov seems to know this. He keeps holding Shane in silence, both of them listening to the rumble of cars outside and people just beginning to head to the clubs for the night. If only they knew, Shane thinks, more tauntingly than he’d like to admit. I just got face-fucked by the hottest man in the league.

Shane doesn’t realise he’s chuckling to himself until Rozanov pulls his head back, peering at Shane with an amused but fond expression. “Ah, there you are,” Rozanov says, poking his index finger into Shane’s cheek gently.

“I didn’t—” Shane has to pause to clear his throat, which makes Rozanov smirk. His voice is still raspy. “I didn’t go anywhere.”

“You did, but is okay. How do you feel?”

Shane smiles stupidly into Rozanov’s chest. “Fantastic,” he admits, and Rozanov laughs. 

“Good. Same.” 

“Yeah?”

Rozanov’s eyes are soft. “Yes.”

They fade back into silence, and Shane wonders if he should offer to put the Admirals game on for them to watch or offer to make them food. That’s what a good host does, he knows, but he also knows this isn’t a regular hosting occasion. 

Maybe there’ll be an answer on Google. What to feed hockey rival who just made you come twice, once untouched?

Maybe not.

Shane’s laughing again, and Rozanov is chuckling too even though he has no idea what’s going on. Fuck, Shane feels drunk.

The silence isn’t uncomfortable. It actually feels weirdly normal to be lying here like this with Rozanov. He can’t help but notice the way their bodies fit together, Shane turned on his side with one arm wrapping around Rozanov’s middle and a leg hitched over his hips. They’re like puzzle pieces slotting together. 

…Weird.

Actually, very weird. Very wrong. That’s not what this is. This is sex lessons from someone he hates that happens to be good at sex. 

And it definitely, totally, one hundred percent should not happen again. 

“Uh, I should shower and change the sheets,” Shane says eventually.

Rozanov doesn’t look surprised, just nods and stretches when Shane sits up. “Same. Have many lectures tomorrow.”

Clearly Rozanov can recognise an invitation to leave when he sees it. Shane pauses. “God, I know this is an awkward question after being on a team with you for a whole year, but… what’s your major?”

Rozanov’s smile is razor sharp, his eyes sparkling. “Russian literature,” he replies. “Is very—what is the word? Captivating. Lots of drama, betrayal, murder. Sex, Lots of sex.”

“Bet you love it all, then,” Shane teases, and Rozanov nods seriously. 

“I do. I like Dostoyevsky the most, though. Crime and Punishment is favourite.”

“I’ll have to check it out.”

“Yes. You will enjoy.” Rozanov pauses thoughtfully with one arm through the sleeve of his shirt. “Well, not enjoy. Or be interested in. Is very dense. But… I think you might like it anyway.”

“I probably will.”

“Of course, is not book about Herb Brooks, but—”

“Fuck off.”

At their next practice, Rozanov is true to his word. He doesn’t single Shane out unnecessarily, or make any innuendos, or whisper anything inappropriate as he skates by. Wonderful. It’s. All. Wonderful.

Except Shane is still hopelessly turned on by him. It’s fucking torture.

He’s a beautiful player to watch. This is an objective fact.

It continues like that for several days. Rozanov will seem mostly unaffected by him in practice, returning back to their usual snide bantering with just enough bite that Shane thinks for sure that he’s ending it. He checks him into the boards at every chance, outskates him and celebrates like he’s won the league, and generally just seems to have the time of his life beating Shane.

He’ll take off his skates and curse himself. He’s mad because more than anything, he’s upset that Rozanov is ending it. Because he’s been meaning to. He has. It just…

The moment hasn’t arisen. And now fucking Rozanov is doing it for him instead.

He’ll leave the arena dejected only to spot Rozanov waiting for him outside. Once or twice he’s smoking, and he always rolls his eyes when Shane wrinkles his nose.

“Yours. 10 o’clock.”

And then he’ll hear that knock on the door, and as soon as the door opens Rozanov is grabbing him and crashing their lips together, pushing him against the wall.

“Get on your knees,” he says on the second night, and Shane complies immediately, fluidly sinking to the floor and mouthing at the bulge in Rozanov’s pants. He can’t think of anything else he should be doing, and that’s the worst part.

He thinks of what would happen if the team found out sometimes, and he cringes when he thinks of them seeing him like this. Gagging for it. But he can’t stop it from being true.

On his way out two days ago Rozanov had promised to come by after the game against Toronto. I think time to move on to next lesson soon, he had said, so Shane spends much of their time getting ready buzzing with need to find out what it is. Rozanov keeps staring at him in the locker room with such intensity that Hayden asks if they’ve had a fight, but only Shane knows what his eyes are really saying: I want you.

“No, no,” Shane replies. “Just Rozanov being weird, as usual.”

“Right…”

Shane puts his headphones on, focusing on the music and his breaths as he puts on his left skate and then his right. He has a game to play. A team to captain. That’s all that matters right now. That’s his only job. Never mind Rozanov and whatever he’s planning for tonight—that’s for later. All he needs to do is—

A pair of skates come up to touch his. He cranes his head, lifting one ear of the headphones as he squints into the light.

Rozanov’s face moves to block the fluorescents, and Shane blinks. “Coach wants us. Let’s go.”

“Um. Now?”

“Yes. Captain and Assistant Captain, he said. Come on.”

(Shane still doesn’t know why Coach Wiebe ever thought that was a good idea.)

The man in question is waiting in the hallway between the locker room and the arena. “Can you play on the same line together?” he asks as soon as the door shuts.

Shane takes a minute to understand. “I mean, yes, we did it last year, but—”

“I moved Rozanov back to center because you two couldn’t stop fighting during practice, I know,” Wiebe replies. “But you’ve been better—a bit—and that Toronto goalie is a goddamn brick wall. Even Barrett can’t get past him. I need players who can think outside the box, work together for these big powerplays. So… can you?”

This time, it doesn’t take long for Shane to answer. He glances at Rozanov, who gives the slightest nod. “Yeah. I mean, yes. We can do it.”

“Great. Ilya, you’ll be playing right wing.” He glances between the two of them, Shane’s furrowed brow and Rozanov’s intense stare, and clears his throat. “I’ll give you two a minute.”

That’s one thing Shane has to respect about Coach Wiebe—he knows when to make an exit. 

“This was first time he told you plan, yes?” Rozanov asks.

“Uh, yeah. First I’m hearing of it, at least… you?”

“No. Was my idea a long time ago, at beginning of season,” Rozanov replies smoothly. He leans against the wall, spreads his arms wide. “Since I am Assistant Captain now, I must make sacrifice.”

“How noble of you.”

Rozanov’s eyes flicker down to Shane’s lips. “Life is hard,” he sighs. “First I must score more goals than my captain and center.” His voice lowers to a rumble. “Then I must go back to captain’s place and make him beg for cock. Is tough.”

The words ring against the brick of the hallway. “Fucking—not here,” Shane hisses, but he can’t help adding, “and yeah, your life is a nightmare.”  Rozanov just grins. 

“Maybe we have competition,” Rozanov says conversationally, continuing despite Shane’s plea. “See who can score most goals.”

Shane is silent for a long time. “You’re breaking rule number two.”

Rozanov makes a show of glancing from side to side. They’re alone, Shane knows they are, just… “See you later, Hollander.”

“Fuck off, Rozanov. No you won’t.”

Shane turns back to the locker room, and he means it.

They win the game by a landslide. Shane scores three goals.

Rozanov scores four.

He’s not letting him come over. He’s not. They need to end this. They’ve had their fun, Shane has learned… stuff, and now they can be done. Easy. 

When Rozanov knocks, Shane spends several long seconds staring at the door. He wishes he had x-ray vision so he could see Rozanov waiting for Shane to open. Is he nervous, shifting from foot to foot? Or leaning against the doorframe, the pinnacle of nonchalance? The second one is more likely, he knows. He wants it to be the first. 

It’s curiosity alone that propels him to fling open the door, Shane tells himself, and he’s rewarded by Rozanov’s features jumping in surprise before they’re schooled into his usual combination of apathy and lust. Rozanov raises a brow, a silent well? and Shane almost growls.

He’s grabbing Rozanov’s jacket and pulling him in as soon as the door clicks shut, and the next thing he knows he’s shoved him against the wall.

“Why the fuck did you try and fucking dirty talk me before the game?” Shane seethes. 

Rozanov’s hands are raised to shield himself, and he seems simultaneously confused and delighted by this turn of events. “It made you play better, yes?” he replies. “We played well together, at least.”

They did. They really, really did. Shane had almost forgotten what it was like to play on the same line as him, to know someone’s playing style so well that he knew exactly where Rozanov was on the ice at all times. Sometimes it was almost distracting, watching and feeling Rozanov weave around him and pick up the puck just as Shane wanted him to. 

“I guess,” Shane manages lamely. Rozanov just chuckles.

“You had a hat trick. Your second this season, yes? Of course, I scored four, but…”

“Asshole.”

“I think that means I win.”

“Fuck off. I never agreed to that.”

“Mm, but you did. Lucky for you, my reward is another lesson.”

Yes. The lessons. 

…Right.

When Shane pins Rozanov to the bed and swallows him down, he’s not so sure he’s losing.

***

Ilya feels like he might be going a little bit insane.

They changed their names in each other’s phones. They were on a bunch of group chats together already but never talked one-on-one, so even though it was weird seeing ‘Jane’ in Mrs Dykstra Fan Club (the team group chat), Ilya quickly got used to it. 

It was necessary, too, since he wasn’t sure what would happen if Cliff looked over his shoulder and saw him texting how many times can you come in 1 hour? to Shane fucking Hollander.

At least when it was to Jane, he just whistled. “Jesus, Roz, you dog.”

Ilya just smirked, waiting a beat and turning before sending the text so he could watch Hollander reach into his cubby to grab his phone, glancing from side to side before reading the message. The blush he got for that was incredible.

The blowjob he got for it after was even better. He loves when Hollander wants it, wants him so badly that he’s mad about it. He loves how then, Hollander scowled even while he moaned, nails digging into Ilya’s skin as he sucked a bruise onto Ilya’s thigh that was high enough no one would see and just hard enough to hurt. Ilya felt it for days even after it faded, a current of want going through him every time he shifted, and he especially loved feeling Hollander press it with his thumb while he sucked Ilya’s dick.

They don’t have a lot of time, but they make the most of what they have. 

A few times a week—sometimes a few times a day—Ilya’s routine will look like this.

Go to practice. Pretend not to be staring at Hollander. (Stare at Hollander.) Chirp Hollander until he turns pink like bubblegum. Shove him into the boards a few times. Try not to get shoved back. Trash talk some more and see if Hollander can go brick red. Maybe, if he’s feeling frisky, break rule number two again and whisper something as he skates by, always making sure no one else is around first. He’s not stupid. Wait. Wait some more. 

Get phone. Ready for another lesson? or Be there at 8 or I want you waiting for me when I get there.

Laugh at the responses. No. Fuck off. Asshole. They’re like music to his ears. Especially because they’re always followed with Yes. and Can you come sooner? and Hurry.

Half the time it will be Hollander that will text first. His texts are always brief. 9? he texted once, to which Ilya responded with ???

He could practically hear Hollander growling through the screen. Come over.

For what?

Fuck off. 

Am happy to help Jane. Just need you to use your words.

Forget it.

Ilya waited.

Please.

Ilya ran. 

He had expected Hollander to need more coaxing to beg, but he was wrong. The second he got through the door Hollander was on his knees, mouthing at his cock and murmuring, “please,” into the fabric of his trackpants. Ilya’s knees almost buckled at the sight of Hollander blinking up at him, waiting for some kind of instruction, for permission. 

Ilya nodded, and promptly lost his mind.

And that’s how he’s felt ever since: in a perpetual state of need, buzzing with it all the time. His only consolation is that Hollander feels the same way, since their lessons keep happening. They haven’t progressed any further, but at least Hollander is clearly coming around to the idea that he likes being told what to do. At first he seemed resistant to it, but now he gets this look in his eye every time Ilya gives him orders that makes Ilya want to see just how far Hollander will go if it’s him requesting it.

He likes to surrender that control, but only ever when they’re alone. At practice, he’s still Captain Hollander.

Ilya had sort of wondered if they’d fight less now that they’re doing… whatever it is they’re doing on the side, but they still bicker almost constantly. Ilya calls his new plays boring and Hollander snaps at him, and soon the whole team is jeering and hollering as Coach Wiebe intervenes to stop them from lunging for each other. 

If only Coach knew, Ilya thinks wistfully sometimes, that I really want to jump his bones, not him.

For everyone at practice, it’s just like it was before, basically. Just their Captain and Assistant Captain in constant competition with each other, constantly poking each other like children. Same as always. 

Only Ilya gets to see that look in Hollander’s eye as he skates away, and he’ll always turn back around with a stupid little grin on his face. Oh, he’s getting some tonight for sure.

“Hollander! Hey, Hollander! If you do the shot challenge faster than me, I will buy whole team pizza.” 

“I don’t even want—”

“I will also buy your cat food, don’t worry.”

“Wow, what a treat.”

“Is for you! Now go!”

Ilya watches Hollander sprint from the goal line, skating backwards around the curve and pivoting perfectly around the cones. The team is a mixture of cheers and boos trying to get Hollander to mess up. 

Nine point six seconds. That’s how fast Ilya was on the obstacle course Coach Wiebe made for them today, which is a team best and new record. There’s no way Hollander can beat him… but Ilya better yell some shit, just to be sure.

“My grandmother can skate faster than that!”

“So slow, Hollander!”

“Coach, points off for him! Both skates did not touch line!”

Coach disagrees with Rozanov’s assessment, and he looks at the clock in dismay.

Eight point one seconds.

Fuck. 

Hollander doesn’t celebrate much, though, just pumps his fist once and then skates back to accept congratulations from his teammates. He seems unusually stoic after that, lost in thought as he stares down at the ice blankly and removes one glove to bite his nail before seeming to remember himself and slipping it back on. He looks… tired.

When they leave the ice, Hollander stays. 

Come to my place tonight.

Why?

Change is good. 

Not always. Have you ever heard of a McRib?

I have not heard of this. Come to my place and tell me about it.

Don’t you live on the same floor as Beckett and Marleau?

Live a little.

I won’t be living when we’re caught!!!!

Hollander.

Seriously. 

You should learn to be quiet then.

I can be quiet.

No you can’t. Also, I don’t like it. 

You like to hear me?

You know I do.

No, I didn’t. And for that, I’m coming over.

!!!!!

Ilya picks Hollander up as soon as he comes inside. If he’s telling the truth, he’s been thinking about this for the past two weeks he’s been giving ‘lessons’—he couldn’t stop imagining Hollander interacting with his space, lying in his bed. So he’s a little excited. 

Hollander yelps, hands scrambling around Ilya’s neck to hold on, but he makes no request to get down. Now that Ilya can have a good look at him, it’s clear that there’s an unusual heaviness about him—Ilya suddenly wants so badly to fix whatever’s wrong that he might cry.

No. He has a job to do.

“Soon I want to fuck you like this,” Ilya rasps, and he feels Hollander’s cock twitch against his stomach. He grins. “You would like this?”

“Yes, I would like this.”

They’ve been tiptoeing around the subject of going further for a few days now, but last time he’d been stroking Hollander while cupping his balls and his hand crept lower and he felt Hollander’s entire body tense. Hollander thought he was ready, but that didn’t mean he was. Yet.

Hollander squirms in Ilya’s arms. “I wanted to see your place, and now all I can see is you.”

“Nice view, yes?”

Hollander rolls his eyes. “Whatever. Can I get a tour, or…?”

“Mm. After.”

Hollander seems content enough with that. “So, what reward do I get for beating you on the course today?”

Ilya pretends to think about it, and then puts Hollander down gently. They stare at each other for a long time, Hollander blinking with heavy eyes. Fuck. Ilya can’t take it anymore.

“Get on your knees.”

Hollander gets on his knees. 

They’re in the hallway outside Ilya’s bedroom, but he’ll be taking Hollander in there soon enough—this is just the beginning. Even so, he’s ridiculously hard in seconds just from the sight of Hollander kneeling before him and fumbling to unzip his jeans, rucking up his shirt. 

The wet heat of Shane Hollander’s mouth is still as intoxicating as ever. Ilya gets lost in the way he swallows and swirls his tongue and slides his lips up and down in a heady rhythm. One hand tangles in Hollander’s hair and the other is cradling his jaw, feeling the spot where his lips stretch around him, and it’s almost too hot to handle. 

“God, you love it,” Ilya says to himself, and Hollander whines. “Such a slut for it. Fuck.”

Hollander goes brick red, palming himself through his sweatpants and moaning before putting his hand back on his thigh as if he knows it would be too much for him. 

It only gets worse for Ilya to control himself when he thrusts involuntarily into Hollander’s mouth and Hollander nods frantically in response, his hands creeping around to hold Ilya’s ass as he takes as much of his cock as he can in his mouth. 

“You want me to fuck your pretty mouth?” Ilya asks, tapping his cheek, and Hollander moans and nods again. 

And Ilya does, watching the way Hollander’s eyes glaze over as soon as he starts thrusting. It’s messy and obscene and Hollander has a tent in his sweatpants, Ilya can see, but he doesn’t touch himself at all, apparently too dedicated to his task.

Ilya has never met anyone that loves sucking cock quite like Shane Hollander does, if he’s being honest. He enjoys it enough himself, loves doing it to Hollander specifically more than he’d like to admit, but Hollander is on another level. He keeps making little noises in the back of his throat as he sucks and licks and swallows, and Ilya watches that telltale haze of want descend over his eyes.

Hollander seems to especially love being used like this. Ilya loves it too—he loves to set a brutal pace, watch Hollander’s eyes water, then act like he’s about to pull away because he’s going too hard just to watch Hollander’s eyes widen in desperation as his fingers curl across the back of Ilya’s thighs to keep him close. It’s a beautiful reminder of just how much Hollander wants this, and it’s also hot as hell to watch. 

The thought of someone else using him like this springs to Ilya’s mind and has him quickening his pace. Something primal snarls in his chest at the image. They would see it as something to take, rather something that Hollander gives. They wouldn’t understand how in control he is in every other facet of his life, how this is the one place where he can let go and give in. He knows. He saw him on the ice today, circling while lost in thought before setting up for drills by himself. Hollander is frustrated about something, and now he just wants to let go.

Ilya thinks, at least. They’ve never actually talked about it, but… yeah. He’s pretty sure.

He hadn’t planned on finishing yet, wanted to savour it, but Hollander is moaning brokenly around him and he’s not sure he can hold back much longer. His refractory period is pretty short, even for a man.

“You want my come?” Ilya grits out, still thrusting, and Hollander just blinks up at him with wet eyes in silent permission. “Oh—блят, I’m close. Shit, Hollander, I’m gonna—”

Ilya is cut off by the tidal wave of pleasure that overcomes him, making him spill into Hollander’s mouth for what feels like eons. Hollander swallows it all greedily, and when Ilya is done and he goes to pull him off Hollander just shakes his head and keeps going, gently sucking until Ilya is completely soft in his mouth. 

It won’t stay that way for long.

When Ilya does pull away, Hollander stays on his knees for a moment, wiping his cheeks. He seems a little dazed, but he practically purrs when Ilya helps him to his feet and then leads him to his bedroom without letting go of his hand. 

“What do you want?” It’s still Ilya’s favourite question to ask. 

Hollander thinks for a long time, and then reddens. It’s always entertaining to Ilya how someone can be so filthy and desperate one minute, then shy and prudish the next. Ilya pokes his cheek, pretending he’s prompting him when really he just wants to feel the heat under his finger. “Be honest. Say whatever, ok?”

Hollander nods. His eyes flicker up to meet Ilya’s gaze. They’re dark at the best of times, but right now his pupils are blown so wide his eyes look like dark pits of want. 

“I want you to take me apart.”

Ilya needs a minute for his brain to restart, but okay. He can do that. 

Ilya starts by pinning him to the bed—his bed—and getting him completely naked. He whines when Ilya only removes his shirt, but Ilya likes seeing Hollander so open and vulnerable like this—besides, he knows he won’t be able to control himself if he gets his dick out, and he needs control more than anything tonight. 

Hollander is only half-hard but Ilya swallows around his cock anyway, lifting his head and explaining that sometimes it’s nice to feel the other person grow hard in your mouth. Hollander doesn’t seem to be listening much to the advice, but he gets the point. 

“Fuck, Rozanov—” Hollander moans when Ilya sucks one of his balls into his mouth, rolling the delicate sack around before pulling off with a little pop. He keeps stroking, waiting, and when Hollander finally looks down through half-lidded eyes he just winks and licks a long stripe up his cock. “Holy shit. You’re gonna kill me, Rozy.”

Rozy. Ilya moans without thinking, and he feels Hollander’s hand tighten in his hair. “Look so good spread out for me,” he murmurs in response. “I want to taste you.”

“Fuck, I’m getting close,” Hollander gasps after only a few short minutes, and Ilya feels the telltale twitch of his cock as his body prepares for release—but he doesn’t let it happen. 

He pulls off immediately, keeping one hand around the base and watching Hollander whine as another bead of precome leaks from his slit. Ilya uses this to lubricate his hand, and then keeps going with a grip just loose enough to not be what Hollander needs.

Hollander shifts, biting his lip. He seems unsure. “Rozanov—just, c’mon, can you—”

“No,” Ilya says simply. “This is called edging.”

“Fuck you, I know what edging is.”

“Have you tried it before?” Ilya loosens his grip even more, basically just trailing his fingers up and down Hollander’s cock, and Hollander whines again. 

“I mean—like, to myself once or twice. But—”

“Feels good, that final release, yes? I promise you will get to come, okay?”

 He debated for a while what he could do for Hollander after noticing his unusual reaction to breaking the record on the obstacle course, and thinks this will help. 

“I—” Hollander swallows, takes a breath. “Okay. Um. Soon?”

Ilya chuckles. “Soon. Do you trust me?”

Hollander seems to consider the question for a long time. Before all this, Ilya is not sure he ever gave Hollander a reason to trust him—but now is different. He doesn’t know Hollander, not really, but he feels like he knows him.

“I do,” Hollander says finally, and Ilya feels a smile threaten to split his face so leans down to kiss him instead. 

“Okay. Say stop and I will stop, yes?” At Hollander’s nod, Ilya tightens his grip and grins. “Don’t come.”

Hollander shudders, his head going back as he fights against himself, and then he nods again. “You gotta—unh—you gotta talk to me. I wanna hear you—” he cuts off, moaning louder.

Ilya tucks himself into his neck and licks a filthy stripe up the column of his throat, shuddering himself at the taste as he lifts and seizes his lips in a messy kiss. Hollander is moaning softly into his mouth with every stroke, his legs parted and bent to accommodate Ilya’s body looming over him, and only when Ilya looks down to see his hand wrapped around Hollander’s cock does he realise he’s grinding against Hollander’s ass. Fuck. 

He has other things to focus on right now, though. “Fuck, Hollander, you look so good like this,” he tells him, and he means it. “So good for me.”

“Wanna—-” Hollander gasps. He looks like the words are being torn out of him. “Wanna be good.”

Ilya strokes him faster, and Hollander claps a hand over his own mouth and whines. He still doesn’t come. “Yes, good boy,” Ilya groans.

Hollander still has enough Hollander in him to tell him to fuck off through his fingers, but when Ilya pins that arm above his head and captures his lips in a bruising kiss, he feels Hollander’s cock twitch in his hand. 

“Good boy,” he says again, and Hollander whines in protest but he feels his cock jump once more.

Hollander gets to the edge even sooner this time, and again Ilya stops completely. Hollander quakes, shifting on the bed as if he can’t get comfortable as he struggles to hold back. Ilya feels him leak profusely all over his fingers. Finally his limbs slacken and he sinks into the sheets, gasping out shaky breaths. 

“Fuck, I—fuck,” he whines, lifting his head to look at Ilya’s hand gripping the base of his cock before screwing his eyes shut. His cock is red and slick with precome, and Ilya is sort of mesmerised. “I don’t know if I can—”

“You can,” Ilya says firmly. “You want to be good for me, yes?”

Hollander takes another breath and then nods jerkily, hissing when Ilya begins to stroke him once more with a featherlight touch. He laughs, shaky and tinged with arousal. “You’re gonna kill me,” he whispers for the second time tonight.

“Why would I do that? Not very useful to me then.”

At any other time Hollander would narrow his eyes, call Ilya an asshole, or both. Now, though, he seems to be dazed, desperate and waiting for Ilya to give him what he wants and unable to think of anything else. 

“You’ve done so well. One more? Can you give me one more, Hollander?”

Hollander hesitates, biting his lip. “Yes, yeah, just please—”

“I know. I know. I will take care of you, okay?”

Hollander’s hands slip into the waistband of Ilya’s trackpants. “Come on, I wanna see you,” he says, and Ilya gives in. 

He leaves the warmth of Hollander’s skin only long enough to tear off the rest of his clothes and discard them, revelling in the hum of approval Hollander makes when he returns to their original position with the barriers gone. Hollander stares at Ilya’s cock and then licks his lips.

God, this boy is going to kill Ilya.

This time he shuffles down and places a soft kiss on Hollander’s hip, tucking one leg over his shoulder as his other hand trails along his shaft and then down, down, down.

Hollander stills.

“Have you ever…?” Ilya’s voice is hoarse. “Have you ever touched yourself here?”

“I… I mean, uh, I—”

“What is it?” Scared touching ass makes you gay? Because I thought you sucking my dick was pretty gay, is what Ilya wants to add. He bites his tongue and waits instead. He doesn’t want to risk him pulling away.

“I have, um… I have a thing.”

“A… thing.”

“A dildo.”

Ilya blinks. “What colour?”

Some of the dazed look clears from Hollander’s eyes and he glares at Ilya. “Fuck you.”

”It’s big?”

”I’m leaving.”

He looks like an angry kitten as he moves away, scowling and flushed with embarrassment.

“No, Hollander, I want to fuck you,” Ilya whines into his chest as he grabs him, sounding more vulnerable than he’d meant it to. Hollander stares at him, the tiniest flicker of a smile daring to play at his lips. 

“You do?”

Ilya rolls his eyes, because it’s obvious. “I mean, yes. Have you seen your ass?” He leans down to kiss Hollander hard, smirking when he pulls away and he chases after him. He looks raw and wanting, but he also looks… not completely sure.

“I will not touch you there,” Ilya acquiesces, and Hollander nods. Ilya can be patient. “Tonight, at least. Tomorrow is new day. For now, I take you apart just like you asked.”

He thinks about using his mouth, but he wants to drag this out a little longer. He wants to watch. Ilya keeps his grip featherlight and teasing for a while, watching Hollander for each shiver and shudder of pleasure. Hollander truly is a marvel to watch like this, dark freckles disappearing beneath a dark flush and eyes filled with lust. He keeps trying to buck into Ilya, seeking friction or a kiss, but Ilya pins him down hard with his free hand digging into his hip and watches as his cock jerks and smears more precome along his stomach.

“Ah,” Ilya begins, like he’s talking about the weather. “Such a needy little captain.”

At the same time Ilya begins to move his hand once more and Hollander wails brokenly, his entire back bowing as he arches into Ilya’s touch. His breaths are coming short now, and he’s flushed all the way to his chest, but still he doesn’t ask Ilya to stop. Instead he thrusts into his hand as much as he can with Ilya’s fingers pinning him down, riding the waves of pleasure, and Ilya feels himself riding alongside him as he ruts into the crease of his thigh in response. Hollander just moans even more. 

Ilya has begun a slow and dirty grind against Hollander, who is beginning to cry out a little with every thrust. “Fuckfuckfuck Rozanov, feels so good, please, I want—” he slurs, bucking into Ilya’s hand. 

His fingers dig into Ilya’s shoulders, and Ilya leans down to kiss him hard. It’s mostly just heavy breathing into each other’s mouths and biting as Ilya watches, enraptured. “I know what you want, and you’ll get it. So perfect,” he murmurs, then repeats it in Russian. Hollander’s cock leaks, and when Ilya thumbs the moisture around his slit his entire body spasms. “Look at you, needy slut just for me. So good.”

Ilya can’t think about what he’s saying, too busy focusing on Hollander’s body beginning to tighten up once more. Ilya keeps stroking, watching Hollander begin to believe that he really will let him come this time, and he releases the grip on his hip to let Hollander chase his high.

He thrusts wildly into Ilya, and it’s only then that Ilya realises Hollander is crying out with each of his thrusts against him rather than the strokes of his hand. He feels wild with want, feral for the idea of being inside of Hollander, teaching him how to take his cock. He wouldn’t need to teach him how to love it, though. He’s sure of that. 

“I can’t wait to fuck you,” Ilya growls, and Hollander whines into his mouth.

“Rozanov—fuck, I’m gonna—”

Ilya closes his fist around the base of his cock. Hollander wails.

His entire body spasms and his breath seizes, hips seeking something, anything, but Ilya pins him back down by fitting his fingers in the red indents he left before. He gasps for air, one hand in a vice grip around Ilya’s wrist as if willing him to keep going, but Ilya stays still and waits.

Then it’s like all the strings of a puppet being cut at once, because he goes completely limp. He’s boneless against the sheets even as he continues to heave ragged breaths, trembling so hard that Ilya feels the bed vibrate.

Hollander screws his eyes shut and sinks his teeth into his bottom lip, clearly trying with everything in him not to come, and Ilya pets his side gently as his breaths slowly even out. He’s still trembling, though, and when Ilya goes to let go his fingers tighten around him.

“No, please, please—” Hollander begs, and when Ilya looks up he sees his eyes are glassy.

He looks wrecked. Hair mussed and lips swollen from Ilya fucking his mouth, fresh tear tracks beginning to be made down his cheeks, he looks fucked-out and desperate. His expression is pleading.

“Yes, Hollander,” Ilya murmurs, leaning down to kiss him. “I’ll give you what you want. You did so well for me.”

Hollander practically glows at the praise, eyes slipping shut with a smile playing on his lips as Ilya leans down to capture them in a kiss. He keeps it gentle even when Hollander sucks his tongue and moans brokenly, moving back to kiss and pet at Hollander’s taut body until it stops trembling. 

He’s well aware this looks like worship to everyone else, and he knows it sort of is. He can’t help but take his time. He smooths his hands down Hollander’s sides, tongues lazily at a nipple while Hollander shivers, and returns the favour of sucking a bruise into the inside of Hollander’s thigh. He’d enjoyed that himself, but he knows Hollander will like it even more.

The whole time, Hollander is chanting a steady litany of please and fuck and more, please. When Ilya finally complies, it’s with a whispered command against his lips. “You have to be quiet, okay? Unless you want everyone to hear how desperate you are for me.”

Hollander nods frantically, cradling Ilya’s face in his hands and kissing him messily. “I’llbequiet,” he slurs, his words softened at the edges by pleasure and running into each other. “Just—please.”

Ilya chuckles, locking their lips together as he finally begins to stroke Hollander’s cock again. He whines into Ilya’s mouth, bucking into his grip, but all the precum covering him has dried just enough that there’s too much friction. He moans in distress, panting.

“Spit,” Ilya instructs, holding out his hand, and Hollander doesn’t hesitate. He leans over and lets a long line of saliva drip out of his mouth and into Ilya’s palm, and when Ilya begins to stroke once more they both swear.

It’s slick and wet and so much, and Ilya has to look down between their bodies at the sight. “Fuck, so hot,” he growls, and kisses Hollander again. His own hips move faster against Hollander’s leg.

“Wanyoutofuckme,” Hollander garbles, and it takes Ilya a minute to translate the words. 

“Yes, I will take such good care of you,” Ilya promises. Hollander makes a desperate, keening noise. “Soon. You have been so good, Hollander. You can come whenever you want.”

Between the unghs and little ah, ah, ah sounds Hollander is making, he manages a request. It takes him three tries to get the words out coherently. “Kiss me,” he says finally, and Ilya complies.

He feels Hollander’s body twitch, almost like he’s subconsciously trying to stop himself from seeking an orgasm that won’t come, but Ilya plans on giving him what he wants. Exactly what he needs. He strokes faster, rutting against his hip.

“Come on, Hollander. Show me. So good, good boy—”

Ilya cuts himself off when Hollander’s limbs seize and captures his lips in a bruising kiss just as he begins to come. He comes for a long time, shooting white ropes so high that Ilya can feel it splashing and smearing between their chests, and the whole time he’s clutching at Ilya like he’s afraid he’ll float away if he lets go.

When Hollander finally collapses, spent, Ilya eases himself onto his side. He’s so hard it hurts, but Hollander is in no shape to be doing anything to him in return, and besides—that’s not what this is about. He’s dismayed to discover that he would actually consider this a very successful evening even if he didn’t come again, because it reveals the thing he’s been trying to ignore for a long time. He actually cares about Hollander.

Hollander, who is currently fumbling and reaching for Ilya’s cock despite being boneless, slurring something that Ilya can’t understand.

“What?”

“Want your come,” Hollander finally gets out.

“You don’t have to—”

“No, no, please,” Hollander replies instantly, still reaching for him. “I want it.”

Oh God. This boy really is going to be the death of him. 

“Okay, Hollander,” Ilya soothes, kissing his shoulder. “Where do you want it?”

Hollander smiles, blissed out, and gestures vaguely to his own come-covered chest, and who is Ilya to deny him. He strips his own cock as he leans over Hollander and kisses him. Hollander doesn’t have enough in him to do much other than let Ilya take, but Ilya is so close that it doesn’t matter.

He comes with a guttural string of curses in Russian, painting Hollander’s chest with his own release too. Hollander’s whole body jerks when the first rope lands on him, and he moans like he’s coming too as he watches Ilya with half-lidded eyes.

“Fuck,” Ilya announces succinctly, and then collapses on top of him. 

He rolls off after a beat, settling on his side, and Hollander lies still beside him. Ilya pulls away just to grab a tissue from his bedside table and Hollander makes a noise of distress, smiling when Ilya returns and gently cleans them both up a little before kissing him. 

Ilya is more than happy to stay like this, kissing lazily as he coaxes little happy sighs out of Hollander’s mouth. He still seems out of it, fucked out and dazed and not quite able to make words yet, but that’s okay. Ilya just holds him a bit longer, fingers tracing the red marks he left on Hollander’s hip. 

“These might bruise,” Ilya tells Hollander. “I am sorry.”

Hollander just hums in contentment, shaking his head as if to say he doesn’t mind as he kisses over the bolt of Ilya’s jaw and nuzzles his neck. 

It feels much more natural than it should to be kind to Hollander like this. They’ve always been sort of enemies, unable to stop bickering and competing despite their grudging respect for each other, until this whole lesson thing started. The only thing that’s changed is that they now go back to each other’s apartments and suck each other’s dicks after.

Until now, that is. Now, Ilya is cuddling with Hollander for the second time recently, waiting for him to come down from his high and being altogether more tender than he ever has with a hookup. Shit, he and Sveta don’t even cuddle, and she’s Sveta. 

But it feels right. He knows it’s what Hollander needs, too, and he feels it over the next few minutes as his desperate grip loosens around Ilya’s middle and he begins to return back to himself.

“Holy fuck,” is the first thing Hollander says in a hoarse voice when he regains the ability to speak, and Ilya laughs.

“You said you wanted me to take you apart,” Ilya teases. “Did I succeed?”

“I think I came so hard I blacked out, so yeah,” Hollander deadpans, and Ilya snorts in response. His words are still coming slowly, like his thoughts are fuzzy and it takes him a second to grab them. “Killer lesson.”

“Well, I just wanted to—”

Someone pounds on the door. 

“Roz? Roooooz!” 

Ilya knows those voices instantly—it’s Cliff Marleau and Evan Dykstra. 

“Roz, we’re goin’ out, man, and you gotta come!” Cliff shouts through the door.

“You promised you’d buy Wyatt a shot for his record at practice today,” Dykstra adds.

Fuuuuuuuck. 

He feels Hollander stiffen beside him immediately and shares a look of panic with him. His front door is locked, he knows that, but Dykstra and Cliff still know he’s inside—he made a point of telling them he was staying in tonight after practice—so they’re not going away anytime soon.

And Hollander is pulling away, standing on shaky legs and grabbing at his clothes. 

“Wait, wait,” Ilya whispers quickly, then turns his head to the door and raises his voice. “I said I would buy Wyatt a shot next time. I did not say tonight.”

“But—”

“I even said I was staying in tonight, yes? So leave me the fuck alone!” he yells.

There’s some muffled whispering, and then Cliff saying in a dejected voice, “your loss, Roz.”

He can hear their footsteps fading back down the hall and into Dykstra’s apartment. 

Hollander keeps getting dressed.

“Hollander, you don’t have to—”

“No, um—I should go,” Hollander stammers out. “That was way too close. This was stupid, I—I’m sorry.”

“Hollander, that’s not—”

“I’m sorry,” he repeats firmly, slipping on his hoodie. “Is there another door I can leave through?”

Ilya takes a shaky breath, coaxing his own expression into one of indifference. If Hollander wants to run out like his ass is on fire, then Ilya is damn well not going to let him see that he’s disappointed while he does it. 

“There is back door,” Ilya says, feigning indifference and gesturing out of his bedroom and to the right. “Goes straight to alley.” 

He hadn’t liked this fact when he first started renting the place, but… at least now it’s coming in handy.

Hollander nods once. He won’t look up at Ilya. Why won’t he look at him?

“Hollander,” Ilya says again, his mask slipping. “You don’t have to go. Those idiots won’t come back.”

Hollander stands, frozen, with one hand on the doorknob. He’s staring at Ilya, still butt-naked and tangled in his sheets, then shakes his head. 

“I just—can’t. I’m sorry.”

The echo of the door shutting reverberates in Ilya’s head like a gong for a long time, until finally he realises that after all that he forgot to ask what was wrong at practice today.

Chapter End Notes

aftercare! is! important! don't let your archrival have a panic attack about being caught and run away after you've just megadommed him into oblivion! that decision may have CONSEQUENCES!

yeah, so a lot going on in this chapter. all of it fucking obscene. i've decided to just say fuck it because i'm going to hell anyway so i hope you all enjoyed that. in return here are some thoughts:

first thing and arguably the most important thing i have to say is foreskin is scary. like i get it your penis has a turtleneck on that doesn't mean i LIKE IT i'm sorry it freaks me out

yes i used mouth-fucking as a transition and it was very much the focal point of this chapter, along with shane's praise kink being visible from fucking space. and looks like now ilya's caught on to that! that should be... fun!

this really is the porniest porn i have ever written but i hope like the book/ show you guys can see the relationship rumblings as they get to know each other a bit more through the sex...

i made ilya a russian lit major because fuck you that's why. he loves dostoyevsky now. and what.

some of the hockey stuff will be inaccurate because although i am a hockey fan i have already written inaccurate football (us AND uk) so i kinda just need to complete the trifecta. hockey rules can be changed because plot reasons and i said so the end.

finally, i have to talk about the ending. ilya thinks he knows a lot more about kinky sex than he actually does and the consequences of improper aftercare will be discussed in the next chapter. aftercare is ALWAYs the solution <3

okay, i think that's it from me. i have this story all planned out now (though i didn't mean for this chapter to turn out this fuckin long lol) so i hope you all enjoy and think i made the right decision extending from the one shot!!!

bye y'all bisous xxx

Chapter 6: they're the ones who'll hate you

Chapter Notes

happy heated rivalry ep 6 eve eve eve motherfuckers here's some more drabble to make the time pass quicker!!!

warning: subdrop... shane is not very kind to himself in the beginning so just be aware <3

Shane wakes up feeling like he’s been hit by a truck. Actually, no: like he got hit by a train, which then dragged him across gravel for ten miles. And then he got hit by a truck. 

He slept fitfully all night despite how exhausted he was when he finally returned to his apartment, head spinning with thoughts of Rozanov.

That lesson was… something.

When he remembers it this morning, though, the hazy veneer of want is no longer there to soften the edges of his memories. Now, all he sees is himself, moaning like a pornstar and writhing against the sheets while Rozanov had his way with him: desperate, pleading, and needy. 

Fuck.

The memories come screeching back like a car crash: palming himself while he knelt in front of Rozanov, moaning around a mouthful of cock while Rozanov muttered you love it, such a slut for it, take it above him. Wailing when Rozanov wouldn’t let him come, begging for release. Such a needy little captain. The sense of relief he’d felt when Rozanov finally took him over the edge saying come for me, good boy. Reaching for Rozanov’s cock and begging for his come too. 

Want it. Want it so bad.

Each memory has Shane cringing back into his pillows and shaking his head against the sheets. Surely it was all just a bad dream. He distinctly remembers that floating feeling that he experienced with Rozanov once before descending over him, basking in the post-orgasm glow as Rozanov held him and kissed him like he never wanted to stop. He’d believed, then, that everything they’d done together was good. Hot, even. Rozanov liked it, he’d like it, so there were no issues. 

And then Dykstra and Marly knocked on the door, and everything went to shit. 

He freaked out like a child when he heard the knock, he knows, but his fear was valid. Everything would go to shit so fast if they found out what Shane and Rozanov were doing, and—

He thinks of the team finding out exactly what they were doing, how much of a slut Shane was for it, and kind of wants to die a little bit. 

The point is that even though he was right to be scared, he overreacted. He knows that. He shouldn’t have left, but… it’s not like Rozanov cared much if he stayed, did he? Sure, he said Shane didn’t have to leave, but that’s like saying I don’t mind when someone asks you to pick a restaurant. That was just the polite thing to do. He’d never known Rozanov to be polite, but he’d also never known Rozanov to pin him down and jerk him off until he cried, so.

Maybe Rozanov isn’t interested anymore. He saw Shane in his worst, most desperate, most vulnerable state, and now he’s done. 

And that… Shane doesn’t know what to do with that.

It’s not just the memories. Shane just feels off, like he was—well. Like he was taken apart and put back together in the wrong order.

I want you to take me apart.

Shane shudders. He has a headache that feels like something squeezing his temples, and every ray of light streaming in from his curtains hurts his eyes. His throat feels like he swallowed sandpaper, and he does not want to think about why. He tries to stretch out his aching limbs, but freezes when he feels a tinge of pain in his side. 

Hurriedly he pulls down the covers to check, and—yes. His memory was right. Rozanov left small bruises from where his fingers dug into his side when he pinned him down. Fuck. Shane skims his fingers over the bruises and shivers. Shane can think of a time where he’d love to have something like this, especially since they’re travelling for games tomorrow and they won’t get a chance for a while. He knows he’d think the same of the bruise he can feel on the inside of his thigh. He’d press down on the marks and feel the distant echo of arousal, and it would get him through. 

Now, though, they feel like a reminder of his shame. A reminder that he was too desperate, too needy, too… much.

Why did he have to ask Rozanov to take him apart? It revealed too much. It revealed that he’s nothing but a begging mess, a needy slut that is so desperate for cock that he’ll somehow convince his teammate and rival to give it to him—

Because that’s the other thing. If he wasn’t sure what his sexuality was before, he’s pretty damn sure now. And it fucking sucks. 

It’s not just that realisation, it’s how it happened. Shane is used to control in every facet of his life: school, food, workouts, hockey. Everything is carefully and precisely designed, streamlined for efficiency. He’d thought, no girlfriends. Must stay focussed on hockey. And he’d succeeded, and then he’d… posted the ad. 

Control had never been hard when it came to women, but Ilya Rozanov was a different beast. He didn’t know what to do with all the want in his chest, but he also didn’t know what to do when he did let it out like last night. Sex wasn’t supposed to be… that. Losing himself completely. These lessons were supposed to help Shane regain some of that control he felt he’d lost after his encounter with Rose, not be a complete surrender. 

His phone buzzes. 

Shane scrambles to grab it from the nightstand, already thinking up hypothetical replies to ‘Lily’—all variations of ‘go fuck yourself’—when he stops. It’s not Rozanov. It’s Rose.

Hey, we still on for coffee at 11?

Shane blinks, then groans. Shit. He totally forgot. He’d actually been excited to see Rose again, but now…

No. He can get a hold of himself. He’s played—and won—games through bruised ribs, flus, and once, a dislocated shoulder. He can go see his very nice and kind friend.

Definitely. Where?

Café Olimpico. See you soon :) 

Shane takes a deep breath and then stands. He wobbles, but manages to remain on his feet. Okay. One glance in the mirror tells him he definitely needs a shower, though. He’d rinsed off last night, but after the walk home in that shirt he’s convinced his chest still smells like a mixture of him and Rozanov, and he… doesn’t like that. He scrubs himself raw and emerges feeling at least a little more human, and then drags himself out for his run because he needs to do something.

The run is awful. Every footstep pounds like an anvil in Shane’s head, and he’s slower than he’s been since he was fourteen. When his headphones break halfway through, he can only stare at them because of course they did before he throws them in the trash and jogs the rest of the way in silence. In the end he only manages about three kilometres, and by the time he makes it home he’s dejected and covered in sweat despite the fall chill. He showers again. Scrubs at his skin some more. He can still feel Rozanov’s come splattering across his chest. 

Shane rests his head against the cool tile of his shower and wills himself to act like a normal fucking human being. The pep talk helps a little, he thinks, and he’s able to leave the house dressed reasonably nicely in jeans and a hoodie just a few minutes after that. 

It’s November, and the sun is nowhere to be seen—even so, Shane wears sunglasses as he walks down the busy street. Everything just feels too bright, too overexposed for Shane’s sensitive eyes, and by the time he gets to Café Olimpico his head is pounding. He forces himself to remove his sunglasses when he steps inside, but he’s relieved to discover that it’s dim enough that he’s okay. 

It’s busy but Shane manages to spot Rose after a quick scan, wearing a baseball cap and tucked in the back corner of the shop. If anyone has recognized her, they’re leaving her alone—and Shane is thankful for it. The two tables nearby her are also, thankfully, empty.

“Hey, gorgeous,” Rose says when she sees him, and Shane manages a weak smile as she stands to hug him.

“Hey, yourself,” he replies.

When they sit down, she frowns. “Are you okay? You look like shit.”

Leave it to Rose to tell it like it is. “Y-yeah, I’m good,” Shane says, managing a little laugh. “I just, uh. Didn’t sleep well last night. Tough practice yesterday.”

Rose hums in sympathy, nodding. “Getting ready for Nova Scotia? They’re brutal this year.”

Shane’s smile feels more genuine this time. “Look at you, the expert.”

“Three brothers, remember? So, are you sure there’s nothing going on?”

“I’m okay, Rose, seriously,” Shane tells her, then decides to change tact and racks his brain for what they were last texting about. “Um. How were the reshoots yesterday?”

Rose hesitates for only a second more before accepting his redirect. “Awful, obviously. The girl replacing Georgia is so much worse, and yesterday we had to take thirty so she could learn her lines. I don’t even think anything we did was usable, given she was basically reading off cue cards.”

“That’s so unprofessional of her, I’m sorry.”

“Y’know, Miles tried pranking her like he did to the whole cast, and she…”

Shane is happy to let Rose talk, and she’s happy enough to let him listen. He chimes in at all the right times, asks questions and makes the appropriate noises, but mostly he’s just letting her voice wash over him. It helps to have something to focus on over the din of the coffee shop, especially when it’s Rose laughing as she tells him about her wardrobe fitting disaster this morning. It makes him feel a little more himself, despite the fact that he’s still wincing every time Rose taps her spoon against her coffee cup. 

She asks him some more about practice and how prep for Nova Scotia is going, and doesn’t push him when his answers are on the short side. He doesn’t have a lot to say, anyway, doesn’t want to talk about how Kent and the other third years are still ragging on him constantly. He doesn’t want to talk about his bickering with Rozanov either… because that might lead to talking about what else he’s doing with Rozanov. He’s scared if he opens his mouth too wide it might all come falling out.

(Whenever he thinks about the team, he thinks about Rozanov. Whenever he thinks about Rozanov, he thinks about last night. He does not want to think about last night.)

He’s always been on the quiet side, anyway, so Rose doesn’t push him on it. She just listens and laughs and tells him she’ll be watching the game on set.

Rose hugs Shane extra hard when they say goodbye outside, and Shane doesn’t fight her on it. He just sinks into it gratefully, taking in the gentle weight of her head on his chest and her arms around his neck. He tucks his head a little, feeling steadier, and hugs her back. 

“I’ll text you later, okay?” Rose says, walking backwards as she leaves. “You better text me back. I mean it. And we’ll make plans for next week. Have a good practice!”

“Have a good shoot,” Shane replies, waving stupidly, and he waits for her to climb into her Uber and drive off before he lets his smile drop, turning to trudge back home.

Shane doesn’t feel any better by practice that evening. If anything, he feels worse. 

It feels like the world’s worst hangover, like he woke up rubbed raw and every sense grates on his nerves. No sooner has he walked into the locker room, wincing at the fluorescent overhead lights, than JJ and Zane Boodram are grabbing him and shaking him violently.

“Did you see? Did you see?” Bood asks, scraping his knuckles against the top of Shane’s head and making him make a noise of pain. Bood looks apologetic when he steps back. “Sorry, but… did you see?”

“See…what?”

“ESPN named you number one on the ‘OUA Players to Watch’ list!” JJ exclaims, thrusting a phone into his face.

It takes a minute for his eyes to adjust, and then—sure enough, there he is. There’s a photo of him in his Marauders gear from their press day this year, bent over a prop puck and staring seriously into the camera, with a short bio beneath listing his stats and describing him as having a hockey IQ that is ‘off the charts’. It’s a pretty emphatic depiction of him, actually, promising that he’ll be snapped up by a top team as soon as the draft comes around, though Shane doesn’t miss the description of him as ‘not the most sociable’. Even from ESPN he can’t escape the reminder that he’s boring. 

“Wow,” Shane says dumbly, too surprised and wrung-out to come up with anything else. “Who else is on there?”

“Roz is number three,” Marly chimes in. 

“Is outrage. Everyone knows I could crush Vincent fucking Lemaire.”

Rozanov is standing in the doorway, looking smug and as chilled out as ever in his leather jacket with his hockey bag slung over his shoulder. The team groans, chirping him and rolling their eyes, but he just shrugs with a smirk.

“What? Is true. He is even worse than Pike.”

“Yo, Roz, what’s with the stray bullet, man?” Hayden calls out, but Rozanov ignores him. 

Instead, his gaze levels on Shane. He sees a flicker of—something in Rozanov’s eyes as he takes in Shane’s rumpled form and dark circles under his eyes, but it’s gone before he can put a finger on it. 

“Of course, I could never compete with my captain,” Rozanov says wryly, his voice like silk, and the guys all jeer. “Then McGill would have to make me captain instead.”

“Not a bad idea,” Shane hears Kent mutter somewhere in the corner, but no one listens. 

Right. This chirping and rivalry is all familiar territory for Shane. They’ve exchanged barbs like this hundreds if not thousands of times at this point. 

It’s just that they’ve never done it after Shane has begged for his cock.

Besides, it’s not just Rozanov—the trash talk and insults snag on all of Shane’s rough edges, making him feel off-balance and more tired than he has in a long time. He’s also humiliated to discover that he’s on the edge of tears, because Rozanov’s comment hits a little too close to home.

Sometimes, Shane thinks Rozanov would be the better captain. He’s certainly more liked overall in the locker room, and even though Shane is leading the team in scoring by several goals, he doesn’t think that measures up to Rozanov’s ability to command a room. More than once he let Rozanov do the pre-game speeches, riling up the team just the right amount to get them fired up without sending them over the edge. Shane’s good at the one-on-one pep talks and coming up with drills, but commanding a team requires a lot more competence with big groups than he feels like he has. He’s not very good at public speaking—the stammer that speech therapists drilled out of him as a child has a habit of returning, and Kent and the other third-years laughed at him last time when it took a few seconds for him to get out the word ‘penalty’—and he’s also not very good at coaching. 

He’s fine to leave the first part to Rozanov, and the second part to Coach Wiebe. But… he should be able to do it. He should be better.

“Keep dreaming, Rozanov. Beat me in goals scored, and I’ll give you the ‘C’ myself,” Shane tells him, but his voice is shaky and it comes out a little more forceful than he’d intended.

The rest of the team whistles, Marly and Hayden both clapping him on the back in congratulations as they return to their cubbies to continue getting ready, and Shane breathes a sigh of relief. Okay. First huddle done. Not the smoothest dismount, but hey—maybe he can get through this after all. 

Shane turns to his own cubby, wiping furiously at his eye. It’s fine. Everything is fine. He’s just being dramatic. His body is fighting off some weird flu, and he’s feeling weird about the Rozanov thing. Just an unlucky combo, that’s all.

He decides, slipping off his shirt and folding it neatly on the shelf, to just focus on hockey. They have a brutal team to get ready to play against in just two days, so he needs to set aside his post-nut clarity and concentrate on the team he’s supposed to be leading. 

Focus, right? Shane knows all about that. 

“Whoa, Hollander, what happened to you?”

Shane freezes. It’s been a rough day and he feels like hell, but he hadn’t looked so bad when he checked himself over in the mirror before leaving, so what—

He turns to see Dykstra and several others staring wide-eyed at his torso, and he looks down to see the finger-shaped bruises even darker than they were this morning underneath the harsh light. 

“I—uh—-”

Fuck.

“A woman needs some serious fucking strength to do that,” Bood comments thoughtfully.

“Or Hollander has a vitamin C deficiency,” Wyatt Harris suggests. 

“Seriously, though—Hollander, you dirty dog! What chick did that to you?” Marly asks, all sharp teeth and exuberant eyes, and suddenly the whole team begin acting rabid as they clamour for details about Shane’s apparently kinky sex life. 

Which, like. They’re not one hundred percent wrong, except they’re so wrong.

Shane can’t help it. Eyes wide with panic, he searches through all the eager and impressed and confused faces until he finds Rozanov on the opposite side of the room, frozen with his gaze glued to the bruises.

Shane feels his cheeks burn hot under the scrutiny. Rozanov’s eyes snap up to meet his, and he sees a similar panic reflected there. God, does he think Shane is actually going to tell them? Does he think that little of him?

“C’mon, Hollzy, tell us who it was—”

“Can you give her my number?”

“Jesus, Hollz, you’re a kinky bastard, huh?”

“Sorry, boys,” Shane interrupts with as much nonchalance as he can muster, hoping his smirk comes off as confident and suave rather than making him look like he’s in pain. “I don’t kiss and tell.”

The guys groan, and a few more beg for details, but Shane just shakes his head. 

“Y’know, I bet it was Rose Landry,” Carmichael chimes in. “We saw you go home with her the other week, Hollander, don’t lie.”

“Didn’t you get coffee with her this morning?” Hayden adds, narrowing his eyes in suspicion, and the boys all gasp and cheer like they’ve won the league. Shane really regrets telling Hayden why when he cancelled their gym session earlier.

“It wasn’t Rose,” Shane snaps. It’s a little forceful but he doesn’t care. It just makes him think of less than two weeks ago where he’d blurted out the opposite thing in his defence to Rozanov, but now he doesn’t want the team going around thinking Rose is some… deviant.

That’s Rozanov’s job.

“Whatever you say, buddy,” Hayden says knowingly with a wink, and Shane just sighs and lets it go. Maybe if the team thinks it’s Rose, they’ll leave him alone.

Only Rozanov has stayed silent the whole time, barely moving as he stares at Shane. The scrutiny makes Shane feel hot and shaky all over, like he has a fever, and the piercing sensation in the back of his head as Rozanov continues to watch him tug his undershirt down as far as it will go does nothing to help his headache. 

Fuck him. Obviously, Shane didn’t expect him to come to his defence—that would be suspicious, and Shane isn’t even sure what he could say to help—but he still doesn’t want Rozanov to just stare at him like he’s the village idiot… or worse, like he’s replaying all the ways Shane embarrassed himself last night. Because he’s certain that was what Rozanov was doing. 

Glad I could entertain you, Shane seethes in his head, and tugs his pads on.

He wants to be angry, but mostly he’s just tired. 

Practice is awful. It’s possibly the worst he’s ever had. He’s sullen and uncommunicative despite his best attempts to act normal during warmups, not helped by the constant barrage of questions about his ‘wild night’, and to make matters worse when he turns it over to Rozanov to lead the sprints the other centre just shakes his head. 

“No new ideas today,” Rozanov says, not taking his eyes off Shane as he shrugs only semi-apologetically. Finally, finally, Shane feels the cool heat of his gaze slide from his face to the ice. “Sorry. Am lazy.”

Shane frowns, because Rozanov is a lot of things but lazy is not a word he’d use to describe him, but he lets it go. If Rozanov is hellbent on making this practice as difficult for him as possible, then he’s not going to extend any sympathies in the other direction. 

Shane is sluggish and slow to react, misses more than half of the shots he takes on goal, and can’t find the words or critical thinking to explain any of the drills to his teammates. He’s sure as hell not going to turn to Rozanov, though, since the other boy left him in the dust and now won't even have the fucking decency to look his way, so he toughs it out until finally Coach Wiebe waves him over.

“Sorry, Coach,” he says when he reaches the boards, swallowing hard. “Dunno what’s wrong with me today.”

“Maybe you’re getting sick or something?” Coach Wiebe suggests.

“Or something,” Shane agrees with a nod, and Coach Wiebe shrugs. 

“All good. You’ve more than put in the work, so you’re allowed a second to breathe, okay? We can keep things light today, and—”

“No, don’t,” Shane says quickly and firmly. “We need to be ready for Nova Scotia, and we—we can’t afford to slow down now. Don’t let the team suffer because I can’t get my shit together enough to do my job.”

Shane doesn’t realise how much bitterness there is behind his words until he sees Coach Wiebe looking at him a little sadly, shaking his head.

“That has never and could never be true, Hollander,” he says gently. “You’re here, and you’re trying. That’s enough.”

Shane blinks back furious tears, wishing there was a quick and subtle way he could get his visor up and gloves off to wipe at his eyes. “T-thanks, Coach,” he stammers out, unable to find any other words.

“I’ll just get Rozanov to pick up the slack,” Coach Wiebe continues. “I don’t know why he didn’t feel like running sprints today, but he can sure as hell make up for it by helping out now.”

“I—no, that’s—you don’t have to—”

“Of course I do,” Coach Wiebe says with a decisive nod, because he’s the worst coach in the world and Shane sort of wishes he would fuck off and die. “Rozanov? Get over here!”

Shane doesn’t turn as he hears the crisp sound of skates clacking and slicing against the ice, and a minute later Rozanov is beside him. His skin hums with electricity at being near to him, which only makes Shane madder. Fuck his body for not aligning with his brain. We hate him, Shane chastises his nervous system silently. Act accordingly.

He catches a whiff of sweat and the leftover remnants of Rozanov’s spicy cologne, and shivers. 

For fuck’s sake. 

“Yes, Coach?” Even Rozanov’s stupid fucking Russian accent makes Shane’s insides turn liquid. 

“Can you take over drills? Hollander’s not feeling great.”

Shane flushes when he feels Rozanov quickly look over at him, but he doesn’t look back. It's the first time he's looked over all practice. He doesn’t know what desperation or other embarrassment is lurking in his own eyes, and he doesn’t want to see what he saw in Rozanov’s last night as he stumbled out of the door; apathy, disinterest, disgust. 

“I—of course.” Rozanov sounds surprised, and more than a little unsure. “Uh… everything okay, Hollander?”

“Fucking peachy,” Hollander grits out tersely. “Thanks.”

The word tastes like acid on his tongue. 

Some of the team clearly thinks it’s their constant ribbing that has Shane bowing out of practice when Rozanov takes over with ease, and even though he hears Kent whispering about how he ‘can’t take a joke’ more than once, he can’t bring himself to care. He’s just relieved that for the most part, his teammates leave him alone. 

It’s not like he’s worth playing with right now, anyway. He can’t seem to receive a pass for the life of him, and every flick of his stick sends the puck careening into the boards or skittering to the opposing team. It’s honestly useless for him to be here, but he’s never missed a practice in his life and he’s determined not to start now. 

Not for something as stupid and trivial as this. So what if he humiliated himself in front of his rival last night, and so what if he has a little headache for some reason now? Boo-hoo. He needs to suck it up and get over it. 

When the whistle blows to end practice, it feels like a relief even though the sound is a needle through Shane’s brain. He even manages a few semi-normal words to his teammates, explaining to JJ and Hayden that he just slept like shit last night and needs to reset. They leave him on the ice, well-accustomed to Shane’s habit of staying late, and Coach Wiebe only hesitates and tells him to not work too hard before walking away as well. 

Only Rozanov is left standing by the gate, hovering like he wants to skate back out to Shane. He’s staring at him like he has been all practice, fingers drumming against the boards through his gloves, and for a moment Shane thinks he’ll skate over and take Shane in his arms.

Of course, he doesn’t. For one, the sounds of their teammates heading back to the locker room are only just fading into the distance, and Shane knows odds are a few of them will head to the weight room after and pass the rink once more. For two, and much more importantly… it’s Rozanov. 

He would never.

Instead, he turns and leaves too, leaving Shane to skate aimlessly in circles. He doesn’t really have a plan for his post-practice drills like he usually does, coming away from each training session with a list of skills to work on and exercises to improve. Instead, he just spends a long time skating up and down the rink and trying to breathe. 

The usual meditative state he reaches from being on the ice by himself seems like a pipe dream now. His skates feel like they’re biting into the ice, snagging on every granule and creating a crunchy scraping sound that makes Shane’s teeth grind. He can’t seem to find a rhythm, and when he turns to skate backwards up to the net he finds himself unable to untangle his feet. He stumbles and falls, protected by the thick protective padding, but his wrist still jerks painfully from the impact. 

“Fuck,” he hisses, sitting up and glaring at his feet. 

No, fuck this shit. Ilya fucking Rozanov isn’t going to take away his one fucking safe space just because of this. It doesn’t matter that he looked at Shane like he was dirt on his shoe at practice today, or that he was pinning Shane down less than twenty-four hours ago. Hockey is his, it’s Shane’s, and he’s not going to let anyone else have another second of it.

He shuts his eyes and takes a few deep breaths, willing the calmness into himself. He scans his body inch by inch, focusing on his breath and the way each muscle and tendon inside him connects to the next. He was built for this, made for it. This is his.

He doesn’t start running drills as soon as he’s back on his feet, or go collect cones to line them up again. Instead, he just skates. He goes up and down the ice again and again, focussing on his feet until the blades beneath him begin to feel like extensions of his body. He’s had skates on his feet pretty much every day of his life since he was little. He knows how to carve up a rink, how to glide and pivot and sprint, how to take the ice and not dominate it but come to know it, to work in perfect harmony alongside it.

He does sprints, back and forth and back and forth and back and forth until his legs don’t really hurt anymore, they’re past hurting, and all he can feel is the cool stale air burning in his lungs.

He feels his skates begin to catch again after a while, his body truly exhausted from practice and becoming sluggish once more, but he doesn’t mind this time. He’s made his point to himself. He just stops in the center, inhales deeply, and just exists. 

His.

The brief jump of endorphins lifts his spirits a little, but the effects are short-lived. By the time Shane nears his street he feels like the minus seven degree cold has seeped into his bones, and his teeth are chattering as he climbs the stairs to his building and fumbles in his bag for his keys with numb fingers. 

And—holy shit. 

Rozanov is sitting on his front doorstep. 

He’s dressed in a dark peacoat perfectly fitted over a soft-looking hoodie, the hood concealing most of his curls, and he’s blinking up at Shane like he’s surprised to see him. The crucifix he always wears around his neck falls from between his lips as he stands, brushing himself off and clearing his throat. 

“Um.”

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Shane spits. He can’t stop himself. He glances both ways down his street—empty given the late hour—and glares. “How long have you been here for? Someone could have seen you.”

Rozanov shrugs, like it’s totally normal for them to show up at each other’s doors unannounced. “Since practice finished. I—” he looks down the street, then sniffs and looks down. “I didn’t want to bother you on ice again, so… I came here.”

(Shane had been on the ice alone for over an hour. It’s… it’s minus seven degrees outside. And Rozanov has been here. Because he knew Shane would be there, and… didn’t want to bother him.)

(Wow.)

“And no one has come down Boring Avenue, Hollander,” Rozanov adds with a faint smile. “But if they did, I would say I am just helpful assistant captain checking in on captain after he was sick at practice today.”

Shane scoffs. “Helpful. Yeah, right. What the fuck do you want from me, Rozanov?”

He doesn’t look up. Rozanov is silent for so long Shane thinks he just didn’t hear him walk away. 

“Are you okay?” Rozanov’s voice is gravel-soft, a low rumble that settles in Shane’s bones beside the cold. He doesn’t feel it beginning to warm him up. He doesn’t.

“Why do you care?”

Rozanov stares at him. Shane can’t stand to look at that fucking face on his face anymore. It’s the only thing he’s got from him all day. 

“No, seriously, why do you care?” Shane snaps again, his voice rising. “You act like I’m nothing, then laugh along with everyone else in the locker room, then steal practice from me—”

“Woah, woah, woah,” Rozanov says quickly, eyes wide. “What? I was not laughing, and I did not steal practice from you.” He takes a step closer. “And you are not nothing.”

Shane suddenly feels impossibly small when confronted with Ilya’s body leaning over him and the intense stare he has in his eyes. This close, he can smell him: amber and sandalwood and something deeper, sharper and crisper that he can’t quite place.

“I wanted to talk to you earlier, but I didn’t know—” Rozanov starts, and then cuts himself off and shakes his head. “Fuck. Can we talk inside?”

Rozanov glances pointedly to the young couple ambling down the street at the end of the block, and Shane hesitates but nods. He can keep yelling when he’s inside, at least. This anger is the only time he’s felt something other than curdling shame or embarrassment basically all day. 

They’re both dead silent all the way to Shane’s apartment, listening to the bland elevator music that makes Shane’s neck itch until they finally climb out and he speedwalks to his door. Once they’re inside, he goes straight to the fridge and grabs a ginger ale, very pointedly not getting one for Rozanov.

If Rozanov notices, he doesn’t say anything about it. Instead, he shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over a chair. “Can I see?” he asks when he turns to Shane, voice barely above a whisper. 

It takes Shane a moment to realise he’s looking at Shane’s side. “Fuck you,” he hisses, and Rozanov’s face crumples in confusion. 

“Hollander, I tried talking to you earlier—”

“What, when everyone was making fun of me?” Shane mocks. He knows it’s the second time he’s brought it up, but he hates the image of everyone laughing while Rozanov just stood there, staring at him. And he’s still mad. “Or during practice, when you completely ignored me?”

“No, I texted you.”

“You—what?”

Rozanov looks at him like he’s grown a second head. “I texted you,” he says again, slower this time. “This morning.”

Shane turns and fumbles through his bag for his phone, fingers clumsy and searching. When he eventually pulls it out and clicks the power button, he immediately sees the issue. 

“I thought my headphones broke,” Shane whispers faintly. “But… my phone died. I didn’t see.”

“Ah. Well.” Rozanov scratches the back of his neck. “I just wanted to—um, apologise. For acting weird when you left.”

Shane looks down. “I’m sorry I left in the first place.”

Rozanov shakes his head. “No, no. Is okay. I get it. Even before that I was fucking up.” He pauses, ducking to meet Shane’s gaze. “Can I see?”

Shane squirms. “You saw in the locker room.”

“Only for second. And not up close. Please?”

Shane thinks about running away, or punching him, or both, because this wasn’t the deal either, but Rozanov said please like he meant it and his voice and proximity are making Shane’s blood fizz. He lifts the hem of his hoodie on one side and waits. 

Rozanov bends a little to see the bruise, and when he reaches out calloused fingertips and smooths them over Shane’s hip, pressing ever so slightly in, Shane can’t help but shiver in response. Rozanov notices. “Does that hurt?” he murmurs. 

Yes. No. I like it. 

“It’s fine.”

Rozanov shakes his head and straightens, but he doesn’t drop his hand from Shane’s waist. Shane knows from studying the bruise extensively in the mirror that Rozanov is tracing the line between his fingertips.

“I fucked up,” he says roughly, and Shane blinks.

“Because of this? No—”

“Not this.” Rozanov does take a step back then, raking a hand through his hair. He blows out a long breath. “That was… intense. Last night.”

A new wave of shame flushes Shane at the reminder. “Um. Sorry.”

Rozanov’s brows furrow in confusion, and then he shakes his head vigorously. “No. No, Hollander. I liked it,” he says firmly.

“You…”

“A lot,” Rozanov adds. “I liked it a lot.”

“Okay,” Shane says slowly, rolling the words I liked it a lot over his tongue, his teeth. His skin is beginning to buzz with the low-grade hum of relief. 

Rozanov, as always, notices. “Did you… think I did not like it? Did you not like it?”

Shane hesitates. “N-no, I just. When I left—” he stops and swallows. He doesn’t want to tell Rozanov he felt dismissed when he ran away, because it’s hypocritical. It doesn’t matter anymore. 

He takes a breath. “It was fine,” he says, ignoring the way his dick stiffens at the mere memory. “It’s just…”

“Just what?”

“I signed up for… y’know. Sex stuff. I didn’t sign up for this.”

“For what?”

For losing my control. For giving it to you. For wanting it to happen again.

Rozanov’s smile is slow and syrupy sweet like he knows exactly what Shane is thinking, but there’s still a crease in his brow. “You did ask me to take you apart. But… after you left, I looked some stuff up. I could have really hurt you. And that is not—that is last thing I want to happen.”

Shane’s throat gets tight for reasons he can’t explain. 

“You didn’t—I’m fine,” Shane protests weakly.

Rozanov levels him with his gaze. “Really? So you have not felt like steaming pile of shit for last twenty-four hours?”

Shane looks away.

“Right. Is what I thought. Look, Hollander—I didn’t know what I was doing, pushing you like that. I read about it, and… I think I can help. You will feel better.”

“You don’t have to—”

“Shut up,” Rozanov cuts in smoothly, and it’s full of more fondness than Shane expected as he steps back into his space. He skates his hands down Shane’s shoulders and biceps, cocking his head. “Can I… help?”

And that, Shane doesn’t know what to do with. Rozanov seems to catch this as well because he steers them to more familiar ground.

“Consider it next lesson,” Rozanov says. “I call it: aftercare.”

Shane hesitates. He’s been so anxious and shitty and something all day, and he sort of wants to scratch Rozanov’s eyes out and send him back into the darkness just to cap things off. It would certainly be easier. Might satisfy this itch that he has under his skin.

But then Rozanov steps way back into his space, and grabs Shane’s chin in his hand. He tilts his head up until their eyes meet.

“Come on, Hollander. Ask me to help.”

“Um,” Shane says, his voice breaking. “Okay. Please.”

Rozanov seems to accept this, because he tips their foreheads together, and Shane feels something in him give. He relaxes into the touch completely, waiting for him to press their lips together so this thing inside him has somewhere to go, but he doesn’t. He just lets Shane’s head fall onto his shoulder and cradles the back of his neck gently, his index finger scratching at the base of Shane’s neck.

They stay there like that for several long beats, breathing each other in. 

“First, shower,” Rozanov announces in a soft murmur, and Shane can’t bring himself to pull back. Rozanov keeps their bodies pressed together softly as he smiles into Shane's neck. “You stink.”

Shane’s mouth twitches. “Fuck off.” He turns to give himself a surreptitious sniff—not great, if he’s being honest—and then inhales Rozanov’s shoulder as well. Tucked into him like this, Shane suddenly knows what the crisp thing he was smelling earlier is. It’s the forest after a storm.

His gaze drops to Rozanov’s lips, and he swallows. “Are you… joining me?”

“I was going to make food in your kitchen, but…” Rozanov’s eyes darken. “I can think of some things to help you in there, yes.”

And then Shane learns that his shower really isn’t big enough for two grown men—hockey players, no less—but that Rozanov doesn’t mind anyway, saying that it’s still bigger than his as he plasters himself to Shane’s back and mouths at his neck.

The combination of the steam, the water, and Rozanov’s hands everywhere boil down Shane’s thoughts into one long stream of sensation. He sees the condensation beading on the tiles, feels Rozanov’s hair tickling his cheek, hears the hiss of the showerhead and the snick of the bottle of bodywash, the smell of eucalyptus and Rozanov blending together as his hand slips lower, lower. 

Rozanov gets him off just like that, pressed against him while Shane braces against the wall. He strokes Shane’s cock with one hand while the other roams his chest, and the whole time he has a steady murmur of Russian and English phrases streaming into his ear. 

“Yes, just like that.” 

“You look so good like this, Hollander.” 

“So fucking hot.”

Shane moans shamelessly, the praise sliding along his skin like satin that matches the reverent way Rozanov is touching him. Rozanov bites at his neck, then licks to soothe the skin. He can feel Rozanov hard against his back, arches so Rozanov’s cock slips through the cleft of his ass, and moans again. Rozanov curses.

“Do you even—ah—do you even know how good you sound?”

Shane feels good, yes, like he’s been wearing the world’s itchiest sweater all day and finally took it off, but he also feels so vulnerable. He’s always been well aware that Rozanov could throw him around if he wanted to, but… doing it is different. He feels a supreme loss of control since last night, and he needs to take some of it back. 

He turns, quick enough to catch him off guard, and pins Rozanov against the tile. When he captures Rozanov’s surprised lips in a filthy kiss, kisses back immediately, groaning into his mouth when Shane wraps a hand around his cock and begins to stroke. 

“Fuck, Hollander,” Rozanov growls, his forehead resting against Shane’s shoulder. “You feel amazing.”

Shane comes only a minute later with Rozanov’s name on his lips, Rozanov following not long after.

“Hollander,” he breathes out like a promise just as he tips over the edge, and Shane finds himself wondering what his first name would sound like in the Russian’s mouth instead. 

“A tuna melt?”

“Uh, yes. You have all the ingredients, and I am hungry.”

Rozanov waits, poised in front of the fridge as he raises an eyebrow at Shane. He’s shirtless, his back muscles rippling as he turns, clad in nothing but a pair of Shane’s sweatpants slung low on his hips that are still a little short at the ankle. Shane does not find it adorable.

Right. Rozanov asked him a question. 

“Um… sure. Let’s do it.”

Shane helps, in part because he wants a task he can complete but also because he doesn’t trust Rozanov in his kitchen unattended. He takes out the ingredients, setting them on the counter, then turns to grab the cheese.

“Are you ready for Nova Scotia?” Rozanov asks suddenly when Shane sets the cheddar on the counter, and he blinks. 

“Yeah. I mean, I guess so.” He pauses, watching Rozanov squeeze lemon juice over the tuna and begin to blend the other ingredients together. “I don’t think anyone can be ready for Ryan Price, though.”

Rozanov hums in agreement. “I used to play with him.”

“Wait, really?”

“For one year. End of high school. He was—какое слово… he lived in another family’s house?”

“Billeting?”

“Yes. Yes, he was with host family in Toronto like me.” Shane likes the way Rozanov says Toronto: rolling the “r” and pronouncing both “t”s. “Not many friends.”

“I can imagine it’d be hard,” Shane agrees. “He’s already played for three different universities, so hopefully UNS sticks for him.”

“Yes. He’s not a bad guy. Just quiet.” Rozanov slides by Shane with an easy hand on his hip, fingers fitting easily in the bruises Shane knows are underneath the shirt as he stretches to reach into the cupboard that’s just been opened.

Shane is still as Rozanov lowers his arm and sets the sourdough on the counter, not breaking eye contact the whole time. Shane, of course, can’t take the staring contest for long. He blinks and looks down, and when he looks back up he sees Rozanov spreading the tuna concoction over the bread with a tiny smile on his face. 

Shane watches Rozanov cut thick slices of cheese that he sets on top, feeling a burst of warmth as he repositions one slice three times to make sure it stays on the bread. He opens the toaster oven, and Rozanov slides the tray in a minute later.

Rozanov dusts his hands off. “Perfect. Now we wait.”

He’s looking at Shane expectantly, and Shane realises it’s his turn to pick their next activity. “Um. We could put a game on?”

“Do you ever watch something other than hockey, Hollander?”

“Sure,” Shane replies quickly. When he’s on a plane. And the airline doesn’t have NHL highlights. “Just… not that often during the season. I could put ESPN on?”

“Want to see if they are talking about the list?” Rozanov teases, and Shane flushes as he walks to the couch. When he hands Rozanov the remote, gesturing that he has free rein, Rozanov just smiles a little and switches the channel to ESPN.

“No, I—it’s flattering, but I don’t care about stuff like that.”

“Of course you don’t.” It doesn’t come across biting. “Well, list is wrong anyway.”

“Obviously. Vincent Lemaire shouldn’t be number two.”

“Exactly.”

“Hayden should.”

Shane delights in seeing Rozanov glare. “Pike is not even top twenty-six on our team, Hollander. I never get why you like that guy so much.”

“Because he’s my best friend,” Shane replies simply. “He’s got my back, and I’ve got his.” Plus, he doesn’t snore half as much as JJ and always joins Shane for his runs.

“My parents love him,” he adds. “He billeted with us one year, actually. That’s how we met. My mom used to buy puzzles for them to do together.”

“Nice,” Rozanov says dryly, but Shane catches the tinge of truth to his words.

And, well. He’s not one to not take an opportunity. “What about you?” he asks. “What was your host family like?”

“Great, because they were not Canadian,” Rozanov shoots back, and Shane sticks out his tongue at him. “They were Russian. The dad was famous goaltender for Soviet team—scary guy, but kind. His daughter, Sveta, knows everything about hockey.” Rozanov’s smile widens when he mentions this girl’s name. “We are still good friends.”

“That’s nice,” is all Shane can manage haltingly in return. “I bet it helped to still be able to speak Russian to someone here, huh?”

Rozanov nods, sinking further into the couch cushions. "She is at school in Toronto now, getting business degree. I miss her." Rozanov sighs. "Was nice having regular woman like that."

They’re not touching, but just having Rozanov so close is making Shane a little crazy - crazy enough that it takes a minute to process Rozanov's words.

 "What?"

For some reason, Rozanov is the one looking at him like his brain has gone offline. "For sex, Hollander."

Shane blinks, but recovers quickly. "Ah. Right." 

"Do you h--"

The timer goes off, and they both stand to get it. 

“No, no,” Shane says quickly, relieved to have an out from this conversation. “You stay.”

He removes the tuna melts and assembles them on plates, grabbing another ginger ale for Rozanov on his way by. He sets the items down on the coffee table and watches Rozanov grin as he cracks open the ginger ale before taking an obscenely large bite of his tuna melt.

His eyes slip shut in ecstasy. “God. I should be chef.”

Shane takes a bite, and okay. They are pretty good. “I don’t think one sandwich makes you a chef, Rozanov,” he reminds him, and Rozanov just glares. 

They eat their sandwiches in amiable silence with the Admirals game blaring in the background, their knees knocking together as they lean over their plates to eat. Shane allows himself only a few moments to freak out about the weirdness of this situation before he forces himself to calm down—his neuroses won’t do him any good here, and besides. He’s trying to let Rozanov help him. 

And he is. There have been enough brushes and casual touches to soothe the buzzing under Shane’s skin, but also not too much where he’ll freak out again. It’s a fine line to walk, but Rozanov seems perfectly balanced. 

When they’re done eating, Shane neatly stacks the plates to one side and then looks at Rozanov. He’s struck yet again by the unfamiliar territory they’re in, and struggles to find his footing. 

“So, what’s next in the aftercare lesson?” he asks, and Rozanov smirks. 

“Your bedroom.”

Shane’s stomach swoops with some disgusting feeling like hope, and he leads Rozanov to his room in silent anticipation. To his dismay, however, Rozanov doesn’t plan on doing anything with him. 

“We rest,” Rozanov announces, looking at Shane like it’s obvious. “You still look like shit.”

“Fuck off. And what does this have to do with—last night?”

Rozanov raises his eyebrows. He’s lying on the bed and shimmying out of his sweatpants, which he still manages to somehow make look sexy. “I took you apart, yes? This is part of how you are put back together.”

Shane’s stomach does the thing again. He does not think about it.

“Okay.”

“Good. Now take your clothes off.”

“You usually say that in a very different context,” Shane tries. "And - what, so skin-to-skin contact is part of the lesson?"

Rozanov's eyes have the most obvious duh expression Shane has ever seen. "Yes. Now take off your clothes."

Shane tugs off his t-shirt.

He feels Rozanov’s eyes rake over him appreciatively and shudders. His eyes are considerably darker than when Shane last looked at him. “Be patient, Hollander,” Rozanov says calmly. “I’m not done with you yet.”

Shane swallows back a noise of approval and climbs onto the bed when Rozanov gestures, both of them clad in nothing but their boxers. Shane hovers, half-sitting up, beside Rozanov until the Russian just sighs and tugs him down. 

They’re lying side by side, foreheads brushing as their curved heads and bent knees create something like a circle between their bodies. Rozanov is silent for a long time, watching Shane play nervously with their entangled fingers, until finally he sighs.

In one easy motion, Rozanov is tugging Shane towards him and flipping him over so that he’s pressed against Shane just like in the shower. Their bodies fit together perfectly, and all Shane can feel is skinskinskin and even the brief intermission of their boxers isn’t enough for Shane to stop feeling the heat radiating from Rozanov. 

He feels like his skin is set alight everywhere they’re touching, but at the same time he finds himself easing into the contact. He feels like cool water hitting a hot stone, sizzling with relief, so good it hurts. It doesn’t matter that he hates himself for it—he feels his eyes slipping shut.

He’s not usually one for spooning, always hated getting hair in his mouth or that sticky sweaty feeling after being stuck to one another for a long time, but this is different. He’s the little spoon, for one, a position he never knew he’d enjoy.

(You never knew you’d enjoy a lot of things before you and Rozanov started, a voice in his head reminds him, and he politely tells it to fuck off.)

For another, Rozanov is easy. He smells good, and his body is huge and solid against him, and he keeps placing these little kisses that Shane doesn’t think he’s supposed to notice along the ridges of his spine and stroking the soft hairs just behind Shane's ear. 

“Cuddling,” Rozanov says against him, his voice a low rumble. “Is next step in aftercare. Physical contact.”

He draws out the last two words a little pointedly, and Shane swallows hard. “Oh yeah? Did you, uh, did you find this out on your little Google escapade?”

“Escapade?”

“Adventure.”

“Ah. And no, not this part. This part I learned long ago. Now, come on. You are putting it off. Rest.” Ever so gently, Rozanov’s hand comes up and begins stroking Shane’s hair softly. He runs his fingers through the longer strands at the top over and over again in a soft rhythm. 

Shane’s convinced he won’t be able to sleep, not after being so wired last night, but it feels like he’s fighting off the world’s strongest anaesthesia. Shane’s eyes begin to grow heavy, his body anchored by a feeling that is all-too-quickly becoming familiar: Ilya Rozanov holding him, and he finds himself thinking happily, he smells like me.

The last thing Shane hears as he dozes off is Rozanov’s quiet whisper. “Rest, Hollander. I’ve got you.”

***

Ilya doesn’t tell Shane, but he learned the cuddling part from his mother. 

That feels weird to bring up now, right? It’s the wrong context completely. But Ilya never exactly learned how to be held from his father or from anyone else in his life. It was his mother—and much later, the casually intimate touches of Svetlana—that taught Ilya how to take care of someone. 

His mother used to stroke his hair when he was sick. That’s all. 

He thinks she sang or hummed a song, but it’s been a long time since he could remember the melody. He’s strained for that memory so many times in his head by now anyway that he’s not sure if it’s truthful, could equally believe that she hummed ‘Baby Got Back’ or that she simply sat there in tender silence.

It doesn’t matter. The main point is that when Ilya was sick, she’d tuck him in bed and stroke his hair until he fell asleep. He’d always feel off-balance when he awoke to find her gone again, asleep in her own bed probably, but he’d stare at the imprint her body left against the sheets and will her to come back. She almost always did, and then… she didn’t.

Ilya doesn’t plan on being gone when Hollander wakes up. He wants to see this through.

He’s a good teacher, and he cares about his student. He wants to correct a mistake he made, and then he can leave, and they’ll go back to their clandestine blowjobs a few times a week and everything will be fine.

Right. Fine.

He’s watching Shane Hollander sleep, and everything will be fine.

He’d felt it the moment Hollander drifted into unconsciousness, was able to lift his head enough to see the permanent crease between Hollander’s brows finally slacken, his mouth parting as he sighed in his sleep.

And now he’s just lying here, holding him. Watching him. 

He discovers that Hollander has a tiny birthmark behind his right ear, and he doesn’t snore so much as sniffle, his face smushed against Ilya’s arm, and the scar on his shoulder is curved, not straight like he’d thought.

Not that Ilya has thought about it.

He’s also holding onto the arm Ilya slid beneath him like he’s afraid he’s going to pull away, and Ilya wants to promise him that he won’t leave with a ferocity that scares him. He won’t leave, and he won’t let Hollander leave. 

Hollander smells like eucalyptus and something citrusy Ilya can’t name and a different, light scent. It takes Ilya a moment to place it, but he has all the time in the world. He sniffs again, his brain clicking into place. Rain. 

God. What is happening to his brain?

The fact that he showed up here in the first place is frankly mind-boggling, but Ilya comforts himself with the reminder that he was just checking in, just being a good friend. Not that he and Hollander have ever been friends. He’d been concerned when Hollander didn’t answer his text but just assumed he was continuing his panic attack, but when he arrived at the rink and saw the state Hollander was in, well. He knew the late-night Googling after Hollander ran away wasn’t for nothing. 

So Ilya has learned a new word: subdrop. He’s not sure he wants to tell Hollander exactly what it is—mostly because he’s not sure Hollander would react positively to the sub term, which is ironic because, well—but also because many of the examples he finds online are extreme compared to what they did. Still, he knows it’s something he has to keep in the back of his head. Their sexual encounters so far have always included some kind of power and control element, but it’s always been more give-and-take—Ilya pins Hollander against a wall, then Hollander pins him back. Simple.

Last night had been something else, though. He could sense as soon as Hollander walked inside that he was pent up, that he was desperate for something, and he’d been right. The problem came when he got stupid and took things too far and didn’t know how to pull Hollander back, and thinking of all the ways that could have gone wrong for Hollander has him clenching his jaw even now. 

He’d meant it when he said the last thing he wanted to do to Hollander was hurt him. Crying from face-fucking was different. He wants every lesson he gives Hollander to be positive, for him to learn something new about pleasure and have fun while doing it. The consequences of Ilya’s irresponsibility are a whole lot bigger than his original goals. 

Not that he doesn’t want to do it again. It was… a lot, and maybe not every time, but on days like yesterday where they need it? Yeah. He could totally get down with taking Hollander back into 'subspace' or whatever, because this time he’ll know how to lead him back out.

He remembers one of their first times together, less than two weeks ago, where he’d held Hollander for a while afterwards before he regained the ability to speak. There you are, Ilya had said, and even though Hollander had stubbornly insisted he didn’t go anywhere, part of Ilya knew. He’s experienced that floaty post-sex feeling many times, has given his partners that experience many more, but he’s never seen anyone go so deep into it like Shane does. 

Shane. 

Um. Well. 

The main point is that Ilya knows what to do now, and he has no plans of making the same mistake again. He’ll tie Hollander to the bed to stop him from leaving, if he has to. 

(Because he wants to do this again. He wants...)

Because he’d had a reason for complying with Hollander’s request to take him apart in the first place. He saw that something was wrong, and he thought that maybe he could help. 

He runs through the mental checklist he made while he was freezing his ass off on Hollander’s doorstep. Should he have made them food after the nap? The colour had come back to Hollander’s face a little after the tuna melts, and he suspects he was right in thinking that Hollander hadn’t eaten all day, but then again maybe he would be more likely to talk to Ilya with the promise of food. 

 And since when had Ilya actively encouraged Hollander talking to him? He’s pretty sure he’s taken many steps to actively repel that chance in the past. He’s never much cared what Hollander was doing, unless it was to see how he compared to Ilya in the scoring league or if he was bored and wanted someone to annoy, and then…

A memory surfaces. Ilya, lifting his head from some faceless girl’s neck at the club - a year ago, maybe? - and seeing Hollander in front of him, frozen in place. They’d stared at each other, and Ilya had willed Hollander to do something, anything. Ilya didn't know what at the time, knew Hollander didn't either, but he wanted to find out.

In the end Hollander had disappeared back into the crowd, but the damage was done. It was like walking past a door every day because you know it’s locked shut and then finding it cracked open all of a sudden—Ilya’s brain was supplying him with what if, what if questions for behind that door more often than he’d liked.

But he’d kept ignoring it. It didn’t matter that Hollander’s freckles and all the ways he could make Hollander blush drove Ilya crazy. Then Hollander opened that damn door, and... still. He tells himself it doesn't matter that he's been imagining Hollander’s mouth every time he jerks off since that first night, or—and this was the worst one—that he finds himself seeking out Hollander during practice to watch the way his brow creases with determination right before he takes a shot, the way it smooths out when he makes it.

Ilya doesn’t know if he can keep ignoring this.

Chapter End Notes

the funny thing is i really didn't mean for this to get as simpy as it did but unfortunately ilya rozanov is and always has been loverboy number one.

anyway, some thoughts:

subdrop has been portrayed many different ways and can look different on everyone but yes please do your research! RISK, SS&C, et cetera!!!

but yes, subdrop/ touch-starved shane is 100% inspired by the bathroom scene, but i will NOT be pulling a 'we didn't even kiss' because i think this fic's ilya rozanov would actually kill himself if he didn't get at those sweet soft lips at least a thousand times per lesson... yeah but fr tho when you realise they didn't even kiss after shane just experienced a 6 month crashout it just gets a whole other level of FUCKED

i hope the second half of this chapter makes up for ilya not running after shane when he left in the last one guys :))

if you couldn't tell, today i remembered billeting exists and decided to use it as an explanation for 90% of the pre-existing friendships in this fic because from my experience in small-town hockey crazy ontario, everyone i know ever has billeted or hosted a kid themselves lol

okay, well i promised myself i wouldn't update again before christmas but i hated leaving it on the note of the last chapter... also i'm obsessed and probably need to be institutionalized. regardless the chapter count is looking like it's gonna hold at 9. if there's one thing about me it's that my fics will (almost) always have an odd number of chapters <3

anyway you all can join me after ep 6 comes out >:)

BYE <3<3<3

Chapter 7: when you think you've got the world

Chapter Summary

coming up: shane learns that ilya has a magic staff, and ilya learns that shane is magic.

Chapter Notes

I have been in shambles about episode 6 all day therefore i cut this chapter again so you all would have some entertainment on the way home from the cottage... plus i was frothing at the mouth after the mcgill mention y'all i was WAITING

i also removed the chapter count estimate. who am i kidding.

Shane is first aware of the scent of rain. 

His brain logs this fact first, and then sluggishly moves on to the rest: still dark outside. He feels a breeze—the window must have blown open. He’s not cold, though, because there’s a body pressed against him.

His scalp is tingling.

Shane and Rozanov’s legs are hopelessly tangled together, Shane’s head mushed on the arm Rozanov doesn’t have slung around his chest.

He lifts his head and turns, seeing Rozanov blinking himself awake. “What time is it?” Rozanov mumbles.

Shane glances at the clock on his nightstand. “Just past twelve.” He’s been dozing for over an hour, then. He hopes Rozanov can't see him flush in the dark. “Fuck, sorry. I didn’t mean to sleep that long.”

“Is okay,” Rozanov replies with a shrug. Shane can feel the cool heat of Rozanov’s eyes on the back of his neck. “I wanted you to get some sleep. Do you feel better?”

Shane rolls his shoulders, cracks his neck, and hums. The ache that had settled deep in his bones is gone, just a fading spot in the distance. “Yeah, I do,” he breathes, glancing back at Rozanov. “Holy shit. I didn’t—”

“See? I am magic,” Rozanov announces, clearly pleased.

“What you are is an asshole.” This banter, at least, feels familiar. 

Rozanov rolls his eyes. His gaze flickers to Shane’s lips, and Shane is able to roll over enough just in time for Rozanov to kiss him again. Yes. The hand slung across his middle tightens, pressing them closer together, and Shane feels something hard press against his back.

He arches his back shamelessly, wriggling against it, and he feels Rozanov’s low chuckle reverberate through his whole body. 

“Shameless captain,” Rozanov mutters, but Shane can hear his grin. That word shameless sent him spiralling just hours ago, but coming from Rozanov now, knowing he likes it? Yeah. It helps.

“Can you blame me?” Shane replies pointedly, shifting again, and Rozanov's cock twitches against him. 

Shane has to admit that this is the kind of power he’s been looking for with Rozanov, with anyone. He wants to know that he’s wanted, that he can offer himself up as the prize and know he’ll be accepted.

It makes him feel just a little bit more in control of this whole thing. Like he can pretend the world isn’t spinning out from under him. He can pretend he hasn’t just slept deeper than he has in years while his rival, another man and an asshole, holds him like a promise. 

Shane turns his head, searching, and feels Rozanov begin to mouth lazily at his neck while he tightens his grip around Shane’s waist. It’s a lazy action, one with no particular direction, but it sets a fire low in Shane’s belly anyway. 

Today was the first day in almost two weeks that he woke up not sure if he and Rozanov would be seeing each other that night. Even if he was convinced on many of those days that he'd be ending it, breaking it off, he knew somewhere in the back of his mind that this wasn't true - he would catch Rozanov watching him in practice or vice versa and it would be on. Instead, today Rozanov just... ignored him. Two weeks doesn't seem like a long time in the grand scheme of things, but Shane thinks the scary part is that it feels like it is.

The relief he gets now they’re actually touching is even scarier. Now that the uncertainty has given way, too, it’s left a gaping chasm of need. He feels more settled now that he’s had this time with Rozanov just lying in bed and existing, but now… he wants something else. He wants to thank him somehow for helping him. And this is what he knows how to do. 

The darkness and not-quite-night, not-quite-morning status of Shane’s room makes him bold. He rubs his ass against Rozanov one more time before he shifts, rolling over and pulling him into a kiss. He knows the kiss is heated, that it says everything about what Shane wants even though he’s trying to be more coy these days, but he can’t find the self-restraint in him to stop. 

Besides, he’s pretty sure Rozanov likes that he’s so clear about what he wants. He certainly asks the question every fucking time, though Shane is beginning to suspect that this is more just because he likes seeing Shane embarrassed. He always brushes his cheeks to feel them heat.

Rozanov is kissing him back just as hard. Ha. Shane loves how he growls and pulls him in like he wants to get even closer, like he can’t get enough. He kisses like he wants to eat Shane whole, and Shane is pretty sure he'd let him. It feels like that moment of stasis at the top of a rollercoaster, just before your stomach launches into your throat and you go hurtling down, down, down. 

It’s his very own ‘Choose Your Own Adventure’ story. He has two options. One, he could punch the emergency stop button and tell Rozanov (like he’s been planning to all week) that this has been great but also a terrible idea that is dangerous and reckless and has to stop now, or… option two. He could close his eyes and fall. 

Rozanov has a hand under Shane’s thigh and is hitching it over his hips to bring them closer, their cocks grinding against one another and making Shane moan. 

Shane is realising with some horror that when it comes to Rozanov, he will always choose option two.

The man in question smiles into his mouth, skating his big hand over the fine hairs of Shane’s thigh. “Always so responsive,” he whispers. 

Suddenly, Shane remembers what he’d asked for last night. It’s been on the back of his mind all day, and an incessant buzz for longer than he’d like to admit before that. Wanyoutofuckme, he’d slurred. 

And… well.

It couldn’t hurt to test the waters a little, could it?

Shane pulls away from the kiss, stomach flipping at the way Rozanov chases after his lips before he speaks. “Do you remember what I said last night?” Shane asks, his voice barely above a whisper. 

“Mm,” Rozanov hums noncommittally, watching the shadow of his hand stroke Shane’s shoulder in the darkness. “You said lot of things. Be more specific.”

“Um… It was, uh, right before you made me finish.”

Rozanov smirks, and then it feels like Shane develops night vision because he could swear he sees his eyes darken. “Yes. You want me to fuck you.”

“Yeah,” Shane blows out a breath. “Would you… want to?”

Shane knows the answer, and Rozanov knows he does. He just needs to hear it again anyway. Rozanov stares at him for a long time before answering. “Yes,” Rozanov says simply. “I will add to lesson plan.”

Shane bites his lip. “Do you, uh... have time for another lesson today?”

Rozanov doesn’t seem very surprised by his request. “I think I can find break in schedule.”

Shane grins, pulling him back in. He expects things to turn frantic immediately, but they don’t. Instead, Rozanov pushes him onto his back and kisses him firmly and thoroughly, exploring his mouth like he’s trying to count teeth and brushing his hands everywhere but where Shane needs him most. 

Despite how nice kissing Rozanov is, the distinct lack of pressure on Shane’s cock is beginning to frustrate him. Rozanov brushes over his nipples, pinching and rolling them between his fingers, then scrapes blunt fingernails over his chest and buries his hands in Shane’s hair, but it’s still not enough. Shane’s hips jerk up, seeking contact, and Rozanov pulls back easily. 

Rozanov lifts his head, looking amused, and when Shane scowls at him he just rolls his eyes, a what are you gonna do? expression.

“Foreplay,” Rozanov announces, sounding almost apologetic, and Shane has to laugh.

Things turn more heated after that, Rozanov returning to the action of kissing with decidedly more direction as his hands finally travel south of Shane’s waistband. It’s been only a few hours since the shower, but Shane almost weeps with relief when Rozanov finally gets a hand around his cock as something primal inside him uncoils with satisfaction and hisses, yesssssss. 

This is what Shane wants: Rozanov pulling Shane’s boxers down in one fluid motion and then doing the same to his own, climbing back over Shane like he can’t bear to be apart for another second; Rozanov’s hands finally roaming freely, coming to rest on Shane’s ass and squeezing; Rozanov positioning his cock in the cleft of Shane’s cheeks and watching him carefully as he thrusts just once.

“Don’t worry, it will fit.”

Shane huffs a nervous laugh, but secretly he’d been thinking the same thing. He’s experimented with a dildo and touching his ass before, but he was ashamed to admit that he didn’t think he was very good at it. He’d been able to do it, yeah, but it hadn’t done much for him—he’d always just felt kind of uncomfortable. Like he had a piece of silicone shoved up his ass and nothing more. 

The other times he’s tried fingering himself have been similarly unsuccessful, most ending with a wrist cramp and a sincere wish for longer digits to stroke the spot that he knows, scientifically speaking, is in there. Probably.

Ilya Rozanov’s cock is a whole other thing. It’s big, for one, but it’s also thick. Once, after a particularly rough post-practice blowjob last week, Shane’s jaw had spasmed from the strain of fitting it all in his mouth. He loved it like that. His… ass, though? He has a game to play, a team to captain. He can’t afford to fuck his whole body up right before such a big game. 

At the same time… Shane wants it inside him so badly his mouth waters. 

As if reading his mind again, Rozanov leans down to capture his lips in an uncharacteristically sweet kiss. “You okay? You still want?”

Shane scoffs, adopting an air of false bravado he knows Rozanov will see through but is unable to stop. “Of course I do.”

Rozanov grins, and his too-white teeth shine in the dark. “You know, is okay to be scared."

"Fuck off. I'm not scared."

Rozanov kisses him once. "Can I tell you a secret?" he murmurs against Shane's mouth.

"Um... yes?"

"I'm nervous," he admits, pulling back to look Shane in the eye. His expression is uncharacteristically vulnerable. "I want it to be good first time for you."

Shane's stomach does a thing that he doesn't really want to talk about.

He reaches up, cupping Rozanov's jaw and tangling his fingers in his bronze curls. "It will be," Shane tells him. It will be because it's you, he almost says. He swallows it back. 

But it's true. Rozanov always knows what Shane needs, even before he does. And this time, Shane knows what Rozanov needs. 

He juts his chin out, bravado overcoming him. "C'mon, Rozanov, teach me how to fuck."

It works. Rozanov growls, nipping Shane's bottom lip. 

"Do you have things?”

By things, Shane assumes Rozanov means lube and stuff, so he nods and rolls over to his nightstand drawer. Rozanov’s kiss skitters down his spine as he leans over to reach, but he laughs against his skin when he sees what Shane is holding. 

Shane glances at his lube—a respectable brand, non-descript and less than half empty—and then at the condoms he’d bought one over-confident evening last semester—regular Durex, not ribbed or warming or anything—and frowns. “What?”

“Uh, wow. Do you think this will be enough?” Rozanov deadpans, unfurling the accordion of condoms and looking at Shane dubiously.

“Fuck off,” Shane laughs as he rolls back over, but his smile fades when he takes in the way Rozanov is looking at him. 

Without breaking eye contact, Rozanov grabs the lube bottle and pours some out on his fingers. He looks at where he’s kneeling between Shane’s parted legs, Shane fighting not to squirm, and swears softly.

“Might be easier on your stomach,” Rozanov explains in a whisper as he leans down, his fingers trailing lower and lower. “But…”

Shane thinks he knows what he’s trying to say. “I want it like this,” he tells him, and Rozanov nods. 

“Tell me if is uncomfortable, yes?”

“Okay.”

Shane wills himself to calm down, to chill out, but it’s no use. He can feel his heart stuttering in his chest as Rozanov’s fingers finally circle his hole, exploring the exterior with apparently no hurry to push in, and is sure that Rozanov can feel his heartbeat through his skin. 

He can. “Breathe, Hollander,” Rozanov reminds him, smoothing his free hand along Shane’s side, and slowly Shane feels his body comply. 

His lungs inflate and deflate in rhythm, Rozanov nodding in encouragement the whole time. They stay like that for what feels like hours, breathing deeply while Rozanov makes little circles around his rim without ever entering him. 

Finally, when Shane is simultaneously dizzy with arousal and also about to drop off to sleep from the rhythmic caresses, Rozanov pushes in. He’s so relaxed by this point that Rozanov is able to slip his finger inside almost to the second knuckle, but when the shock finally sets in Shane feels himself clench involuntarily.

“Sorry,” Shane whispers, and Rozanov just leans down to kiss him. 

Slowly but surely, Rozanov works his entire finger inside Shane. It feels… foreign, sure, but it’s definitely a lot better than when he’s by himself. Rozanov’s fingers are more certain, but mostly he just likes all the other things that come with being touched by an actual person—the hands, the heat of his skin, the feeling of his soft curls beneath Shane's hands. 

And then Rozanov's slow, measured movements become more searching. Shane wants to tell him it’s okay, I’ve tried before and I don’t think I have a prostate, it’s whatever, but then suddenly Rozanov presses down and Shane almost shouts. 

“Fuck,” Shane mumbles hoarsely, and Rozanov grins and strokes against the magic spot again. 

Shane barely notices when Rozanov drizzles more lube over his fingers and then works a second finger in alongside the first, too focussed on the rhythm of Rozanov intentionally staying away from his prostate for several long beats and then stroking his prostate with single-minded dedication until Shane’s legs are shaking, and then repeating the whole process again. 

And okay, yeah, Shane maybe sorta kinda loves this a lot. He loves the feeling of Rozanov on top of him but not weighing him down, slowly and methodically working him open. For his cock. He knows somewhere in the back of his mind that he should still be afraid of the size of him, that he should be afraid of the implications of this, but really all that he can think about is how much he wants it.

Rozanov works him up to three fingers, but now Shane is getting impatient. Rozanov stops at one point—to add some more lube, Shane thinks, but he doesn’t care—and Shane almost sobs, adjusting himself and then beginning to fuck himself down on Rozanov’s fingers. 

Rozanov just sits back on his heels, watches Shane writhe against him and the place where his fingers disappear inside of him with an open-mouthed stare. If Shane was any less out of his mind, he might worry if Rozanov is shocked or disgusted by what he sees. Instead, he just waits for Rozanov to look back up at him like he knows he will.

“Fuck, Hollander. You love it.”

This time, Shane isn’t afraid. “I do,” Shane agrees, shutting his eyes and continuing to roll his hips. “Please, Rozanov. I’m ready. Fuck me.”

“You are ready when I say you are ready,” Rozanov reminds him with a warning tone, but his message is undermined by the fact that he’s already pulling his fingers out and wiping them against the sheets. He grabs a condom, rips it open with his teeth. 

Fuck. Shane feels like he’s in heat. 

“Please,” Shane says again as he watches Rozanov roll the condom down his cock. “Please, please.”

“Okay, Hollander,” Rozanov soothes, slicking himself up with lube. “Okay.”

But then he rolls off of Shane suddenly, settling himself beside him and patting his thighs. “What are you—” Shane asks, brain scrambling to receive the message and the sudden loss of Rozanov's body around him. 

“Tы сверху. Ride.”

Shane stares at Rozanov, wide-eyed. “No, I don’t think I can—”

“No, no. Sounds scary, but is actually better,” Rozanov explains. He leans over to nip at the bolt of Shane’s jaw. “Still easy, and I get to bounce you on my dick.”

Shane shivers.

"You set the pace, yes?" Rozanov whispers.

Being on top feels vulnerable, but Shane knows there’s also a sense of power in it that Rozanov is offering to him for the taking. He gets to be the one in control. 

After a moment’s hesitation, he follows Rozanov’s instructions and climbs into his lap. This is a familiar position given their lessons on the couch, at least, so Shane forgets about what they’re about to do and leans down to suck Rozanov’s tongue into his mouth for a long beat before pulling away. 

Rozanov drizzles some more lube on his fingers, circling Shane’s rim and eliciting a needy noise from him before stroking the rest over his cock. “Still okay?” Rozanov asks, and Shane nods.

It takes a minute of awkward bumping and attempts at mental visualisation before Rozanov takes pity and grips the base of his cock, lining Shane up perfectly so that he can sink down. When he does, there’s a moment of intense pressure that Shane thinks will break him in half and then all of a sudden he’s in, and Shane feels split in two in a completely different, totally better way.

Shane freezes after that initial breach, giving himself a second to acclimatize to the new sensation, but gravity is working too much with him and he’s impatient. He sinks down another inch, and then another. He lifts up on shaky hands braced on Rozanov’s stomach, flexing his thighs to slowly lift up, then rolls back down another inch lower. 

Rozanov raises his chin, a wordless request, and Shane meets him halfway in a filthy kiss. It mostly consists just of him gasping raggedly into Rozanov’s mouth at the new angle while he takes more and more of his cock, but the whole time Rozanov is mumbling a string of barely coherent phrases in English and Russian against his lips, all yes, so good, and you take my cock so well and look at yous that make Shane’s head feel fuzzy like static.

Shane needed this. He's wanted it for longer than he'd like to admit, but now it feels obvious that he needs it, that this was the thing that would correct the last stubborn cells still out of place after last night. He wants to tell Rozanov, almost does, but bites it back at the last minute. He doesn't know how to say it other than you make me feel right again.

The breach is so much—it’s just like with Rozanov's fingers. His dildo is a poor comparison to having someone under him, having Rozanov under him. Feeling him pant and gasp and tighten his grip on Shane’s thighs, watching his mouth drop into a perfect ‘o’ as Shane miraculously takes even more. He feels so full already, and he doesn’t know how far he has to go but knows it’s not close.

His own erection has flagged a bit, and now Rozanov takes it in hand and gives him a few gentle strokes. Jerking his hips forward into the tunnel of Rozanov’s fist unlocks a whole new angle of sensations to explore, so Shane spends a while experimentally rolling his hips in circles and taking in the way the pleasure zings up his spine as he finally takes Rozanov's cock all the way to the hilt.

It’s a whole new feeling, obscene and base and intimate all in the same breath, and Shane… wants more.

The first time he lifts himself up and lets gravity pull him all the way back down, it punches a sound out of him. 

Rozanov looks at him like he’s just invented a new element.

The second time, he cries out again. And again. 

He’s consumed by a mindless need, and soon he finds his apartment filled with nothing but him, the sounds of skin slapping against skin, and Rozanov’s choked off gasps. Rozanov hasn’t stopped talking either, and Shane hates how much he loves listening to him run his mouth.

“Fuck, Hollander—ah, I knew you would take me so well,” Rozanov groans. “Good boy, taking what you want.”

Those two words bring the memory of last night roaring back into Shane’s head, and from Rozanov’s expression it’s done the same for him as well. His hips stutter and still, waiting as the rolling shudder of arousal that threatens to end all of this before it even starts passes through him, and then he begins to move again. 

Fuck. Shane might have thought being on top gave him more control, but he’s still not the one in charge.

“You like it, Hollander? You like riding my cock?”

“Yes, Rozanov, fuck—” Shane moans, continuing to move, and then Rozanov shifts left and down on the bed and— “fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck.”

Rozanov grins, Cheshire Cat that got the cream. “There it is.”

Shane keeps going, mindlessly rolling his hips in search of that spot again and again, and he begins to lose sense of time. His senses are narrowed down just to where Rozanov is entering him, a bundle of nerves collecting at the base of his spine and slowly seeping syrupy pleasure into his bloodstream. 

He’s still making a lot of noise, he knows, but Rozanov hasn’t shut him up yet. Instead he’s looking up at him, panting and gasping and running his hands up Shane’s chest, down to his ass and across his thighs, like he never wants Shane to stop. 

“Fuck, Hollander,” Rozanov hisses as Shane undulates his hips in a filthy figure-eight, feeling drunk on power. “So tight.”

Shane moans, closing his eyes and bracing one hand on his headboard so he can begin lifting himself up again. Rozanov groans when he finds a rhythm, quickly finding a pace that would be punishing for anyone not a college hockey player and sticking to it. 

He senses it then, like holding his hand underwater and feeling a current. He takes in Rozanov’s flushed chest, his heavy-lidded eyes, and the way he clenches his jaw when Shane bears down on him. He can first assess and then practically feel his pleasure mounting, wants more.

His own cock is bouncing against them and smearing precome over both of their stomachs, but he doesn’t want to stop long enough to touch himself. Instead he shifts, leaning forward to grab Rozanov’s shoulder. The new angle takes Rozanov even deeper, and with his cock trapped between their stomachs each shift gives him more friction. He fucks himself down harder, every roll punctuated by a soft cry of pleasure.

Rozanov shifts, planting his heels on the bed behind Shane, and the next time he sinks down he finds Rozanov’s hips snapping up to meet him. 

The sound Shane lets out when he does it again isn’t even human.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Shane chants as Rozanov wraps a massive around his waist and begins to set a relentless pace, hard and fast and so deep Shane swears he can feel him in his stomach. He’s scraping against his prostate with every thrust, reducing Shane to a mindless ball of need, and the idea of being the one in control feels like a laughable idea now. 

That’s only reinforced when Rozanov growls, burying his face in Shane’s neck and rolling them over in one fluid motion. He shifts, settling on top of him. “You still okay?” Rozanov asks breathlessly. 

“Fuck, yes,” Shane moans, just as Rozanov begins to move again. 

The new angle is another thing for Shane to get lost in. He’s drunk on the feeling of Rozanov covering him with his huge body, of crossing his ankles behind Rozanov’s back so he can’t thrust and can only grind in circles, as deep as he can. He likes this even better, too, because he just needs to tilt his chin up and Rozanov is answering him with a messy kiss. 

Rozanov gasps into his mouth when he feels Shane clench around his cock. “So fucking tight,” he groans again. “So good.”

“God, Rozy—you feel incredible,” Shane slurs, beginning to feel coherence leave him as he barrels towards the edge. He has the inexplicable urge to say Ilya, not Rozanov. Ilya, Ilya, Ilya, a voice chants in his head, but what comes out is, “fuck, fuck, touch me, please.”

“No.” When Shane unhooks his ankles, Rozanov pushes his knees to his chest to take him even deeper, and he begins to thrust wildly. Shane’s eyes roll back as Rozanov hits his prostate with every thrust. “You will come just from this.”

"Oh God—”

“Come on, Hollander, I want to see you.”

“I—”

“Yes, Hollander, so good for me,” Rozanov pants. “Come on my cock, show me how much you love it—”

Shane shudders, crying out as his orgasm overtakes him. He comes so hard he covers his own stomach, chest and chin in his own spend, his hole fluttering around Rozanov, but he doesn’t have time to come down from the high. Rozanov is still moving inside him, Shane not so much buzzing from overstimulation but more because he feels like he’s still coming, and when Rozanov’s hips finally stutter and he spills into the condom with a groan Shane is hit by a second wave. 

His cock shoots one more feeble spurt of come onto his stomach just as Rozanov finally finishes, leaning in to kiss him and then collapsing on top of him.  

Shane can’t say he minds feeling smothered like this—he’s sure Rozanov is doing it more for his benefit than anything else, but he burrows into the touch anyway. Rozanov tightens his hold around Shane, and kisses him hard. 

“You killed me, Rozanov,” Shane says when Rozanov pulls away. He still doesn’t pull out. Shane just wiggles happily further into the sheets and shuts his eyes. “I’m dead.”

Rozanov laughs, nipping at his jaw. “I was going to say same thing,” he murmurs.

“That was so fucking hot.”

“So… good? Better?”

“Better,” Shane replies breathlessly, and then realises what Rozanov is actually asking. “I mean, yeah, I feel better. Thanks.”

“Good.” Rozanov rolls off of Shane to stretch his long limbs and then kisses his shoulder. “I have healed you.”

“Yes, Rozanov,” Shane drawls, grinning. He feels fucked out, delirious with pleasure, and though he's slurring and breathless he's still capable of speech. And, apparently, inflating Rozanov's ego. “You have healed me with your cock.”

Rozanov grins back, cheeky and blinding. “I mean, I was not going to say that, but since you said it—”

“Fuck off.”

“No, I think my dick has magic powers now.”

“Asshole. What, are you gonna cast a spell with that thing?”

“Right. Probably too big to be wand. More of a, uh… staff.”

Shane snorts. “You wish.”

Rozanov’s eyes twinkle in the dark. “No. You wished. And it came true.”

And okay, Shane can’t help but laugh at that. It’s fast and loose, easy in a way it shouldn’t be that rings out clear into the air, but Rozanov just scoops it up and kisses him again. He’s laughing into Rozanov’s mouth, and—what the fuck. He’s just lying here, basically bent in half with Rozanov covering every inch of him, his softened cock still inside him, and he’s laughing. Like it’s normal.

Rozanov is looking at him a little weirdly now, he knows he’s been chuckling for too long, but he’s just too astounded at the situation. He tugs the hand in the back of Rozanov’s hair a little to tilt his head up so they can kiss some more. Rozanov makes a sound—of arousal or surprise, Shane isn’t sure—and bites his lower lip.

Shane drifts a little, soaking up the feeling of Rozanov kissing him, being inside him, until finally it feels okay to let go, like he won’t float away. Rozanov seems to get it, and slowly begins to pull out.

Although Shane makes a noise at the loss, he’s soothed by Rozanov petting his side. He flops down beside Shane, still catching his breath a little. After a moment’s silence, Rozanov blinks up at him and grins lazily. “Not bad for first time,” he comments, and Shane scoffs. 

“Fuck you,” he replies, but it has none of the heat of his usual insults. 

“Do you mind if I shower?” Rozanov asks. “I am… sticky.”

Shane snorts. “Yeah, go ahead. Uh, you can - you can use the blue towel on the hook. It's clean.”

Rozanov nods, kisses his chest a few more times, and then is gone. Shane doesn’t feel the loss of him as acutely as he thinks he does because he’s quickly overwhelmed by thoughts of whatthefuckwhatthefuckwhatthefuck.

As in, what the actual fuck is he doing? He’s watching Rozanov’s bare, impressive ass disappear into the bathroom, where he’ll dispose of the condom with which he just fucked Shane. 

Shane got fucked. By a man. By… Ilya Rozanov.

And—well. Shane doesn’t know what to think about a lot of things, but he’s sure about one thing: objectively? Yeah. He bagged a ten for this. As in, Rozanov is so hot that Shane sort of doesn’t know what to do about it, and now he has to walk around practice knowing that he’s had Rozanov inside him. 

How the fuck is he supposed to get anything done?

He feels more steady than he did compared to last night, at least. He’d felt unmoored then, particularly afterwards, like he couldn’t quite get back to himself to form words or move for a while. Now, he feels okay. He feels good, actually.

He blows out a shaky breath, folding his upper arms over his eyes. Okay. This is fine. Shane can deal with all of this later, he can… yeah. Thinking is a problem for afterwards. All he needs to do now is just enjoy the bone-deep feeling of right he has after being taken care of by Rozanov, soak it in, and simply let himself have it. And then he’ll deal with the impending crisis after. 

Right now? The shower is turning off, and a minute later Rozanov is emerging with his hair still dripping beads of water onto his chest, scrubbing at his legs before straightening and climbing back onto the bed beside Shane. He huffs out a long, contented sigh as he gets comfortable, stretching like a cat. 

“You have nice shower. Very big.”

“Um… thanks.”

“Is nice, not being smacked in face with showerhead. Thank you.”

Shane fiddles with his fingers.

“Hey, I have a… question.”

“Okay. Maybe I have answer.”

“Um. Why was I so, like, floaty yesterday but not today? I don’t know, I guess I would assume that this—” he gestures vaguely to their naked bodies. “Would be more, y’know, intense.”

Rozanov hums. “Edging is different. It does different things to you, but act does not matter so much sometimes. More you and your brain.” He taps the side of Shane’s head gently. “How you feel, how I feel, what we say.”

Shane considers this. “You were a bit—I don’t know, more forceful yesterday? That feels like the wrong word.”

“Dominant,” Rozanov says, stretching again. “Word you look for is ‘dominant.’”

Shane wrinkles his nose. “I don’t know about that, but—”

“Uh, yes, Hollander. Is simple dynamic.” He rolls onto his side, propping his chin on his hand. He seems perfectly content to lie there completely naked, his towel discarded at the end of the bed, and doesn’t seem embarrassed at all. Shane fights not to cross his legs or fold his arms as the post-orgasm haze begins to lift. It’s just further proof of how deep in it he was yesterday—the thought hadn’t even occurred to him then. 

“What?” Shane asks uneasily, when a minute passes of Rozanov just staring at him and he hasn’t said anything. 

“Something was wrong yesterday,” Rozanov says, and it’s not a question. “This is also why you dropped like that. More intense need for it, aftercare done wrong, and… boom.”

“Um.”

“Do you, uh…” Rozanov clears his throat. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Shane considers it. It’s not what they generally do, but tonight is all new territory for them anyway—besides, he can’t think of anyone else that might understand more. 

“Just being hard on myself is all,” Shane says finally, aiming for something vague that covers the basics while not requiring him to wrench his heart out. Not good enough. Rozanov just narrows his eyes and makes a lazy circular gesture with his finger to keep going. Shane sighs, and now he does let himself cross his arms. “I want to be perfect. And when I’m not, even when I’m close, I get…”

“Mad?”

Shane nods. “Like I want to burn the world to the ground. Or—like I want to burn myself to the ground, I guess. I’m the one doing it wrong. And then I get mad at myself for being so mad.”

Rozanov blinks. “This sounds exhausting.”

This surprises a laugh out of Shane, the simplicity of it. Because yes, it really is exhausting. All the time. “I do it to myself,” Shane says. “No one’s fault but mine.”

“You have lot of expectations, too,” Rozanov points out.

“So do you.”

“Yes, but I am not captain. Also, I am good at relieving stress.” Rozanov wiggles his brows. 

“Asshole. Yeah, I guess captain is a little extra stress—”

“A lot of extra stress. More when you have Dallas Kent on your team.”

“O-okay, maybe a lot of extra stress. Sometimes. When Dallas Kent is involved. But there are plenty of other captains in the league, and they’re all doing fine.”

“Those captains aren’t number one team. They’re not number one players.” Rozanov says it like it’s so obvious. “You are.”

Shane can’t believe this is happening, but he’s going for it. “So… what do I do?”

Rozanov pretends to think about it. “Well, you could give me job. I would take good care of it.”

“No chance.”

Rozanov grins, but then his eyes narrow again. “Being captain is not whole problem.”

Shane huffs. The guy is like a bloodhound for this stuff. “Just, y’know, stuff with my family.”

“Ah.” Rozanov looks away, apparently content with this answer, but now Shane wants to give more.

“It’s just my parents,” he explains, staring up at the ceiling. “We’re super close, I call them every day, and yesterday my mom was on me about some stuff, and—”

He splutters out, unable to continue.

Rozanov is apparently content with the silence, letting it drag on as Shane struggles until finally he manages, “sorry. It’s hard to explain. She just—she always has a plan, is always looking forward, and it’s just… a lot. I put a lot on myself, too. I don’t know if that makes sense.”

“It does,” Rozanov says slowly, after a beat. “There is lot of pressure.”

“Everyone on the team has a lot of pressure,” Shane says miserably. “Right? I’m sure your parents—”

Rozanov pokes his cheek. “Shut up.”

“What?”

“Everyone on team has pressure. Everyone in life has pressure. They do not cancel out. Doesn’t mean you don’t also have pressure, yes?”

“...No?”

Rozanov groans, rolling over and flopping onto Shane. His hands dig into Shane’s sides, making him laugh. “Impossible captain,” Rozanov growls, muffled in Shane’s shoulder.

“I’m not impos—”

“Yes, you are.”

“It’s just. Things are different for me. Harder.”

Shane realises too late that this comes across as a dig to Rozanov about being captain again, like he’s arguing he has more of a right to be stressed than everyone else—when this is really the opposite of what he meant.

“Sorry, I mean—” Shane cuts himself off, groaning in frustration. “Sorry. It’s just that you’re white, and, um—”

“Oh, really?” Rozanov deadpans.

Shane huffs. “I just mean… You wouldn’t get it.”

That sounds harsher than Shane means it, too. He’s really doing a stellar job today. He doesn't know why he's even trying. To his surprise, though, Rozanov just shrugs. “Maybe not. You can tell me anyway.”

The simplicity of the statement takes Shane by surprise, but… he thinks it’s true.

He considers his words for a long time before he speaks. “My mom just puts a lot of expectations on me. She reminds me of what it means for a whole community for me to be here…y’know, first Asian—half-Asian—captain of the Marauders. She wants me to be the first Asian ranked number one in the draft, first Asian captain of the Voyageurs—”

“She wants you to play for Montreal?” Rozanov sounds disgusted.

Why is this what he’s focussing on? “Um. Yes?”

Rozanov blows a raspberry, then gestures for him to continue. “Is shit, so fitting for you. Anyway.”

“Anyway, it’s just a lot. It’s like, I’m just trying to be the best I can at this one thing. And she keeps reminding me of how much bigger it is.”

Rozanov considers this for a long time. “This is lot of English for so late,” he says, “especially since you just fucked my brains out.”

Shane flushes. “Sorry, uh, I can—”

“No. I think I get it. So your mom keeps reminding you of all the other stuff, and you can’t focus on the hockey part?”

“Yes. Or, no. I can, I just… feel a lot of pressure about the other stuff, and it affects my hockey sometimes.”

“Like yesterday.”

“Like yesterday.” Yuna Hollander had been talking to him for half an hour about branding, reminding him for the thousandth time what it’ll be like for some little Asian kid watching the draft to see him being picked first, and he’d snapped at her. He told her he got it, the whole community’s hopes were riding on him and him alone. 

He’d regretted it as soon as he said it, and apologised. His mom said she understood, but… it was tough. 

“Sounds hard.”

Shane scowls. “Wow, thanks.”

Rozanov laughs. “No, no, sorry. It does sound hard. But all these good other things come from hockey, yes?”

“...Yes?”

“So can you just… focus on hockey? If you are best at this, then these other things will happen. Or they won’t, and you will still be the best at hockey. Or second best, of course.”

“Of course.”

“Either way, you will be great hockey player. Sounds like worrying about the rest can be your mother’s job, yes?”

It’s a vastly oversimplified version of the issue, and Shane wants to say that more is required, that his mom will always make him feel like he should be doing more for the cause, that he can’t just ignore her to focus on hockey. These things are true, but… no. There’s something to be said for the balance Rozanov is suggesting. It’s not like he has much control over the other stuff in any way except for being the best, which he wants to be anyway.

He supposes the representation part doesn’t—or shouldn’t—actually change much about how he’s playing.

Simple.

“When did you become Yoda?”

Rozanov arches a brow. “So you don’t know who Matt Damon is, but Yoda you know?”

“I’ve seen Star Wars,” Shane replies defensively. Once, with Hayden when he was fourteen. He got bored and wandered off halfway through, but he knows who Yoda is.

“Right. Mr Boring is also giant nerd. Of course.”

“Fuck off. You’re a nerd.”

“And once again, you are five. Besides, I am not a nerd,” Rozanov continues, holding up his fingers to count. “I am bad boy, star athlete, leading the league in shots on goal. I am hot, and good with my hands.”

Shane growls playfully, flipping them over and pinning Rozanov’s arms above his head. Rozanov looks pleased at his new situation, Shane sprawled over him with their faces inches apart. “Not so good now, huh?”

Rozanov smirks, and even though Shane is ready for it he’s not prepared for the quick motion of Rozanov hooking a foot under his knee and rolling, above him and pinning his hands in two seconds flat. 

Oh God.

Shane is hard again so quickly he feels lightheaded.

He’d been planning to say something quippy or flirtatious, but he can’t come up with anything so he just leans up to kiss Rozanov again. Rozanov is grinning into his mouth, and he’s laughing too, and they knock teeth more than once but they just keep going. He feels light, buoyant in a way he hasn’t for a long time, and it’s a little terrifying… but he’s not thinking about that right now.

When Rozanov pulls away again, he’s quieter and more contemplative. He looks over Shane’s body, at his arousal obvious between them, taking in the sweat drying on his chest and the way Shane knows he’s looking back at him. 

And then suddenly, he pats his cheek and rolls off, lying on his side. They’re still touching, but the energy in the room feels different now, somehow. 

“I think we can say you have graduated,” Rozanov finally says, and.

What?

From… their lessons? The whole thing? As in—Shane is done? This whole arrangement they have is done? No more Rozanov, his hands, his mouth, his—

“We can move on to next lesson now.”

Oh.

Rozanov is looking at him strangely again, and Shane quickly attempts to wipe some of the panic from his face. Fuck, he needs to chill. 

“Okay,” Shane says, managing an easy smile. “Yes. Next lesson. What’s, uh… what’s left?”

Rozanov grins. “Many things, Hollander. Many, many things.”

***

Before Hollander can answer Ilya, his phone vibrates on the nightstand, illuminating  the ceiling in a dim blue light. 

Ilya bites his lip, watching Hollander look over and blink in confusion. “Is that yours? My phone’s dead in the—”

“I put it on charge. I thought, uh, I thought you might want it. Later.”

Hollander is silent for a long time, and Ilya is glad his eyesight is good because he catches the way Hollander’s mouth parts in surprise, curves up at the edges in that almost-smile he does when no one else is looking. “Thank you,” Hollander whispers finally, and though it’s clear he’s going for casual Ilya hears the genuine tone beneath it.

Ilya really hopes Hollander’s eyesight isn’t so good that he can see him flushing in the dark. 

Ilya looks away and then goes for a shrug, leaning in to kiss Hollander once. It’s chaste, a just because he can kind of kiss, but they’ve exchanged so many of these kinds of kisses and every single one of them lights Ilya’s nerve endings even though he knows it’s not what they do, what they should be doing. 

That thought has been on a loop in the back of his head since he got in the shower and rested his head against the tile where he’d been earlier tonight, along with this one: Ilya is totally and completely fucked. 

No. This is fine. 

He can continue his recovery of this situation, his attempt to get them back on familiar territory. Everything will be fine. 

“It’s from Rose.”

Ilya blinks. While he’s been having another absent freakout, Hollander has rolled just enough to grab his phone off the charger and squint at it, bleary-eyed. He’s smiling a little. 

At Rose.

“What?”

“She’s out with Miles, y’know, her co-star from that new action comedy she’s doing? She wants me to come dancing with them.” Hollander is laughing a bit, shaking his head as he taps out a reply. 

“How… fun for Rose.”

Hollander turns his head, narrowing his eyes. Ilya can see it, the are you jealous? hovering on his lips, but the words don’t come—he knows why. Too vulnerable. Ilya is already planning some joke to deflect it, anyway. Instead, Hollander just raises his eyebrows. “I’m not going.”

“I hope not. You are terrible dancer.”

“You’ve never seen me dance.”

“Yes I have,” Ilya shoots back, then stops. He’s only seen Hollander dance once, actually. It was at the club last year, when Hollander had stared at him while he hooked up with a girl—earlier in the night he’d watched as Hollander got dragged into the middle of the dance floor by Marly and Pike, protesting as they formed a circle around him. Ilya hadn’t known what to expect, but it was not Hollander reluctantly beginning to perform some stiff rendition of the macarena until everyone laughed and then it was St-Simon’s turn.

He remembers that night perfectly. It’s been a long time since Ilya has gotten properly drunk at clubs like that, and one positive of this is that his memory is crystal clear—because he also remembers the look in Hollander’s eyes as he’d sucked the girl’s earlobe into his mouth.

His reaction to that memory must be obvious on his face, because Hollander is looking back at him like he knows exactly what he’s thinking about it. They’ve never talked about it, but Ilya knows Hollander remembers that night too. 

Slowly, ever so slowly, Ilya lowers his head to Hollander’s neck. He places a featherlight kiss at the base, then drifts up, stopping to swirl his tongue over Hollander’s pulse point. He feels Hollander’s hands grab his bicep and shoulder, holding on, and fights a grin against his throat. Yes. This.

He takes his time, lazily peppering kisses across his neck and listening to the little noises he makes, until Hollander is loose-limbed and smiling. Finally, he reaches his mark. He closes his lips around his earlobe and sucks.

It works. He feels Hollander’s blunt nails dig into his bicep as he chokes out a groan followed by a gasp. Ilya wonders as he runs his tongue along the outside of his lobe whether Hollander is remembering seeing Ilya do this to someone else, and wonders if it’s turning him on as much as it’s doing to him. 

It’s meant to be a, hey look at this, I have more tricks up my sleeve, remember this? sort of thing, but Ilya doesn’t think about what it’s like to draw a direct comparison with someone else he hooked up with. He doesn’t remember that girl’s name—isn’t sure he ever got it, actually—but she’d been great, and had a good mouth. She had a tongue piercing, he remembers. He’d like that. 

But she wasn’t Hollander. She didn’t arch into his touch, or groan fuck yes in a deep voice when Ilya swirled his tongue. She didn’t scrape nails along his back and then cradle his head in an oddly tender gesture to pull him closer, and she didn’t shift her hips in search of friction. She certainly didn’t murmur God, Rozanov, just kiss me, and then suck his tongue into his mouth like she’d been walking through a desert for days and he was an oasis.

Hollander did. He is doing that, right now, and Ilya sort of feels like he’s losing his mind. 

Because this isn’t that. There’s no comparison. He has never been like her. Even the first time, in the couch out in the living room when he could feel Hollander’s hands trembling as he reached for Ilya’s waistband, he hadn’t been thinking of Hollander as a throwaway thing. 

He wasn’t planning marriage, obviously, but as he’d walked back home that night he’d had the steady thump of next time, next time, next time in his head in time with his footsteps. He’d made plans. He’d sat on Shane Hollander’s stoop until he couldn’t feel his fingers just to make sure he was okay. He’d made sure Hollander’s phone was on charge—while he was asleep. And then he’d fucked him, and fucked up, because he held Hollander like he didn’t want to let go—pretending that he was just giving Hollander what he so clearly needed—and now he doesn’t want to let go again. 

But he does. He does, because he needs to. He’s done his duty now, he tells himself. Hollander is okay, better than okay. He’s light, mostly happy and easygoing in a way Ilya so rarely sees him, and… he’s good. Job done. 

So why does it feel like he has unfinished business?

Ilya keeps going for a little while, sucking his other earlobe into his mouth and then kissing him slowly and thoroughly, but he knows in his head that the clock is ticking. The moment comes soon enough. Hollander is holding Ilya’s face in his hands, smacking kisses on both cheeks and a big obnoxious one to his lips as they lie together, legs tangled, when he places an uncharacteristically soft kiss on Ilya’s brow.

The only people that have ever kissed Ilya there are Sveta and… his mother.

It’s time to go.

“Next time,” he says at the door a few minutes later, and Hollander nods. He’d been a little confused when Ilya abruptly announced he needed to go, but it’s not like he didn’t see it coming—besides, Ilya acted totally normal, forcing himself to dress slowly as they made small talk about what Hollander would do with his day tomorrow since they didn’t have practice. He wasn’t running. He was just… leaving. Fast.

But now Hollander is looking at him like that, and he can’t help it. He leans in to kiss Hollander one more time, slipping his tongue inside his mouth for a beat so it feels like the filth they’re familiar with. This Ilya knows how to do, at least. 

“Good night, Hollander.”

“Night.”

Ilya steps into the cold night, snow beginning to drift in fat clumps from the hazy dark sky, and burrows his hands into his jacket. Russia is cold, he’s used to bitter weather, but there’s something about the wind of a Montreal night that makes him feel like he’ll never be warm again. 

He misses Russia. He misses speaking Russian specifically. His head hurts from processing so much English tonight, feeling suddenly sluggish and uncooperative as he trudges back to his accommodation. He really hopes Barrett isn’t around—he likes the kid a lot, actually, likes how he’s made Ilya an older brother for the first time in his life, but he likes to talk about deep shit late at night and there’s no way Ilya will be able to process a word of it tonight. 

He thinks about his room, with its plain, unadorned walls that he hasn’t been bothered to decorate and loud creaky floorboards. It suddenly feels cavernous when he thinks about returning to it, and before he knows it he’s pulling out his phone. 

Are you still in Montreal? he types out quickly, in Russian.

The reply comes a few minutes later. 

I leave tomorrow night. All okay?

Come over?

It’s late!

Please? 

No, Ilya

I can’t tonight, I’m helping my friend at a photoshoot

Ilya, in this moment, hates models. He turns his collar up against the cold and types out another message. 

Tomorrow? Before you go?

I promise you’ll come at least twice

I’ll be there at 10. 

There. That’s better.

So why does Ilya not feel any better?

Chapter End Notes

you guys i was so torn about splitting this chapter up and i know this is a shorter one than usual and it kinda ends with ilya in the same place as the end of the last chapter but i just liked seeing how each of them are dealing with their crises in the short term lol i hope you still enjoyed!!

so anyways yeah shane got piped finally let's talk about that!!

also some CONVERSATION happening between shane and ilya today isn't that wonderful <3 life really is worth living

seriously though guys what an end to the year amirite like never did i think i would be spending the end of 2025 alone in my hometown, watching one of the most incredible book-to-show adaptations that elevates the material and breathes new life into the characters (stop bullying shane rachel reid challenge) and then it just happens to blow up with a casual number two ranking on the highest rated episodes of all time on imdb AND changes the lives of its two leads ... and it's all happening right now. like that's crazy!!!! i am paul rudd on hot ones guys LOOK AT US

ugh just love these two idiots and this whole experience so much and can't wait to continue writing more about them for you all <3

ONE more thing guys.... life update i do in fact have the draft chapter of my law dissertation due in TWO WEEks. its only 4,000 words right? i've written over 50k words of this fanfiction in less than two weeks haha so it'll be fine right? haha!!!!!!

anyone who's randomly read my other fanfics will know i love giving life updates and am famous for pulling this sorta shit out of my ass so i can't wait to ace it! i just need to stop watching interviews and scrolling tumblr and tiktok and twitter and instagram and writing and listening to podcasts and-

see you soon :):):)

Chapter 8: all sussed out

Chapter Summary

up next: sveta is a mindreader, mirrors are fun, and realizations are not.

Chapter Notes

this is my longest chapter yet i'm pretty sure and it's also the least edited but i just got home from work at the dispensary (yay canada) and i have been banging this thing out all day so i decided to stay up and finish <3 so HERE HAVE IT

Things with Sveta have always been easy. No strings attached, just good fun with a good friend and no consequences to come with it. Ilya loves her, maybe more than he loves anyone alive in the world, and she loves him too—when they were teenagers, Ilya used to think they’d get married one day. But they didn’t love each other like that. He knows now that Sveta would murder him within days, but… it’s nice to think about. Sometimes.

It’s also easy because he gets to speak Russian with her. He greets her at the door with a big hug—Sveta mumbling in his ear about how he’s holding her too tight given he only saw her a few weeks ago—and when he ducks his head to mouth at her jaw she only giggles and tilts her head back for better access. 

“Why do you have to live so far?” Ilya complains, tugging her closer. It’s so easy, slipping into his first language like a warm blanket—it’s been too long, weeks since he talked to his father and even longer since he talked to his brother, and though his tongue feels heavy in his mouth the words come quickly. “You should come to McGill instead. Montreal has better music, and food, and me.”

Sveta laughs, wrapping her hands around his neck and cocking her head. “Toronto is great too, and the university is ranked number one for business, okay? Most importantly, it’s not French.” She tangles her fingers in his hair and arches a perfectly-shaped brow. “Anyway, Ilya, is there really no one else here who can occupy your time? Are you that bored without me?”

Dark onyx eyes and freckles smattered across cheekbones appear in his mind. 

“I have plenty of people to entertain myself with,” Ilya deflects. “But none of them are my oldest, closest, best friend who I love very much.”

Sveta rolls her eyes. “Very smooth. What about that guy you were going to see a few weeks ago, the one you said you met online?”

Sveta is one of few people in the world that know he’s bisexual—he’s always told himself that he’d be upfront if he was asked, but no one ever asks—and he’d also been catching up with her over text when he first saw the ad. I have to go, he’d written. Gotta turn a guy from online gay.

Her reply had come almost immediately. I expect details later!!!

Ilya hadn’t given her details later. 

How could he? As soon as Hollander opened the door, he knew he couldn’t say anything—he didn’t know how to tell any part of the story without letting all the details spill out, and Sveta would see right through his facade. She certainly wouldn’t approve of what he was doing. 

He can imagine exactly what she’d say. This is insane, Ilya. What are you doing? Remember Sasha?

And Ilya did. His coach’s son in Russia had been his first tryst with a man, and Sveta had been there to watch it all. She’d also been there when things blew up, when Sasha was so scared of getting caught that he lashed out at Ilya. Sveta had told him then, you’ll never run out of secrets with guys like that. And now it’s clear that Hollander is one of those guys, so it’s clear he can’t tell her. 

This has only gotten more true as he and Hollander continue, the more obvious it becomes that Ilya has no intention of stopping. 

Because Hollander’s not Sasha. He’d described that experience as nothing serious, just them having the same secret, but ultimately when the Coach had caught them together, he’d been the Coach’s son, protected from harm, and Ilya was left in the cold. Not the same secrets after all, then.

But he and Hollander are different. They are both hockey players at the top of their game—though Ilya can sometimes admit that Shane is slightly, slightly better—and they both know exactly what would happen to their NHL dreams if they’re discovered. As much as Ilya likes to tease Hollander to get him flustered, he’s still careful. He has a lot to lose, too. 

He should be stopping. He should be. But…

So this is a test, in a way. He didn’t invite Sveta over just to chat, and she knows it—when he leans in to nose at her neck, she just hums in approval and tangles her long nails in Ilya’s hair. 

“You did miss me,” Sveta hums into his ear, pleased. 

Ilya growls playfully, swirling his tongue just under her jaw and then lifting to nip at her earlobe, then freezes. Memories of the night before, sucking Hollander’s earlobe into his mouth, the noises he’d made, come crashing back in tidal waves and threaten to bowl him over. 

No. He’s here. 

He forces his limbs to loosen, scooping Sveta up easily. She squeals, hugging his neck tightly, and kisses him as he carries her to his room. Yesss, something inside him hisses. This is what he needs. 

And it is. He and Sveta are simple, and fit back together in all the ways old friends that have spent hours exploring each other’s bodies do. He gasps when she gets her mouth around him and revels in the moans he gets when he does the same to her. When it’s time to fuck, she goes to lie down but he shakes his head, gesturing for her to get on her hands and knees. She just smiles, knowing exactly what he wants, and so he fucks her hard and relentless, gripping her hips and slamming back into her again and again. 

She likes it like this sometimes, rough and punishing, but it doesn’t make her beg. It just makes her smile. More, Ilya, she pushes, egging him on. Harder, come on. 

Her dark ringlets bounce with each thrust, and he’s pushed over the edge by the feeling of her fluttering around him as she finishes. He just has enough energy to pull off the condom before he collapses in bed beside her, panting.

Sveta laughs again. “Not bad,” she says with a mocking shrug, and Ilya glares at her. She rolls her eyes. “Okay, fine. That was great.”

Ilya grins, and almost leans in to kiss her again before he thinks better of it. It just feels too intimate. Instead, he flops over into her lap. Her hands find his curls easily. “Yeah, it was. It’s good to see you again, Sveta.”

“I’m glad I made time in my schedule. It’s been a while since we’ve done that.”

Managing a noncommittal hum, Ilya thinks about it. He and Sveta hadn’t hooked up the last few times he’d seen her, actually, instead spending their time going out to restaurants and clubs—occasionally they each went home with someone else, but mostly they’d just talked and danced and laughed.

He likes this, too. Here. This ‘test’ just confirmed it. Fuck you, Hollander, he thinks with a sudden fierceness. I’m fine.

“Did you get it out of your system?”

Ilya blinks. “What?”

Sveta gestures vaguely to all of him. “Whatever’s got you so worked up.”

“I’m not worked up.”

Sveta scoffs. “You said please over text, Ilya. You were desperate.”

“Was not.” Ilya is aware he sounds five.

“You came way faster than you usually do, and you wanted me from behind. You pretty much only ever want that when you have a point to prove.” She turns to face him, folding her arms like she does when she wants him to hurry up and say something. “So c’mon, did it work? Did your problem go away?”

Ilya ignores the warmth in his chest that Sveta knows him so well in favour of scowling at her knowing him too well. Despite this he considers her question, scanning his body and his thoughts.

He feels better. He’d been beginning to worry that Hollander had ruined him for other people, in part since he’s been occupied most nights since they started all of this, but he’s delighted to learn that he’s just as attracted to women as ever. He still desires the easy touch of a woman, still likes the idea of going to a club and meeting a girl there and then taking her home.

He likes Sveta specifically, loves her brain and her hair and her laugh and her legs and her everything. But usually he has an impressive stamina, and Sveta is right—today, he had a hair trigger.

It’s just that… he caught himself more than once just now wishing that Sveta’s hips were wider, squarer, and belonging to a certain slow hockey player with a weak backhand. 

“No,” Ilya admits, sighing and rubbing at his eyes. God, he wants a cigarette. “My problem has not gone away in the slightest.”

Ilya’s always been a masochist. He makes no attempt to get rid of his problem. In fact, he only increases it. 

Now that he and Hollander have fucked, it’s like a dam has been opened. They chirp each other as usual in the locker room, half of Ilya’s barbs being genuine irritation at Hollander being so boring, and then he has another twinge when he watches Hollander wave to a man and a woman in the stands that are undoubtedly his parents, but when they get on the ice to play Nova Scotia it’s like magic all over again. 

They’re seamless. When they do power plays together, they’re a force—even better with Bood on the line with them, too. They weave together, ducking and dodging and always finding each other on the ice. 

Pass, shoot, and score. 

And they do. The score is 4-2 by the third period, with Hollander scoring two goals back to back to match Ilya’s. It’s the kind of game Ilya loves, both of them on the verge of a hat-trick and competing to see who will get it first—because they will get it. Nova Scotia is rough, but they’re just too fast for them, outskating them late in the game despite their cheap shots that the referee calls with ease. 

Hollander is a nimble force on the ice even with Nova Scotia’s rough playing, cutting through players and flicking his wrist to fire the puck with the kind of precision that only comes from playing for hundreds and thousands of hours. More than once, Ilya catches himself distracted watching Hollander play rather than playing the game himself, too caught up watching the fire burn bright in Hollander’s eyes as he tees up a perfect slap shot.

Ryan Price continues to be relentless to play against. Ilya had thought he’d say hi, ask him how he was doing back in Nova Scotia, but nope—the first time Ilya steals the puck off Nova Scotia’s center he makes it three strides before Price is slamming him into the boards so hard his teeth rattle. 

After that, what happens is kind of Ilya’s fault. He gets put back at center (yay!) but therefore taken off of Hollander’s line (boo) and is focusing on getting the hat-trick he knows Hollander wants just as badly. Too bad, he thinks. Ilya will be first. 

And then he gets sloppy, and a missed shot combined with watching the ref give Haas a bullshit slashing penalty—so much for home ice advantage—leads to him knocking Nova Scotia’s goalie’s helmet as he turns around.

There’s one thing you learn very quickly playing hockey, especially in North America. Don’t touch the goalie. 

Fuck.

It doesn’t take long. The center is back in seconds and shoving Ilya’s chest, saying something like what the fuck and what’s your fucking problem with Silky here and you wanna go? and all Ilya hears is a tiny voice in his head saying lower your weapons, don’t say anything. Don’t fight back.

What comes out instead is, “Was accident, but maybe it will help. Will wake him up a bit, yes? Looks like he is asleep between the pipes—”

Ilya feels it before it comes, the collective gasp of the crowd, the way a shadow passes over the ice in the split second before he feels hands closing over the front of his jersey and shoving him. He shoves back, all instinct, and it’s only after this that he realises the guy he’s pushing is Price, but there’s no time to greet him. Ilya is fighting for his life. 

Stupid, Ilya curses himself as he manages to block a swing only to be greeted with Price’s other fist flying towards his face. So stupid. 

He texts Hollander as soon as he gets his phone in the locker room. Come over?

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Hollander notice his phone vibrate and glance surreptitiously at their teammates, too busy celebrating their win. He bites his lip and focuses on untying his skates as he waits. 

You should go see the team doctor.

Of course this is what he’s worried about right now. 

(Hollander was the one to shove Price back as soon as Ilya’s blood splattered the ice, not batting an eye even as he faced down a guy almost a full head taller than him. Ilya is feeling totally normal about that fact.)

My nose is fine, Ilya texts back, prodding at the appendage in question to confirm and fighting back a wince at the pain that radiates from his face. 

I saw you wince. You should still see the doctor.

Ilya tries not to groan aloud. He can still feel Hollander’s eyes on him. If I do, will you come over?

No. 

Ilya waits.

Maybe.

Ilya is sitting at home with an icepack on his nose an hour later, staring at the door and jogging his knee. Maybe Hollander really isn’t coming. Maybe—

There’s a knock on the door. 

Ilya is humming with want before he even makes it to the foyer, despite the fact that he just saw Hollander last night and came with Sveta this morning. He ignores both of these facts, and all it takes is the mere thought of Hollander beneath him, above him, anywhere near him, and all his blood runs south. 

Hollander’s eyes flicker down when the door opens, and he raises an eyebrow despite the flush on his cheeks. “I’d say I’m happy to see you too, but—”

“Shut up,” Ilya huffs, but he’s smiling as he pulls Hollander inside.

He’s still smiling when he pins Hollander against the door and kisses him, but his smile quickly gives way to his desperation. Thankfully, Hollander seems just as needy, clawing at his clothes and making frustrated noises when they don’t come off fast enough.

“Get on your knees,” Ilya murmurs once he’s managed to get both of their shirts off, knowing exactly the reaction he’ll get, and he’s right: Hollander shivers, not taking his eyes off of Ilya’s as he sinks to the floor. The sight of him kneeling and mouthing at Ilya’s clothed cock through his sweatpants will never not be a revelation to Ilya, and he fights not to show it in his face.

He fucks Hollander on his back, then takes him against the wall. He ignores the twinging in his aching body and focuses on the delighted sound Hollander makes as he hoists him up in his arms and enters him again, quickly setting a brutal pace and drowning in the way Hollander can’t even make noises anymore, just these little ah, ah, ah sounds that are punched out of him with every thrust. 

He comes with his face buried in Hollander’s neck, trying not to let his knees buckle, and the sensation of this is clearly what tips Hollander over the edge. He cries out and spills into Ilya’s fist, and the feeling of Shane’s hole fluttering around him has his softening cock giving another twitch of interest.

Hollander is floaty and sated when they’re done, and doesn’t seem capable of moving much even after Ilya holds him for a while. Ilya stands, petting Hollander’s head when he whines at the loss of Ilya’s body over him and then returning a minute later with a glass of water and a protein bar he found at the bottom of his gym bag. It takes some coaxing and more kisses than Ilya feels are technically smart given his current state of mind, but Hollander eventually works his way through the bar and drinks most of the water. 

“Thank you,” Hollander finally rasps out, snuggling deeper into Ilya’s soft sheets. 

He might have put new ones on before Hollander came over. What about it?

“What do you want now?” Ilya asks, and the two halves of his body—one whispering staystaystay, the other screaming leaveleaveleave—threaten to tear him in two. 

Hollander hums in thought, swallowing the last bite of the protein bar. “Don’t wanna go home yet. Got anything to entertain me?” he says it so easily, so simply, and he must catch the look of panic on Ilya’s face because he quickly leads them into something more familiar. “I mean, until we’re ready to go again.”

Ilya finds himself handing Hollander a controller instead of telling him to leave, and then they’re playing NHL: All Stars and screaming at the screen as Ilya’s Boston Bears absolutely destroy the Montreal Voyageurs, Hollander complaining the whole time that Ilya somehow rigged the game. It’s easy, and it’s simple, and it absolutely has to stop.

But Hollander leads him into the shower when he wins, something about a celebratory blowjob, and Ilya learns that his shower is still way too fucking small but there’s just about enough space for Hollander to get on his knees again and show him all the things Ilya has taught him. 

Ilya mutters a stream of Russian the whole time, mostly just a translation of all the things he usually says in English. So good and fuck, your mouth, and just like that. Hollander moans, not knowing what he’s saying but understanding that it’s praise anyway. And that makes Ilya slip in a few other phrases, too, ones he doesn’t know what to do with. They feel too big even in Russian. So perfect, so beautiful, all for me, my Shane.

But Hollander isn’t Ilya’s. Not even a little bit. 

So he just kisses him fiercely at the door and tries not to feel like he’s losing something every time it closes.

***

“Sorry I’m late.”

Shane slides into the booth across from his parents at the upscale French restaurant they’d picked, smiling apologetically at them. 

“Oh, it’s only fifteen minutes,” David, Shane’s dad, replies. “It’s just that usually you’re early.”

“I know. I would’ve been on time but I missed the bus by, like, ten seconds.”

“And you cancelled on us last night,” his mom, Yuna, adds. 

Shane winces. He’d been planning on going, but then Rozanov texted him in the locker room, and… well. He watched Rozanov pocket his phone and immediately march off to the treatment room as soon as Shane told him to see the doctor, and he maybe sort of kinda immediately texted his parents to cancel. 

“I’m really sorry for that too,” Shane replies, and he means it. Mostly. It’s just that his ass is deliciously sore today, so it’s harder to feel sorry when that’s what he cancelled for. “Coach wanted to go over some stuff about the game while it was fresh in my head.”

His parents nod knowingly, and Shane inwardly breathes a sigh of relief that they accept his shitty lie. Shane has a creeping feeling that he’s actually a terrible liar and has no poker face to speak of, and that the only reason his parents believe him is because he’s never lied to them before. 

At least, not on purpose. A lie of omission isn’t the same as an actual lie, and besides—Shane still doesn’t know what he’s actually omitting. 

“Well, we appreciate you seeing us no matter what,” Mom says. “We know you’re coming down to visit on the 12th, but we couldn’t leave now without seeing our favourite son.”

“I’m your only son,” Shane replies, but he’s smiling.

Dad pretends to be shocked. “Really? I thought I had another one running around somewhere.”

“Hallucinations are common in old age,” Mom says sweetly.

“So, that was a rough game last night, son,” Dad says just as their drinks arrive, a glass of wine each for the parents and a tonic water with lime for Shane, because apparently they were out of ginger ale.

Shane nods, blowing out a breath. “Yeah, it was brutal. They played dirty.”

“You still wiped the floor with them, though. That ref was totally blind, I’m telling you. It was ridiculous. That slashing penalty on Haas? The kid wouldn’t slash a fly.”

“Yeah, he didn’t deserve that at all,” Shane agrees. “Marly got hit with a few rogue things, too.”

“And that Ryan Price kid is terrifying, huh?” Mom says with a laugh. “A giant in skates.”

“You know, we had a guy like that on the team back in ‘86,” Dad muses.

“I must say, I know we hate Rozanov, but I still don’t think he deserved to get hit like that,” Mom continues. “I mean, everyone could see him hitting the goalie was an accident.”

Shane swallows hard. “Y-yeah, he didn’t mean it.”

“Sorta looked like he said something to the center before Price got to him, though,” Dad says. “Did you hear what he said?”

Looks like he is asleep between pipes. 

“Oh, um. I think he chirped the goalie.” 

“Well, it was big of you to go up against Price even after everything Rozanov has done to you,” Mom finishes.

“Done to me?” Shane echoes, blinking.

Mom waves a hand. “All the ribbing and competition and rivalry. He’s made your life extremely difficult for years now, always challenging you and trying to get you to break. You know, I told your dad this last year—didn’t I, David?—that Rozanov was coming for captain.”

Shane’s brow furrows in confusion. “How is Rozanov’s fight evidence that he’s coming for captain?”

“It’s not. They’re unrelated observations. The point is, I’m proud of you for sticking up for your teammate. Even if that teammate can still go fuck himself.” Dad mock-gasps. “What? It’s true.”

Shane manages a weak smile that he thinks is believable enough, but secretly his mind is whirring. He knows he was the one leading the Fuck Rozanov hate train when they first started playing against each other and then came to the same university, but now it feels wrong to hear stuff like that. You don’t know him, Shane wants to say, but then again, he doesn’t either.

That’s okay. He doesn’t want to. He doesn’t need to. Not only does he only need Rozanov for one specific thing that doesn’t require a whole lot of talking, he won’t be needing his services for much longer. It has to stop. He’ll just… one more.

“What am I learning today?” Shane says breathlessly as Rozanov hauls him against the door and nips at the bolt of his jaw. 

“Patience,” Rozanov replies with a grin. 

Shane’s not very good at that. He’d replied to Rozanov’s text asking if he wanted a lesson with an emphatic No, we can’t! We have to go to the team thing in less than two hours! even as he slipped his shoes on and practically ran through his door, and had made it here in a matter of minutes.

The thing is that now Shane knows what being fucked feels like, he kind of wants it all the time. It’s not the most convenient of desires—it requires prep, planning, and a not insignificant amount of cleanup in comparison to their previous routine of blowjobs—but Shane wants it all the same, and he knows Rozanov wants it just as badly. 

He’d been able to take a guess, at least, when his phone buzzed several times halfway through this morning’s team workout. He took it out and read the texts. 

FUCK YOU.

NEVER WEAR THOSE SHORTS AGAIN IF YOU DON’T WANT ME TO PIN YOU DOWN RIGHT HERE AND FUCK YOU WHILE THE TEAM WATCHES.

It was accompanied by several crying emojis. 

Shane looked up. Rozanov was sitting on a weight bench, burning holes into Shane’s shorts and looking anguished. He’d flushed. He’d chosen those shorts—a few inches higher than his usual inseam—exactly because he’d wanted this reaction, and he was actually getting it. And better. He always forgets what the heat of Rozanov’s gaze feels like until it’s on him.

Shane’s phone buzzed again. This was risky, but no one was nearby and he couldn’t resist checking. He never could resist when it came to Rozanov.

His eyes flew across the screen, and then again. He swallowed.

I bet you’d like that. Showing off for everyone.

That’s what you’re doing right now.

Shane shifted from foot to foot, ignoring Rozanov’s eyes boring into him and turning away so he could type out a reply. 

I think that you should|

Nope.

I don’t know what you’re talking abou|

Wrong again. He bit his lip, then began to type. This is stupid, he thought fiercely. This is so, so stupid.

I like showing off.

For you.

He hesitated for a second, and then sent the text. 

The reaction was immediate. He watched Rozanov’s eyes flicker across his screen several times, just like Shane’s had, and then he was looking back up at Shane with so much heat in his eyes that Shane could have burned alive. 

And he means his text. He likes Rozanov seeing him like that, likes watching Rozanov look at his short shorts like he wants to rip them off with his teeth. It’s so true that Shane is starting to feel like he has no idea what it would be like if it was anyone but Rozanov above him, below him, giving it to him just the way he likes it. 

Ever since that day he showed up on Shane’s doorstep with tuna melt and phone charging intentions, something between them has shifted. There’s a precision to the sex between him and Rozanov—it’s hot as fuck, and Shane is sort of dying for it all the time, but in the moments after especially he can’t shake the feeling that Rozanov sometimes wants him to leave. 

There’s a lingering something in Rozanov’s gaze every time he looks at him, on the ice or in the bedroom. He doesn’t know what. All he knows is that the time they spend together has bled into non-sexual activities—he still doesn’t know what came over him with the video game—and he begins to hope for the conversation as much as he does for the lessons.

(But the lessons. God. The lessons. Being fucked against the wall is a revelation.)

It’s scary, so Shane is choosing not to think about it. That’s always worked for him before. 

Besides, it’s nothing serious. It’s not like Shane watches Rozanov take off his helmet during practice, shaking out his curls, and is so distracted wondering whether his hair could best be described as the colour of honey or of bronze that he misses Coach Wiebe telling him Rozanov just beat his time at the shooting drill they’re doing. 

Or like he makes bad jokes in practice to make Rozanov laugh, sometimes on purpose. 

Or like he falls asleep curled around a pillow each night and thinks about how he hasn’t had a good night’s sleep since he had Ilya Rozanov wrapped around him. 

Nothing. Serious. Nothing at all.

“I think you said something about showing off for me,” Rozanov says against his neck, bringing him screeching back into the present. His lips close around Shane’s pulse point just as his hand slips inside Shane’s boxers, and…

The thing is, Shane has been kind of keyed up all day thinking about this, since last night when he dug those shorts out of his drawer after getting back from Rozanov’s and decided to try them on. They hadn’t been able to meet up earlier because Rozanov was mysteriously unavailable, making it even worse, and now they have less than two hours before Shane needs to leave and pretend he’s arriving at the bar the team is meeting at from a totally different direction. His mind has been racing with planning and imagining all the things he might do with the Russian man he pretends to hate behind closed doors.

So the feeling of Rozanov’s hand closing around his dick at the same time he bites down on the side of his neck and sucks has him making a high noise in the back of his throat that isn’t human. It rings out into the air even as he tries to strangle the sound, even as he lifts a hand from Rozanov’s shoulder to clap it over his mouth. 

Rozanov lifts his head slowly, and when their eyes finally meet his are sparkling with glee. He’s grinning. Bastard.

 “Shut up.” 

Rozanov is laughing now, snorting at the sound of Shane’s embarrassing desperation, and Shane squirms at the humiliation. He whacks Rozanov on the arm. “Fuck off. I’ve—I’ve been thinking about this a lot today, alright?”

He says it like the words are torn out of him, and he nervously awaits Rozanov’s response. As he watches, Rozanov’s eyes darken. “Me too,” he rasps, cupping Shane’s jaw with one hand. “Was going crazy, watching you work out in those tiny shorts.”

Shane grins just as Rozanov’s thumb brushes over his cheek. “That was the point,” he says triumphantly. He bites his lip, and when he speaks again it’s in a whisper. “I liked knowing you were watching.”

There’s a part of him that feels a twinge of shame at admitting this, admitting he waltzed around in a pair of shorts all morning just because he wanted his teammate and rival to look at him, but he thinks it’s mostly just that he feels he should be ashamed. Mostly, he’s just turned on. 

He’s never felt wanted like this before, by anyone. He’s definitely never had anyone to show off for, anyone to lick their lips with their eyes glued on his mouth like they wanted to eat him whole. He never knew that’s something he even wanted. He knows he still doesn’t have a thing for being watched, and they both know they obviously can’t let anyone watch even if they did want to, obviously, but as a fantasy thing? Yeah. It totally gets him going. 

And Rozanov knows it. He leans into Shane’s ear, his mouth moving against his lobe as he speaks in a low rumble. “Almost couldn’t stop myself,” he murmurs, combing his fingers through the strands of hair on the back of Shane’s head that have begun to get too long and pulling in a way that makes Shane mentally cancel his next haircut—just so, angling his neck perfectly so he can set his mouth on it. 

“What—gah—what would you have done?”

Rozanov shakes his head slowly, looking amused. He knows he’s got Shane’s number, and Shane doesn’t care. Not when it feels this good. With a confident, sure touch, he takes a hold of Shane’s cock once more and begins to stroke. 

“I would take your clothes off,” he begins conversationally. “And put you on one of those stupid yoga balls you love so much.”

Shane’s smile turns into a whimper when Rozanov brushes his thumb over the head of his cock. “Fuck, Rozy—”

Rozanov grins, crooked and devastating. “So wet,” he whispers, looking down between them at his hand moving in an easy slide over Shane’s cock. His tone shifts into something a little more authoritative but also wanting. “I would take you just like that, on the ball. Make you beg while the whole team watches.”

Shane’s cock twitches in his hand, and this time they both look down at his obvious thoughts on that. Shane’s cheeks heat in embarrassment. “God, screw you.”

“Mm, more like, ‘screw me, please’,” Rozanov replies, his grin widening as Shane’s legs wobble on the next upstroke, and he leans in to kiss him hard with a firm hand on his hip. 

The bruises there have almost faded, but Shane… sort of wishes they didn’t. 

Shane thinks he’s the one that drags Rozanov to his couch and climbs on top of him, but he can’t be sure. All he registers is Rozanov laughing at him when he almost eats shit trying to get his jeans off while walking, and then clambering into his lap while Rozanov rips open a packet of travel-sized lube he got from God knows where. 

“Fuck y—” Shane gasps as Rozanov’s fingers enter him, steady and sure. They’ve only done this a few times and Shane still struggles to relax, but Rozanov’s confident fingers in him combined with the fact that he just got fucked last night - and the subsequent certainty that he’ll enjoy himself - makes it easier to let go. “Is this—is this my lesson for today, then?” To hell with patience. He wants to know now.

Thankfully, Rozanov doesn’t say patience this time, but Shane’s also not sure if he likes the way he’s smiling.

“This is not lesson,” Rozanov tells him, adding a third finger just a hair too early. It’s perfect, the burn just enough to keep Shane teetering on the edge before he curls his fingers with expert precision and finds Shane’s prostate with ease. Shane lets out a broken noise, tilting his forehead down against Rozanov’s and panting against him as Rozanov deftly brings him to the edge.

Then all of a sudden, without warning, Rozanov pulls his fingers out and stands.

“Come with me,” he says, and Shane pauses for only a second. 

“Are you still gonna fuck me?” Shane asks hopefully. That had been where that was going, right?

“Come find out.”

Shane swallows hard before dutifully following him down the hallway, ignoring the slippery feeling of the lube between his legs. They shed the rest of their clothes as they go, Rozanov discarding his jeans and giving Shane a beautiful view of his ass, but Shane is confused when Rozanov throws his t-shirt to the floor and then stops at the bathroom. 

Shower sex? He supposes he could get down with that. But they’re at Rozanov’s, and he already knows how much Rozanov hates the tiny shower cubicle, so… what?

Rozanov spins Shane by the shoulders, and Shane’s heart promptly stops. 

They’re standing right in front of the half-length mirror, and from this close he can see far too much of himself—his flushed cheeks, messy hair and bright eyes, his cock hard and bobbing just above the counter. Rozanov is behind him, too, but he somehow looks majestic—kiss-bitten and glorious, watching Shane study his curls shining like golden thread under the soft bathroom light and looking completely unselfconscious about it.

“Rozanov, no—”

“Rozanov, yes,” Rozanov replies firmly, wrapping an arm tight around Shane’s waist and pulling him back against him. “I want you to watch. This is today’s lesson.”

Shane cringes. He’s seen the look of arousal currently on Rozanov’s face many times by now—though he’s beginning to worry it will never, ever be enough—but he’s never seen it mirrored in his own like this. He looks desperate, flushed and leaking and ready for Rozanov, and Shane doesn’t know what to do looking at himself in this state. Is he supposed to find this hot? Because all he’s really thinking is you should be embarrassed and look how soft you look next to him, a fucking Greek God, and—

“Hollander.” Rozanov’s voice brings Shane quickly out of his reverie. “You are overthinking again.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t apologise,” Rozanov says softly, making eye contact with Shane in the mirror. “Is okay. Let go, okay?”

“O-okay, but I don’t know about this…”

“We don’t have to,” Rozanov begins, and Shane knows he means it. If he gives a firm no, he’ll never bring it up again. And yet, he doesn’t say no. Rozanov kisses his neck, and Shane shivers as he watches his tongue swirl and feels the wet heat against his skin. “You said you liked showing off for me, Hollander. This is how I want you—watching yourself and seeing how hot you are like this.”

Shane squirms, eyes flicking from Rozanov’s heated gaze in the mirror to his own uncertain reflection. He never thought he would want this, and yet... he does. He really does.

“Yes. Okay, just… fuck me. Please.”

Rozanov’s smirk could melt the entire North Pole. “I’ll give you what you need, Hollander,” he says, and then puts a palm flat on Shane’s back and pushes down. 

The new angle has Shane bracing his hands on the counter, but it also has the unfortunate side effect of bringing his face even closer to his own reflection. He blinks hard, trying to focus on the sight of Rozanov behind him. 

But then Rozanov puts his big hands on Shane’s cheeks and uses his thumbs to spread them apart, and Shane realises with horror that Rozanov is looking at him there. Logically, he knows he’s seen Shane’s asshole before, but never like this, never bare and slick with lube and waiting for attention. 

Rozanov isn’t cringing back, though. “Pretty,” he breathes, not taking his eyes off of Shane’s ass, and Shane must make a noise at this because Rozanov looks up to meet his gaze in the mirror just as his thumb brushes over his rim. Rozanov’s eyes are the colour of melted gold. “Such a pretty hole for me.”

Shane moans again, despite himself, cheeks flaming, spurring Rozanov to push two slicked fingers inside him once more. He scissors and curls them a few times to make sure he’s ready before pulling back, and Shane wiggles his ass impatiently. He rolls the condom on quickly, Shane making pleading eyes in the mirror that he really hoped he’d never see from another angle, and then Rozanov is lining himself up and pushing in. 

Shane’s eyes roll back, and Rozanov swears. “So fucking tight every time, fuck,” he hisses. 

He quickly sets a brutal pace. They don’t have much time, but Shane knows it won’t be a problem for him—he’s already ridiculously close just from all the teasing and everything with the mirror. He knows Rozanov knows that too, and it makes him flush all the way down to his chest and push back against him.

“C’mon, Rozanov, give it to me,” Shane urges, keeping his gaze focused on the man behind him. It’s easier this way, not having to look at his own dumb expression, and he likes getting to see what Rozanov looks like in this position—eyes fixed on the place where he’s entering Shane’s body again and again, blowing out shaky breaths with his mouth in an ‘o’ shape as he snaps his hips to give them both the pleasure they’re searching for. 

Rozanov says something in Russian, then groans. “Fuck, Hollander, not gonna last long,” he warns, and Shane shakes his head, his eyes slipping shut as Rozanov nails his prostate again and again. 

“No, me neither, fuck—”

“Watch yourself,” Rozanov instructs, and despite his reticence and embarrassment Shane finds his eyes slipping open to meet his own reflection’s gaze in the mirror. 

He looks gone, fucked-out and come-drunk and generally like he’s losing his mind. He feels like he is. He can think of nothing else but the feeling of Rozanov’s cock inside him, filling him up and hitting all the spots where Shane needs him most. He can see tears collecting at the corners of his eyes, and blinks them back furiously. He’s not slipping into that floaty space today, he can feel Rozanov somehow keeping him firmly anchored, and he’s determined not to cry during sex again. All he wants to feel is this: all the sensations of being here, of being wanted by Rozanov.

Despite his embarrassment, the sight of him taking a cock—the sight of him taking Rozanov’s cock, specifically, since the fact that he’s being fucked by someone as hot as Rozanov is nothing less than a miracle—is mind-meltingly arousing. He loves seeing Rozanov unable to control himself like this, thrusting wildly as they stare at each other in the mirror and Shane cries out with each thrust. 

“You feel so good,” Rozanov groans, switching to hard, deep thrusts that Shane can feel in his throat. “Look at you. Look at how good you look for me.”

He arches his back shamelessly, and has to admit that he does look pretty good in this position, his ass jiggling against Rozanov’s body with every thrust and the muscles in his back rippling as he ducks his head lower. He feels like he’s been set up for dissection, laid bare for Rozanov to stare at his soft underbelly and know exactly how to take him apart, and he does. 

“Are you gonna come for me, Hollander? Watch yourself come?”

“Fucking make me.”

And he does. 

They spend a few minutes lazily kissing on the counter afterwards, Rozanov whispering to him about how good he looked like that and filling Shane’s veins with warm static, before he pulls back a little abruptly and announces he needs a shower. Shane just watches him walk away, and when he asks for a glass of water he offers to get it for himself so Rozanov can rinse off. Rozanov nods. Turns away.

A phone rings on the table, and Shane glances over curiously while he takes a sip when the call stops only to begin ringing again. The writing is Russian, but the word is similar enough to the English that Shane recognises it immediately. PAPA, the screen reads. 

Rozanov doesn’t talk about his parents much, Shane has noticed, so he’s instantly curious. He remembers him telling Wyatt at some point that his father worked in the Ministry or something, he thinks, but besides that he knows nothing.

When he hears Rozanov turn the shower off, Shane calls out, “your father called, by the way.”

“Oh.” The voice is clipped, and though there’s no more reply from inside the bathroom, Shane waits, fidgeting. They were naked and Rozanov was inside of him only ten minutes ago, but somehow it feels like a violation to round the corner and see Rozanov wrapping a towel around his waist—or worse, wearing no towel at all. Shane thinks he’d get on his knees all over again, and that’s what got him in this situation in the first place.

When Rozanov emerges, securing the towel around his waist—thank God—his expression is distant and his jaw clenched. It’s a far cry from the easy, relaxed, post-orgasm Rozanov Shane saw only minutes ago, so the difference is stark enough to have him narrowing his eyes.

“I will call back later,” Rozanov says finally, eyes hard.

“He called twice,” Shane adds. “Are you sure you don’t want to take it now? I can leave if you—”

“No.” Rozanov’s voice is ice-cold and leaves no room for debate, and it seems to come out more forceful than Rozanov intended because he shuts his eyes and lets out a slow breath, shaking his head. “Sorry. Just—my father can be difficult person. Very… hard. Also, he talks a lot, so if I answer now we will never make it to the bar.”

Shane sees the mention of the bar for what it is—an opportunity to change the subject. He has the insatiable urge to press Rozanov like an old bruise, but he hates the way his expression has clouded over and bears no resemblance to the cheeky grin covering his face only minutes ago. Besides, there’s no reason for Rozanov to tell him anything. That’s not what this is.

“Should I slip out the back door after I shower, then?” Shane asks, obeying the silent request for a topic change.

Rozanov’s eyes brighten. Shane watches his expression morph from guarded apprehension back to easy joy, and can’t help but think of a flower blooming. Jesus, when did he get so mushy?

“I know how much you like back door,” Rozanov says, waggling his eyebrows, and Shane just laughs and rolls his eyes. “Yes. I will go to Marly’s and make sure we are few minutes late just in case.”

Shane nods.

He spends the whole time in the shower wondering if Rozanov will kiss him goodbye. They’ve kissed just to kiss a few times, but it was always after one of those floaty periods of Shane’s where he found himself needing that contact more than usual. Since then, though, something has changed. 

Shane pumps the musky-scented bodywash into his hand and lathers up his body, shuddering at the concept of smelling like Rozanov, and considers what it is that has shifted. Things are still ostensibly the same; Rozanov teaches him, takes care of him when he needs it, and then he leaves. But the lines had blurred at one point, sharing lazy kisses and cuddles without any agenda or purpose, and now they’ve solidified again. 

And even though Shane feels like the line has moved, allowing more casual intimacy than that first night on Shane’s couch, he also feels like there’s a much stricter delineation between that and anything else they do together, like playing video games. He can sometimes feel when the sex lesson ends, when Rozanov decides they’re done and rolls over. There’s never a lot of space between them—they have this tendency to always gravitate towards each other, touching or almost-touching nearly all the time, to the point where Shane is worried they’ll do it in practice and their teammates will notice—but lately Shane feels that two inch gap between their knees on the couch like a gaping chasm. 

But it’s… it’s fine, right? Rozanov is just being more clear, better at explicitly sticking to the terms of their deal. He’s showing Shane how to make him—people, he means people in general—feel good, and any extra time that Shane manages to squeeze out is just a bonus. 

He steps under the warm spray and allows the sound of the droplets hitting the linoleum floor to muffle his groan of frustration. He doesn’t know what to do with the corner of his heart that wants those lines to blur again, that wants all of it all the time. 

He wants Rozanov to make him come, then make him another tuna melt. Then hold him. Then play video games and make Shane snort ginger ale out of his nose with his awful impression of Scott Hunter. Then debate whether the Voyageurs have a chance of making the playoffs this year. Then hold him some more. 

But it’s just natural. Rozanov is the only person Shane has had any of these experiences with. Of course he’d naturally gravitate to wanting more of it because they’re objectively good things—and he’d want them with Rozanov because that’s what it’s used to. Totally normal.

He feels like his body is a radio tuned in only to Rozanov’s frequency.

It fucking sucks. 

He’s been thinking a lot recently about whether he should just call this off and turn to someone else for the affection he’s craving, but that has only spurred a whole host of other questions about his sexuality. Things are beginning to click into place, but slowly and in the background. Shane isn’t quite ready to let it into the light yet. 

Which leaves Rozanov. Back to square one. 

Hardly a bad square to start with, Shane thinks to himself as he turns off the shower, not for the first time. He has friends who’d had awful first experiences—hell, the first night Hayden met his girlfriend Jackie, he’d been so drunk that he threw up on her at the club during their first kiss. 

But they’re engaged now, and stupidly in love, so perhaps not the best example. 

The point is that Shane could do a whole lot worse with Rozanov. Really, if he ignored the fact that they were teammates playing a historically very homophobic sport and that Rozanov could sometimes be kind of a dick, he was kind of everything Shane didn’t know he’d wanted.

And woah. Shane shuts that thought down real fast. It’s a useless thought exercise, designed only to bring him anguish. And he gives himself plenty of anguish all by himself, thanks very much.

Shane opens the door to the bathroom, and it turns out his debate about whether or not Rozanov would kiss him goodbye was moot.

He’s already gone.

Good, Shane thinks. All the better to avoid suspicion. 

So he just closes the back door behind him and tries not to feel like he’s missed a step on the staircase as it closes. 

Look at you. Look how good you look for me.

“Shane? Shaaaaaaaaane?”

Shane blinks, startled by Hayden’s hand waving in front of his face. He hadn’t even realised his best friend was talking to him. 

“Sorry, buddy. What were you saying?”

“Dude, where are you tonight? You’ve been even weirder than usual since you got here.”

Shane ignores the dig about his usual behaviour and fights a wince. He has been acting off since he got here, thrown off kilter by Rozanov’s disappearance from his own house while Shane was in the shower. The crowds, piercingly loud music and overlapping chatter has also been slowly grating on his nerves, but mostly he's just stuck on earlier. He’s gone back and forth over the last few hours they’ve been at the bar—on the one hand, Rozanov did say he was going to Marly’s to give Shane a chance to leave unseen, but on the other, leaving your own house while your hookup is in the shower is weird, right? 

Shane doesn’t know anymore. He’s lost all sense of objectivity. And his head hurts. 

“My mom was just on me a lot at lunch yesterday,” Shane explains. It’s not untrue. 

Hayden winces in sympathy. “God, Yuna. Tell her I said she’s made a diamond, she doesn’t need to keep pressing you. And that she’s hot.”

“Ew. Yeah, I… won’t be telling her that.”

Hayden shrugs. “Her loss. Seriously, though, that sucks. I know you’re stressed, or whatever, but… all the more reason to get fucking drunk, right?”

With a one-shouldered shrug, Shane turns to sip at his ginger ale. “You know I don’t drink during the season,” he says.

Except for the night you had three beers and a bunch of rum and made a Craigslist ad that ended in you sucking Rozanov’s d—

“Anyway,” he continues, forceful enough to shake the thought loose from his mind, “where’s Jackie tonight? I thought she’d be out celebrating the win with us.”

“Nursing final. Having an exam start at 7pm should be fucking criminal.”

“Amen to that.” They clink glasses.

“I just want you to relax and have some fun, man. You know that, right? Don’t want you to feel like I’m pressuring you or anything.”

God, Shane does love Hayden. “I know, buddy. It’s okay. Sorry I haven’t been much fun tonight.”

Hayden grins. “Well, you made up for it beforehand by scoring a hat-trick against Nova Scotia, so I feel like you’ve earned the right to be a bit more reserved. I mean, you’ve also earned the right to get blackout, but since I know you won’t go for that option, even though it would be super super fun to be drunk with you—”

“Hayden.”

“Right. Sorry.”

Shane rubs his eyes. He does need to get out of his head and unwind—he feels like his shoulders are up to his ears with tension and he’s worried he’s going to have a migraine later. He thinks about texting Rozanov, thought about you so hard I got a migraine, then considers all the replies he might receive. I think you mean ‘got so hard you got dick sprain’, or want me to kiss it better? or is just proof thinking is bad for you, Hollander. He won’t text him—he’d rather have teeth pulled than admit to Rozanov that he’s been thinking about him so much he can’t function—but it’s a nice thought.

It doesn’t help that the one time he had gotten the courage to look over to the corner where Rozanov was holding court with Marly and Dykstra, he’d seen Rozanov gesturing emphatically as everyone fell into hysterics, not even sparing a glance in Shane’s direction. He didn’t even seem bothered, and barely spared Shane a terse nod when he finally did arrive with Marly in tow—half an hour late. 

“Hey, why is Rozanov looking—”

“Pike, did you manage to get Hollywood to stop sulking?”

A shudder of disgust runs down Shane’s spine as soon as he hears the voice and that stupid nickname talking over Hayden, and he cringes when tree-trunk arms wrap too familiarly around his shoulder.

“Shane wasn’t sulking, Kent,” Hayden replies, his light and jovial tone tinged with warning that Dallas Kent clearly doesn’t catch in the slightest. 

“Really? I thought I saw him crying over here. What, Hollywood, did your tampon fall out? Is it that time of the month?”

Shane bites down so hard into the flesh of his cheek that he thinks he’s going to draw blood. He’s heard plenty of truly horrendous shit flung around in the locker room or on the ice, but only from people like Kent does he hear any of it bleed into life outside hockey.

“It’s your mom’s time of the month, asshole,” Hayden snaps, and Shane is grateful to him for stepping in, even if it's a cheap chirp. He’s not sure what he would’ve said. 

Kent doesn’t leave, but he at least stands and removes the arm from around Shane. Step one. “So, why’d you pull Price off of Rozanov? I thought you hated the guy.”

Shane clenches his jaw. He hadn’t expected stepping in to cause such a stir. He would've done it for any teammate. 

Right?

“Blood was drawn,” he says tightly. “Fight was over.”

Kent rolls his eyes. “That rule’s for pussies. Everyone knows you—”

“Marauders, over here! We’re doing shots!”

They all look up to see JJ standing at the bar, looking ecstatic to be lining up about twenty shots in a neat row and waving the rest of the team over. Shane hadn’t planned on drinking tonight, but thank God. Anything to get him away from that. 

Just as Shane reaches the sticky counter, another figure appears beside him and he instantly stills. Rozanov. 

“Enjoying yourself?” Rozanov asks in a low voice, not looking over.

“Living the dream,” Shane snaps.

“Hey, fuckers!” Marly yells, and then points to JJ who is standing on a serving tray on the counter. Shane is so glad he already knows JJ is friends with the bar’s owner. 

“I just wanted to say congratulations to all of us for one hell of a game yesterday!” JJ shouts, and all the friends and girlfriends of the team erupt in cheers, joined by the patrons who have no idea who they are but are celebrating for the sake of celebrating.

“To our fearless capitain and man of the match, and to the MARAUDERS!” JJ adds, and Shane quickly downs the shot in one as the packed bar erupts again. He tries to ignore the fact that the burning in his throat is nothing compared to the heat on his skin where Rozanov’s elbow brushed against him as he took his own shot. 

“What did Kent want?” Rozanov says when they’re done, his voice gritty from the alcohol.

“To ruin my evening,” Shane grits out. No, he’s so done with this. He has no interest in making small talk with Rozanov and pretending he didn’t just have his dick in his mouth less than an hour ago, all because… what? Rozanov has deigned to talk to him? Fuck that. He practically stomps over to where Hayden and JJ are wiping their mouths and clapping the back of a coughing Luca Haas.

“You good, Haasy?” Hayden asks with a barely-repressed laugh, watching Luca splutter.

“I guess we should’ve warned you it was absinthe,” JJ says, but he doesn’t sound apologetic at all.

“It is fine,” Luca says when he’s finished coughing. His face is bright red, and his eyes are watering. Shane had thought the shot was horrible, but Luca's reaction makes him think he missed something. “I’ve just never had this alcohol before. What did you say it is?”

“Absinthe,” Carmichael echoes, grinning. His own face looks a little red, too. “It’s fucking uranium, but it gets you fucked up.”

“I don’t know if I want anymore of this,” Luca says, screwing up his face. “Uranium does not sound like a good idea.”

“Nothing fun is good idea,” an all-too familiar voice drawls behind him. It’s Rozanov, leaning against the bar counter and watching Luca with amusement. 

Shane fights back the shiver that runs through his body, both at hearing Rozanov and at his words. All it does is make him think of all the terrible, bad things he and Rozanov had done together—and how fun they’d all been. 

He focuses instead on watching Luca turn even redder as he looks up at Rozanov with wide eyes. God, the kid idolizes him. It’s always been obvious on the ice, but Shane is quickly discovering that it’s even worse when they’re out of gear. Luca is looking at the Russian like he’d happily be his personal footstool if Rozanov asked it of him. 

“T-true,” Luca manages weakly, and a few of the other guys titter. The topic of Luca’s idolization of Rozanov has been a common topic of conversation in the locker room, Shane knows, so the other guys are probably getting a kick out of this. 

Shane isn’t watching Luca anymore, though. He’s watching Rozanov. His eyes aren’t unkind as he looks back at their younger teammate, and in fact seem soft when he sits in the chair beside Luca and leans back.

“I have been wanting to say, Haas,” Rozanov says casually, lowering his voice just a little as he looks around at the bar filled with their teammates who are mostly occupied talking to each other. His gaze doesn’t reach Shane, still watching like an idiot. “That penalty you got in game against Nova Scotia was bullshit.”

Luca blinks. Then blinks some more. “Uh, um, thanks. Yes, it was very stupid.”

“And you have been doing great job,” Rozanov adds, turning to look at him now. Luca flushes again, but Rozanov holds his gaze. “Really. You are very talented, and we are lucky to have you.”

His eyes flicker up to Shane’s, meeting his gaze for the first time tonight. Finally, Shane thinks, and something in his chest unwinds a little. 

Shane knows what Rozanov is actually saying, of course. He’s living up to the promise he made Shane on his couch what feels like years ago now, that he’d give Luca a compliment if Shane managed to make him hard without touching him. Shane had been beginning to think he’d forgotten—and that, as a result, he didn’t feel anything about Shane and their lessons—but now…

It’s a subtle nod, a silent promise, an olive branch that Shane never thought he’d get, especially after today’s hot and cold routine. 

He can’t help but smile, though, because the compliment seems genuine and Luca is babbling his thanks so emphatically that Shane is worried that he might pass out. So as much as he knows it’s stupid, that he shouldn’t, he takes the olive branch anyway. 

Slowly, without looking away from Rozanov as Luca continues to ramble, Shane lifts his hand to his ear and tugs on his earlobe.

Rozanov’s eyes go to his lips immediately. 

Score. 

Now, to see if he can convince Rozanov to leave this thing early. 

***

It keeps getting worse. 

Before practice the next day, Hollander texts Ilya saying, quickie? After a quick Google to find out what ‘quickie’ means, Ilya is running over to his apartment. 

And then and then and then… they keep going. Ilya keeps not saying anything. For ten days. 

The words sit on the tip of his tongue, all the phrases he could use to fix things forever. This was a bad idea, we should stop. You’ve graduated from all your lessons and you’re done now. I want to see you happy so much it hurts to breathe and I don’t know what to do about that. 

Y’know. Normal stuff.

Other stuff too, but... anyway.

He always bites the words back. 

He’d even been planning on doing it after Hollander came over before the team thing at the bar. He’d spent the whole day after seeing him in those damn shorts thinking about his mirror plan, barring the two hours in the middle of the day where he’d had a crisis and called his old plug, Kyle, for some weed. 

He’d smoked a bit. It was stupid given that it was the middle of the season even though they’d already been tested, and worst of all, it hadn’t taken his mind off it. At all. But somehow he convinced himself that his original thought had been right, that he should just say any of the things he's been practicing to himself.

When Hollander did finally come over, Ilya wondered how he ever thought he could get his mind off him.

So he’d said the thing to Haas instead. He’d enjoyed making the Swiss kid get all flustered like that, but he’d enjoyed the tiny smile on Hollander’s face even more.

Another time a few days after that, Hollander makes a joke at practice that is genuinely funny. Ilya wants to tell him this, tell him that for once he’s actually amusing, but he’s scared it’ll make him stop cracking awful jokes and saying the punchlines wrong so he doesn’t. He likes hearing those more than he’d like to admit. 

Instead he just watches the rest of the team laugh, Bood and JJ slapping Hollander amiably on the shoulder as they pass, and thinks desperately for an excuse to touch Hollander too despite the fact that they are famously not friends until finally, lamely, he settles for putting a finger on his chest and flicking his face when he looks down. 

Hollander’s nose scrunches at this, but he’s flushed, too. Score.

The time they spend together is precious, often because it’s so short. They steal thirty minutes here before Hollander has a lecture, an hour there in between practice and the party Ilya is going to. It’s not enough, not even close, and Ilya finds himself with the desperate urge to yell for Hollander to stay every time he stands to get dressed. 

It’s a sex thing, he tells himself. He hasn’t gotten with anyone recently—unless you count Sveta, or the girl at the club with the black glittery eyeshadow, or the girl at the other club in the green dress, and the last two were just hookups. His brain is just associating endorphins with the person who has recently been most statistically likely to give them to him. If he’d been spending a lot of time with Marly or Wyatt, he tells himself, and they’d been on good form—then yeah. He’d want more time with them too.

But not for sex, and that’s all Ilya wants Hollander for. Obviously. 

One reason for this is because they’re so compatible. He feels like he knows Hollander and what he wants well enough by now, and Hollander certainly knows his body—Ilya has had his brain sucked out via his dick multiple times by now—but he’d never thought that Hollander had that same innate ability to know what he needs, too.

And then they lose to UBC—badly—and Ilya has barely gotten changed before his phone lights up with a phone call. It’s his father, again. He’s been ignoring him, but now that he’s lost a game he doesn’t have much of a choice—if Ilya doesn’t respond to him now, his father will threaten to never pay a cent of tuition so he can keep playing hockey again. He means it. And Ilya needs hockey. 

So he picks up the phone, and promptly spends the next hour being chewed out by his father while walking home, later pacing his apartment. Grigori laments why Ilya didn’t stay in Russia and go to the KHL, why he didn’t choose a university in America, why he didn’t choose a university in Canada that was in an English-only city, why he chose to do Russian Literature. Why he’s so lazy, why he’s so stupid, why he’s so worthless. 

It goes round and round and round, and Ilya fights to stay calm the whole time. It’s not like he hasn’t heard these exact words from his father hundreds of times, not to mention the parroting of it his brother does. It should be familiar to him now. He needs his tuition money too badly to hang up, so he should just tune it out. And yet lazy and stupid and worthless seep into his bloodstream like a slow-moving poison, turning his veins to a black sludge of loathing, and he doesn’t know how to get it out. 

When he finally does end the call, Ilya is seething and closer to tears than he’s been since his mother’s funeral. Stupid. So stupid. He really should’ve expected this, should’ve been better. They shouldn’t have lost in the first place. And it was Ilya’s fault; he missed an early opportunity to even the score in the third period because he was too slow to take the shot, leaving the Marauders scrambling to keep up for the rest of the game. In the end, the score was 5-3.

It didn’t matter that Ilya had scored two of the Marauders’ three goals, or that he’d been named man of the match, or that Marly had told him repeatedly—and with some exasperation by the end—that the loss wasn’t Ilya’s fault alone. But Ilya’s phone had kept ringing, so Ilya kept going, until finally Marly just left him to walk home alone with a shake of his head and a promise to text Ilya later.

So now he’s alone. The team is gone, Marly is gone, Hollander is gone. He’d left the arena like his ass was on fire. His father is gone, though maybe not in the way Ilya sometimes wishes. He’s… by himself.

Fucking wonderful. 

He keeps pacing. He thinks about calling Sveta but knows she’s busy today at some big car show she’s working back in Toronto, so he pockets his phone with a huff. Paces some more. Maybe he could text Barrett, see if he’s around. No. He’d been talking excitedly with a guy Ilya recognised as the photographer for the university’s newspaper right after the game, so Ilya had decided to leave them to it. 

Pacing. 

Pacing. 

Pacing. 

He could go out, find someone at a club, maybe. 

No.

More pacing.

Ah, fuck it. Ilya reaches for his phone and, after one more moment’s hesitation, texts the person his body has known he would text this whole time. He keeps it simple.

?

Ilya watches the text bubble appear, then disappear, then appear again. He fights a smile. Finally, Hollander’s response comes through and Ilya laughs for the first time since he stepped on the ice today.

!

Hollander is stepping through Ilya’s door only a few minutes later and Ilya is pressing him back against the wall. He had debated sending a text to say never mind, I have plans, but while his thumb hovered over the button he never pressed ‘send’. He couldn’t. 

He thinks that sex with Hollander will steady him somehow, or at least quell the rage that Ilya is feeling in his chest, red and ugly and swirling. He wants it hard and brutal and punishing, all the things that he thinks he deserves and knows Hollander likes, and he wants it now.

“Are you okay?”

Ilya is interrupted in his reverie by the man in question, who hovers in the doorway and studies Ilya carefully. He suddenly feels altogether too raw and exposed, like a nerve in the open air, and knows instantly that Hollander can see every bit of what Ilya’s feeling playing out across his face. 

“I don’t—” Ilya starts after a long pause of silence, then stops. He sighs. “English is hard.”

Ilya knows one other thing he’d like to be hard. 

He straightens, levelling Hollander with his best ‘I want to fuck you into the floor’ eyes and rakes his gaze over Hollander’s body, clad in a soft-looking hoodie and sweatpants.

“Take your clothes off,” he says finally.

These words are usually met with pretty immediate compliance, so he’s surprised when Hollander doesn’t move. He just watches Ilya, waiting with his head cocked. 

“I said, take your clothes off. Now.”

Slowly, Hollander shakes his head. Ilya feels the frustration beginning to boil up inside him again, has to turn away to furiously wipe at the angry tears stinging his eyes. Fuck, it’s like a dam has opened up since the phone call. When he turns back, Hollander is still watching him with that steady gaze. 

“What the fuck is your problem?” Ilya snaps, and Hollander looks at him like he’s a dog he wants to rap on the nose with a rolled up newspaper. 

Hollander takes several slow, measured steps with his hands on Ilya's chest, walking him backwards to the opposite wall. Ilya only ever sees him this calm when he’s on the ice, designing a new drill or skating languidly around the rink, and he doesn’t know what to do with this Hollander. He knows Hockey Hollander, he knows Horny Hollander, he knows Needy Hollander. He’s very intimate with Annoyed Hollander. But Patient Hollander? Directed at him? No. This is new territory. 

When Hollander is finally only a hair’s breadth away from Ilya, he takes Ilya’s face in his hands so gently that Ilya wonders if Hollander thinks he’s made from porcelain. 

“This is my problem,” Hollander replies, and presses their lips together. 

Ilya melts into the kiss, clawing at Hollander’s shoulders in a fight to escalate things as Hollander, to put it mildly, kisses the shit out of him, but still he doesn’t give in. No matter how much Ilya nips and bites and sucks on his tongue, he doesn’t give back the same desperation that Ilya is craving. 

“Come on,” he growls frustratedly into Hollander’s mouth, reaching down to cup him through his sweatpants, but Hollander’s gentle hand on his wrist stills his movement. 

“No,” Hollander says simply, and then he pulls away. Ilya worries for a second that he’s done something wrong—something else wrong, his brain reminds him—but Hollander is still looking at him with the same warmth in his eyes. “I have an idea.”

When Hollander starts pulling Ilya through his apartment and towards the couch, Ilya is hopeful that the night will go how he’d wanted it to in the first place, but Hollander makes no move to take off his clothes and instead settles into the cushions and looks up at Ilya expectantly. 

Ilya complies with some reluctance, sitting down gingerly and raising a disdainful brow at Hollander, like, are you happy now?

Hollander nods. He shifts a little, and Ilya hones in on the movement with all the attention to detail of a safecracker listening for the faint click of their success. Hollander is nervous. 

“I saw you at the arena,” Hollander begins. “You looked stressed. I want to talk about it.”

“And what if I don’t?” Ilya challenges, because he’s feeling petulant and he really doesn’t want to talk about it. He wants to fuck about it. Fucking, famously, makes all problems go away. 

He glances up at Hollander. 

Well. Most of them.

Hollander shrugs. “Then you don’t,” he says simply. “But I think you do.”

“And how do you know that?”

“You texted me, didn’t you?”

“Not to talk. Since when did we just talk?”

Hollander lifts one shoulder again. “Never,” he relents. “But we could do both, who knows?” He sits forward, setting his onyx eyes on Ilya with a new intensity. “You said English is hard, right?”

“Yes. English is stupid language.” And Ilya sounds stupid in it. 

Stupid.

Hollander actually smiles at this. “Yeah, I can see that. So…” he bites his lip. “What if you didn’t speak English? What if you spoke Russian?”

Ilya narrows his eyes. “Oh, you are fluent in Russian now?” It probably wouldn’t take him long. The genius asshole is already fluent in two languages, so what more is a third?

“No, of course not,” Hollander scoffs. “But that’s the point. I won’t understand, but maybe it would… I don’t know. Maybe it would feel good to get it off your chest.”

Ilya considers this. This was not where he’d been hoping would happen with Hollander at his place, and he’s still sort of hopeful for sex because his body is permanently abuzz for it whenever he's around, but it’s better than burning a hole in his living room floor from all the pacing he’s been doing. 

“Okay,” he says finally. “Okay. Let’s do it.”

“Really?” Hollander seems genuinely surprised, and his face splits into a grin as he sits up and readjusts himself on the couch. “Okay, let me just—there. Cool. I’m ready.”

Ilya eyes his position—cross-legged and facing him—and raises a brow. “Yes. I see that.”

Hollander scrunches his nose, looking down at his folded legs. “Sorry. I’m a little eager.” He shakes his head, and then suddenly his cheeks go pink, providing a candy-coloured backdrop for his dark freckles. Ilya is mesmerised. 

Whatever he’s embarrassed about, he’s not saying it. Ilya can’t help himself. He reaches out and pokes Hollander’s cheek. “What is it?”

Hollander slowly unfolds his legs, settling himself back on the cushions in a more casual position. “I like when you speak Russian,” he admits like the words are being dragged out of him, and.

Oh.

“Better than when I speak English like Bond villain,” Ilya jokes, though it comes out flat to his own ears as well. 

Hollander shakes his head emphatically. “No. I like your accent in English, too. But when you speak Russian you just seem more… relaxed.”

“Is true. Russian is more nature.”

“Natural.”

“Yes. This.”

“So… whenever you’re ready.”

Ilya feels a little embarrassed now that he knows Hollander is actively listening to him like this, and has the inexplicable urge to search him to make sure he’s not recording it to translate later, but he pushes the thoughts out of his head. All he needs to do now is… talk.

Huh.

“I fucking hate my father,” Ilya begins fiercely, in Russian. The words rush to the surface like blood welling from a wound, quick and dark and from somewhere deep, and Ilya bleeds. He talks about his father’s time in the police, how his honorary discharge after a shoulder injury was an embarrassment he never got over even after he started working in the Ministry. He talks about how his father always coddled Alexei and barely looked in Ilya’s direction until he picked up a hockey stick, and how now the pressure is relentless and insatiable despite the growing gaps in his father’s memory. More. He always wants more.

Mostly, he talks about his mother. He starts off by talking about how she was far too young for his father, how his father never respected her, but soon enough he finds himself talking about things he thought he’d forgotten—how her laugh sounded like windchimes, how she loved to play the piano, how she used to sing a French lullaby he still can’t remember the words to but can suddenly shape the melody of. He hears his voice grow thick, but he doesn't care. He just wants to tell someone about her.

He doesn’t talk about being twelve, about finding her—he can’t, not even in a language Hollander doesn’t understand, he’s never told anyone—but he talks about how he wishes things could be different. 

He wishes his mother could see him grow up, and that she could watch him do something he was truly good at. He wishes she could know that he got out from under Grigori’s thumb—mostly—and is now living in an amazing country with a great group of friends. He wishes she could know what he now knew, that sometimes happiness is just over the hill and all you have to do is wait. Would she have held on, he wonders? If she knew that? Would she have held on for him? 

He doesn’t know. He can’t speak those words aloud, either.

He wishes, inexplicably, that he could come out to her. He was too young when she died to remember much about her views, but he knows she was kind to everything she saw. He wonders if her tolerance would’ve extended to him, too. He wishes he could have found out the answer, that he could have shared this part of himself with her and been hugged and accepted by her. 

He just wishes so much was different. 

The whole time, Hollander is listening. It’s obvious he’s listening intently, one arm stretched out over the back rest with a leg bent on the couch, the rest of his body angled towards Ilya, his eyes slipping shut only a minute into Ilya speaking. If Hollander could translate his words through sheer force of will, Ilya thinks, he would. He seems to be trying to etch the shapes of the unfamiliar words into his brain.

His brow furrows when Ilya starts talking about his mother, and Ilya knows Hollander must be able to hear some of the anguish in his voice even if he can’t translate the words. His lips part, and Ilya wonders what Russian words would taste like on Hollander's tongue. Words like beautiful and perfect and mine. 

Watching Hollander gets him away from the topic of his mother, and though he's thankful to feel the storm cloud over his heart pass, soon he finds himself talking about something completely new, and much scarier. 

“Mostly I wish it was different for us,” Ilya is saying, still in Russian. He feels raw and bold and tired, so tired of pretending. He watches Hollander’s fingers twitch like he wants to reach for Ilya at the rawness of his voice. “I wish we didn’t have to hide. I want to say I wish I didn’t feel this way at all, but I know that’s not true.” He laughs, a watery, trembling sound, and Hollander’s eyes crack open to look at him. “I wish you never put that ad out, or that someone else answered the door, or that you slammed it in my face when I knocked.”

Hollander is smiling faintly, and Ilya likes to think he gets the gist. 

“But I don’t wish that. Not really. I just - fuck." He cuts himself off and swallows hard. He didn't think he'd be saying this now, knows he's even closer to tears than he was earlier, but he still can't stop himself. He rubs at his eyes furiously and takes a breath.

"I think I love you and I don’t know where to put it."

He lets out a long, slow breath, and Hollander’s eyes fully open now. He blinks as if adjusting to the light. 

“Okay,” Ilya says, switching back to English. It feels like a scratchy sweater. “I’m done.”

Hollander smiles. “Do you… feel better?”

Ilya thinks about it. “Yes. A little.”

Saying everything out loud had been terrifying, but Ilya hopes it was an exorcism of sorts for him. Maybe now he can finally get some fucking rest. More than anything, Ilya feels a load off at admitting all the stuff about his father. He’s not allowed to say any of it in Russia, knows there’s no point given Grigori’s position in the Ministry means he could bury it with a sweep of his hand. He couldn’t say any of what he said in Russia, actually.

He's... not going to think about the rest of it.

“Good,” Hollander says, pleased, and then leans in to kiss him again. 

When he slides into Ilya’s lap, it feels like coming home. Ilya smiles into the kiss, reaching for the hem of Hollander’s hoodie, but Hollander shakes his head. 

“No,” he says softly. “Let me.”

And so he slips his own hoodie off, then helps Ilya take off his. Then their sweatpants, then socks. Hollander undresses Ilya with a gentle and methodical reverence that he’s never experienced before, folding each item off to the side and placing a kiss on the exposed skin before moving on to the next garment. 

Ilya still has an itch under his skin, a heat roiling low in his stomach that he wants to satiate by sliding inside Hollander hard and fast, but Hollander is running this show. He doesn’t use his strength against Ilya and try to pin him down, but it turns out that all Ilya needs is a steady look or a shake of his head to stop reaching and just wait for whatever Hollander will give him. 

Because he’ll take it. He’ll take it all. 

Slowly but surely, Ilya finds the animal inside him that wants to punish, to be punished, is curling up by the warm fire of Hollander’s attention and beginning to softly snore. Safe.

***

Shane is well aware that what he’s doing could be described as worship, but he has no plans of stopping. 

He takes his time mapping Rozanov’s body, exploring every inch with his fingers and then his mouth except for the part of Rozanov most begging for his attention. At any other time, he’d be on his knees in an instant. He knows that, and so does Rozanov. 

But he’d seen that look pass over Rozanov’s face in the locker room and had known instantly that something was wrong, and he had a sneaking suspicion that it was something to do with his father. He didn't know why, he didn't know how, he just... knew.

So he’d paced his apartment, wondering if he should just go over or text first or just leave Rozanov alone—it had been clear when he left the arena that he didn’t want company—until finally Rozanov had texted him that damned question mark, and by the time Shane sent his exclamation he was already out of the door. 

And Rozanov had seemed so off when he opened the door, bone-tired in a way that Shane has rarely ever seen him and desperate for the wrong kind of attention. 

Shane had been thinking about his whole Russian plan ever since his dad had called while Rozanov was in the shower last week, but he’d never found the opportunity to enact it. Until now. 

Shane had been right. Rozanov seemed to unwind much more in Russian, falling into a much more comfortable rhythm and cadence and gesticulating with his hands as he talked and talked. He could’ve talked for a minute, he could’ve talked for an hour. Shane is none the wiser. All he knows is that he listened to Rozanov form the harsh syllables and glottal stops that made up his first language language, all the sounds coming together to sound like metal scraping against ice in the middle of a storm, exactly how he imagined the Russian climate, and he thought it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever heard. 

Which brings him to here: kissing Rozanov’s big toe and then hesitantly sucking it into his mouth, swirling his tongue before moving to the other foot.

God, what the hell is he doing?

His eyes flicker up. Rozanov has been quiet for much of this, but Shane knows him well enough by now to recognize the hitches in his breathing, the way his eyes darken at the sight of Shane cradling the arch of his foot. He’s scared to enjoy this, but he does. Shane knows it. He kisses the tender skin on the inside of his ankle just to watch him flush.

He climbs his way up Rozanov’s body until finally he’s settled back in his lap, holding his face, and then he kisses him with all the gentleness and feeling that he can channel into it. 

They fuck, because of course they do. Shane had been as desperate for Rozanov as Rozanov had been for him when they arrived, but he was a man on a mission—now, this is the icing on the cake. It’s quickly becoming a familiar routine, but one Shane will never tire of. 

Rozanov is soft and reverent when he preps Shane, fingering him with slow, measured precision until Shane is whining and rolling his hips against Rozanov’s hand. The kisses now are more biting, a promise of something to come, and when Shane finally sinks down on Rozanov’s cock he fights the urge to breathe a sigh of relief because yes, this is what he wanted. What he needed. 

And it’s clear Rozanov needed this too. He’s looking at Shane like he still can’t quite believe he’s here, and instead of looking at where his cock is sliding in and out of Shane like he usually does his eyes are on Shane’s face. You can blink, Shane thinks silently as he rolls his hips. I’m not going anywhere. 

And he doesn’t. He doesn’t float, or lose himself, or drift—he stays firmly anchored to this moment, to Rozanov beneath him. He thinks in part it’s because this time he’s the one doing the talking. He’s the cruise ship director, pointing the way to go. 

“I—fuck—I love your cock,” Shane tells him, switching from up-and-down to forward-and-back movements that make Rozanov shudder all over. “So big.”

“So tight,” Rozanov mumbles, reaching down and stroking a thumb over Shane’s stretched out hole. 

Shane fights to stay calm. You have a job to do, he reminds himself. 

“You feel so fucking good,” he says, and then he keeps talking. It’s a lot of babbling, a lot of fucks and ahs and so goods that he can’t swallow back, but he doesn’t want to. 

Rozanov is looking up at him like he just hung the stars, like he’s just cracked the Voynich manuscript, like every equation in the world suddenly makes sense to him. 

He keeps talking. You’re so hot and you know just how to fuck me right and you need this. The last one slips out without thinking, but what Shane really means is you deserve this—he’s glad he bit that one back, though, because he doesn’t know what Rozanov’s reaction would be to that kind of softness. 

He thinks Rozanov understands anyway, though, because he lets out a shaky breath and cants his hips upwards in a silent request for more. Good boy, Shane almost says when he doesn’t roll them both over and start thrusting with abandon, but he bites that back too and keeps moving. He’s pretty sure Rozanov would run if he ever heard those words. 

And then he thinks of some words that would definitely make Rozanov run if he heard them, words that he’s never said aloud to anyone in the way he means them now, words he’s never thought of himself as being able to encapsulate. 

I love you. 

And one final thought rings through his head, clear as a bell.

What the actual everloving fuck?

Chapter End Notes

haha.

okay guys BEFORE YOU FREAKOUT let's discuss . please . be calm . NO GUYS I SAID BE FUCKING CALM-

firstly i just really hope you guys enjoyed this one bc it's a bit different from the others more like shorter vignettes so just ahhh hope you liked it. OKAY YES LET'S GET INTO IT (i'm so sorry i have a lot to say today lol beefy author's note for a beefy fuckin chapter amirite)

no but seriously, shane's L word thought might seem out of the blue but this is a guy who has no idea of his feelings at any point ever. also like if we're speaking in canon terms, i've always interpreted shane's 'holy shit' and then 'god i love you so much' after ilya says it as him realizing that he's felt that way too and has for a long time, that he's always kinda known but now he's allowed to feel it. so tHERE. sorry y'all not me defending myself from imaginary attackers

anyway, let's work backwards here... the russian scene!!! a lot more introspection from ilya today AND the confession AND shane watching him through it all!!!!!!!!!

and even better LUCA HAAS FINALLY GOT A COMPLIMENT FROM HIS IDOL Y'ALL LIFE IS WORTH LIVING :):):):):) u have no idea how much i was trying to shoehorn it in earlier but i think it's more logical here lol i hope the fuckin six chapter payoff was worth it

speaking of life being worth living the mirror thing literally came to me in a dream i woke up this morning in a cold sweat like 'THEY NEED TO FUCK NASTY IN FRONT OF A REFLECTIVE SURFACE' and immediately got to work so you're welcome i guess??

last but very fucking certainly not least i love hollanov dont get me wrong but i'm even more in love with sveta than chris from empty netters podcast is so... like ilya is BISEXUAL and REPRESSING FEELINGS but thankfully he has sveta to love him until shane gets his head out of his ass <3<3<3 thank god for that because sveta is THE goat (with rose obviously but like it's sveta's turn now)

home stretch home slices! sort of! i still don't know how many chapters this is gonna be and now i need to reread the whole thing to make sure my plans still make sense! help!!!

and for all those who told me good luck on my dissertation, thank you so much and i did in fact write 1k words of it today and planned the rest out so PROGRESS but then again i also wrote 15k of this so like. um. haha anyway

okay, i think i'm done. i'm also EXCITEDDDDD for the next chapter y'all if you knew what was coming...

byeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee i love u all

Chapter 9: all your insides fall to pieces

Chapter Summary

in this extra special one millionth word chapter: shane has a crisis (again), mixed signals suck, and facetimes don't ;)

Chapter Notes

happy new years guys!!!! haven't seen you all since last year wow that's so crazy aha

y'all... with this chapter i officially cross the ONE MILLION WORDS WRITTEN ON AO3 COUNT !!!!!! that's a befuddling, bewitching, bombastic number of words and it's so fucking crazy i can't even believe it. who knew discovering this silly little site on tumblr when i was 12 would lead to me putting my writing on here six years ago and all of THIS one million words later .... actually unreal and thank you to everyone for the kudos and comments and love along the way <3

so to celebrate i decided to get this chapter out early!! was supposed to be out yesterday as a surprise but i celebrated my fav holiday a lil too hard :') anyways i split it into two parts because tbh i started writing then realised the chap would end well over 20k lol. it feels like a natural ending here though so hope you enjoy!!

Oh.

My.

God.

This is the only thing running on a loop in Shane’s mind the whole way home.

Despite the mid-sex interruption, Shane was able to successfully do what he came to Rozanov’s for—he took care of him. Rozanov came with a bitten-off groan of Shane’s last name into his chest, Shane hurtling off the cliff after him moments later. Rozanov’s name was also on his lips when he shuddered and spilled into Rozanov’s fist—but it wasn’t his last name. 

Il—

He can’t even think of it. Thinking of it makes it real.

He’d slipped out a few minutes after that, unable to leave before covering Rozanov’s face in kisses that were gentler than he should have let himself be. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” Shane had said, and then he was sparing himself one last look at Rozanov—warm, sated and looking extremely kissable as he watched Shane with an unreadable but lax expression—before hurrying out the back door like his ass was on fire.

Which leads him to now. Definitely not freaking out in the middle of the street. 

All he’d been thinking about when he went over to Rozanov’s was that he had looked off at the arena, and Shane wanted to do for him what he did for Shane that day with the tuna melt. He didn’t want food or need petting the way Shane did, he just—needed to be taken care of. Needed to be shown that he was good. And Shane could do that. 

Rozanov had looked calm when he left, right? Peaceful. That was the word that had come to mind when he’d looked back before he closed the door. He had been tense and worked up, maybe more than Shane had ever seen him, when he first arrived. Desperate, hungry.

Needy.

But then Shane had asked him to speak Russian, and though he’d seemed reluctant at first and Shane didn’t understand any words except for the frequent ‘father’ and ‘mother’ and ‘Andrei’ (which he seemed to stop talking about by the end), it seems like it helped. 

Rozanov had visibly deflated while he talked, the tension bleeding from his shoulders as he gesticulated. He couldn’t help but think that Rozanov sounded so much more alive when he spoke Russian, his voice full of inflections that the English language couldn’t catch when it thickened around his accent. He wishes that he’d retained any of the words, that he could sound them out over and over again until they animated themselves and he could suddenly understand anything Rozanov wanted to tell him.

There’s something far too intimate, Shane thinks, about learning to speak Russian himself. He thinks of forming his lips around words Rozanov has said hundreds, thousands of times, and can only barely pretend that his shudder is simply from the cold. 

The thing is.

The thing. Is.

Shane stumbled into this whole thing, into the lessons. It had been entirely accidental, an unplanned foray into the world of homosexuality—like walking past a shut door every day only to realise it’s been cracked open this whole time. He took the opportunity, he figured, because he had some stuff to work through and it… well, it made sense to do it with someone with the same anatomy as him, right? 

He knew, obviously, that he liked it. He liked having sex with guys, with Rozanov. And he… didn’t as much. With girls. 

But that—that didn’t mean he was gay. Maybe he was bisexual, or just experimenting until he found a nice girl to settle down with. 

God, this crisis has been incoming like a storm on the horizon for weeks.

Maybe he should text Rose…

The shudder is impossible to resist this time. Never mind. This is why he’s been very pointedly trying not to think about all of this.

So maybe his brain was doing its whole endorphins-conflating-all-pleasure-with-Rozanov thing. Whatever. The point is, he could just about wrap his head around having sex with a guy, but he doesn’t know what to do with those three big words.

They feel too big, too heavy to hold on his own, but who can he tell? Hayden’s on the team, JJ’s on the team, he would rather die than ever talk to his parents about his sex life ever since they gave him ‘the talk’ when he started puberty…so who else?

Inexplicably, Rose comes to mind once again. She’s funny, and empathetic, and she’s been kind to him, though Shane still doesn’t really get why she’d shut things down before they started unless it really was about his disastrous oral attempt. 

He dismisses the idea. He couldn’t tell her about all of this. She’d be almost as shocked by this whole revelation and story as Hayden and JJ would be, and—

Oh. Unless. 

Maybe I’m not—you just didn’t seem to be super into it, is all. 

Maybe Rose had caught on to more than he thought. 

He hates the feeling of shame that runs through him at the idea, but it happens. If Rose had suspected anything about him, he knew she hadn’t said anything to anyone—the gossip mill at this school runs rampant, and she knows that all too well. His secret, if she’d caught on, was safe with her.

He just doesn’t know what to do with the inevitable feeling of wrongwrongwrong that he gets whenever he’s by himself and thinking about him and Rozanov and the lessons, some unshakable sense that he’s failing at something he can’t name if he continues. Even more than that, he doesn’t know how to hold all of the rightrightright that floods him every time he gets to touch Rozanov again. It’s like a jigsaw clicking into place, and falling apart as soon as he’s gone, and it’s… fucking terrifying. 

As far as hookups go, Rozanov is a 10. Or a 9.5, at a stretch, if you’re being picky. When it comes to relationships, though, to him and Rozanov, it’s like a dumpster fire in a nuclear power plant. Destined to blow up.

It’s not just because of Rozanov being Rozanov, hooking up with whatever girls he wants and never once in the three years Shane has known him being with anyone for more than a night or two. It’s because of Shane. He doesn’t know how to do… that.

Like. He knows objectively, his parents are stupidly in love. They’ve been together for over twenty-five years, Dad still buys Mom flowers several times a week ‘just because’, and Mom wears an Ottawa Centaurs jersey on game days even though she thinks the team is a joke. Love. 

That’s not what he and Rozanov have. That’s not what Shane thinks himself capable of having. He can… admit that he maybe has never felt for a girl what he feels for Rozanov, so that’s out as an option. Problem number one. And number two, he doesn’t know what to do with what he does feel. 

He can’t show it, that’s for sure. No one can know. 

It would ruin their lives, for one. 

For one. 

So what, is he supposed to be the one buying Rozanov flowers? Is it Rozanov buying them for him? Rozanov is a Boston fan, and Shane’s sure as hell not donning a Bears jersey for as long as he lives. He doesn’t know how that’s supposed to work. 

And it doesn’t, he tells himself a little triumphantly as he finally reaches the front door to his building. That’s the point. 

So this is just… a futile exercise, then. It wouldn’t work, Shane would fuck it all up and blow up the team and then their careers and their lives would be over and then Shane would die. Simple. It’s all moot. 

The right thing to do having come to this conclusion, obviously, is to stop what they’re doing. It’s been a stupid idea from the beginning, and now it’s naturally run its course—and they’ve done what they set out to do. Shane feels more confident sexually, uh, he had a good time, and Rozanov had a good time teaching him. He thinks. Now he can go forth into the world and… what?

Just go—be with someone else?

No.

It’s embarrassing how forcefully the rejection springs to his mind.

So that only leaves one option. Just… keep going. Don’t think about it. Shane steps into his apartment and nods to himself as he shuts the door, confident in his plan. All he has to do is keep having fantastic sex, playing perfect hockey, doing well in all of his classes and not tell Ilya Rozanov he loves him. 

Easy. 

Because after all, he was just being dramatic. Of course, he doesn’t know what love is for him. Not really. He doesn’t know what he was thinking, he was just being dramatic and overemotional, just overcome by the moment and the beautiful man beneath him. 

Fine. Everything is fine. 

God, he can’t wait to go visit his parents soon. Escape.

But first, practice. 

Shane is already feeling harangued by the time he arrives at the arena, worn out by a full day of lectures where he was told off by no less than three professors for being behind on work. This may have been the first time he’s attended these lectures all week. 

He’s been… distracted, okay?

He’s basically talked out when he gets there, but his team doesn’t seem to notice. JJ and Marly are deep into planning the team’s Christmas celebration coming up, calling him over every few minutes to help settle an argument about music or theme and just generally living up to their superlatives of always being the loudest in the room.

It makes Shane’s ears ring and his teeth grind. God, he’s a bad captain.

And then Hayden wants to talk to him about his fight with Jackie, which takes up the entirety of time it takes them to dress and lace their skates. And then Luca wants to know if he can stay late today so they can work on some plays together. And then Coach Wiebe grabs him to discuss the team’s practice schedule for next week, and then and then and then—

Rozanov is here. 

If Shane had dog’s ears, they would definitely be perking up right now like a puppy at the sound of their owner at the door. Shane wrinkles his nose. He does not like that metaphor, but unfortunately… it fits. He senses Rozanov’s arrival—late, as usual—moments before he appears, sauntering through the door without a care in the world. Shane feels the hum under his skin that he’s had all day begin to settle, despite the fact that Rozanov doesn’t look over as he enters.

He’s focused instead on Marly and JJ’s argument which is now reaching a fever pitch, moving between the pair and separating them with only a raised eyebrow that suddenly makes their whole argument seem infantile and pointless. They both move away to their respective corners, and Rozanov nods. 

Shane hadn’t even thought to try that. He’s not sure either of his teammates would’ve obeyed, if he had.

“Marly, as long as Dykstra does not do the music I don’t care,” Rozanov says, with Dykstra supplying an offended “hey!” in the background. “Theme should be… um. What is word for people that help Santa?”

“Indentured servants?” Wyatt suggests, just as Rozanov snaps his fingers and says, “elves.”

“I do not know what this word means,” Rozanov says to Wyatt, then turns back to Marly and JJ. “But yes. This. Theme should be elves.”

“Just… elves? Not, like, Mr and Mrs Claus or something?” Marly replies, obviously confused.

Rozanov frowns. “Why would we do this theme? Is stupid.” He turns back to JJ and nods decisively. “Elves. They have little hats and wear fun socks. Perfect.”

The team murmurs in agreement, and that settles it. Rozanov turns back to his cubby, but not before giving Shane a smirk just for him. 

He seems like his usual self, then. 

If a little distracted on the ice, though. He seems tired as he takes them through their sprints game of the day—a version of ‘Simon Says’ called ‘Ilya Says’, which results in Shane basically having to swallow back a moan every time Rozanov says his own name—and when they run drills later he’s sluggish to react. He’s still fast enough that barely anyone notices each misstep, but… Shane does. He always does. 

His body is perfectly attuned to Rozanov’s in more ways than one, it seems. 

They catch eyes many times, but it’s nothing more than a hangnail snagging on loose thread, a passing glance Rozanov spares him on his way to something else. 

After practice has finished and he’s gone through each play with Luca about a hundred times, he’s practically vibrating with anticipation for a text. He’s wondering if he should spare his usual automatic fuck you when the offer inevitably comes because of last night when he gets to the door of the arena and stops. 

He’s realising with dawning horror that the ball is very firmly in his court today. He probably has to be the one to remind Rozanov that it’s okay, that what happened last night doesn’t change anything. 

Because it doesn’t.

So he texts lesson? and Rozanov texts be there in 20, and he sits in the dark for eighteen minutes until he realises he probably looks like a serial killer and flicks his living room lamp on. 

Rozanov is quiet when he gets inside, slipping his jacket off, and Shane realises he’s looking at the new gloves on his counter. They’re the ones his parents bought for Luca because they found out he’d been saving up after his broke, way better than the ones Shane was trying to quietly buy off of Craigslist, and Shane does not want Rozanov to see them.

Shane wonders if he knows that Luca Haas’ gloves are what led to all of this. 

“For Haas,” Shane explains awkwardly, a useless comment since their teammate’s last name is already emblazoned on the box they come in. “His wrist guard broke a few weeks ago.”

Rozanov just hums. “Good Captain,” he says in a low rumble, taking slow, stalking steps towards him, and the heat in his gaze slams into Shane at full force. 

“I just mean—” Shane starts, but his voice sounds too high and reedy to his own ears. He stops, swallows, and tries again. Rozanov is still moving closer. Shane feels like he’s watching a predator stalk his prey. “Do you think we should—talk?”

About anything? About last night? About this, us?

Shane doesn’t know what he’d do if he chose the last option. Run, probably. But still, he really wants to see him pick. 

“No. After.”

With that, Rozanov steps into his space and kisses him so filthily that Shane forgets everything he was going to say.

He’s lost in the feeling of being debauched in real time, because there’s truly nothing like it. He knows he’s melting into Rozanov’s touch, his own hands exploring everywhere they can reach as Rozanov licks into his mouth, and he’s just reached Rozanov’s shoulders when suddenly Rozanov leans down and then Shane is being lifted onto his counter.

He swallows the noise that he wants to make at that, just locks his ankles behind him so he can’t leave, but Rozanov kisses him like he tastes it anyway. 

In the past few weeks alone, they’ve taken each other’s clothes off dozens of times. It’s a practiced science that Shane has put time into perfecting, deftly slipping his hands under his shirt to feel the warm skin beneath his palms as he kisses up his neck. He grips the hem of Rozanov’s shirt and tugs, grinning when it comes off in one easy swoop, and he catches the corner of Rozanov’s smile as he pulls his own shirt off in a similarly easy motion.

When Rozanov picks him up off the counter a minute later, both of them now down to their boxers, he’s growling something about finding a bed with impatience. Shane just huffs against him in agreement and tightens his grip around his neck, nuzzles into the rough skin there. 

He never can forget that he’s fucking Rozanov. With his hockey-toned arms and broad shoulders, his angular jaw and crooked smile and stubble that never quite goes away, his bronze curls and hard eyes like a storm that rocks Shane every time—there isn’t a second where Shane isn’t sure of who is doing this to him. 

He just shakes his head, kisses Rozanov harder. Focus. 

He takes the prep easily, too impatient to wait for the burn to go away before he’s urging Rozanov on. 

“I will give you what you need, Hollander. Time for next lesson.”

Yes. Lessons.

The lesson, apparently, is Shane getting fucked into oblivion with them both kneeling on the bed, Shane almost sitting in Rozanov’s lap with his back pressed tight to his chest. 

It’s so much like this, every inch of him plastered against hot skin with Rozanov right in his ear, whispering yes, fuck, so tight for me, so good the whole time. His cock is so deep inside Shane that he can’t even think, let alone speak, but every time Rozanov grinds against his prostate another broken sound is pulled out of him.

“Take my cock so fucking well,” Rozanov groans, slowing down to a deep figure-eight that has Shane seeing stars. He laughs, a low rumble that spreads like syrup through Shane’s veins. “Want to keep you in my lap like this all the time, warming me up. I bet you would like this.”

Shane lets out another embarrassing noise at that, squirming, but Rozanov just bites at his neck and speeds up. “Fuck,” Shane hisses, his eyes rolling back, and he feels himself begin to drift a little into this mindless floaty feeling he gets whenever Rozanov takes him like this. He really would like to be in Rozanov’s lap all the time, of Rozanov staying inside him after they fucked until he got hard again so they could go for another round, or just so Shane could feel him, a steady, anchoring pressure that always made him lose his mind.

“Don’t come yet,” Rozanov says, and it takes Shane a second to shape the words of his reply in his mouth. “Be good for me, Hollander.”

“Fucking—hurry,” he slurs, feeling the roiling heat begin to reach a breaking point in his stomach. He doesn’t touch himself, knows he can finish just from this and that Rozanov wants him to, instead just reaches back clumsily for Rozanov and manages to twist enough to capture his lips in a messy kiss. 

Rozanov has his chin in a harsh grip as he sweeps his tongue into Shane’s mouth, and Shane just moans, gripping the crook of his arm and begging him silently with his eyes to let him come. 

The moment arrives unexpectedly. Rozanov is pulling his hand away when Shane pushes forward and up, seeking the touch, and as a result Rozanov’s fingers close lightly around his throat just as he snaps his hips and grits out, “fucking—take it, come for me—”

It’s only the briefest pressure, the mere suggestion of a thing rather than the thing in itself, but Shane feels floaty and cockdrunk and on the verge of tears from how deep Rozanov is inside him already. The order combined with Rozanov’s hand around his neck is all he needs. Between one heartbeat and the next Shane is spilling out his release all over his stomach, his throat bobbing under Rozanov’s fingers as he gasps raggedly for air.

“Oh, fuck, I—” Shane moans.

Rozanov bites into the junction of his neck and shoulder when he comes right after Shane does, both arms hooked across his chest in a vice grip, and as Shane feels himself shudder with the aftershocks he thinks wildly that he could probably come again, somehow, if only he felt Rozanov do that without a condom.

The thought alone has him buzzing, and he’s so lost in his head and delirious that he barely feels Rozanov gently slip out of him or the soft pets to his flank, doesn’t notice he’s trembling. Even when it subsides, Rozanov doesn’t move his arms, just settles them on their sides, and keeps holding Shane.

They stay like that for a little while, Rozanov kissing his neck, until eventually he rolls Shane over so they’re facing each other. 

Ever so gently, Rozanov leans in until their noses are touching. After a beat, he turns his head from side to side so their noses brush against each other. “Are you with me?” he whispers against Shane’s mouth. 

It takes Shane a moment to process the words, and another long one to find the ability to reply in his sex-addled brain. “Hi,” he murmurs back, throat raspy. God, he feels like Rozanov fucked his mouth as well as his ass. 

He sort of wishes he did. He always does want more when it comes to Rozanov. 

Like right now. “Kiss me again,” he says, feeling pathetic, but Rozanov just smiles and kisses him so sweetly his lips taste like sugar. 

They spend a few blissful minutes kissing lazily like that, Rozanov running featherlight fingers up and down his biceps and smiling when Shane shivers, oversensitive and filled with static. Slowly, he feels his limbs begin to loosen.

“I will shower now.”

“Okay.”

Shane spends the entire time Rozanov is in the shower staring up at the ceiling, unable to move an inch. He feels bone-tired, yes, but also frozen to the spot. 

He knows somewhere in the back of his mind that he should be thinking about the NHL Combine this weekend. He prioritised his education and skipped the draft for a few years, much to the pride of his father, but now he knows that the Combine in Toronto is his only real chance for all the scouts to see him up close and personal, to show them exactly what he can do. 

And he knows he can do it. He knows, realistically, that he’s ranked number one in the league, that scouts have been on him like hounds since his first year. He also knows the Marauders are the number one team in the league, that even if he and Rozanov are a little off their game behind closed doors they’re still playing like a lethal unit.

(For example, a few days ago against St Francis Xavier: ”Like the fucking twins from The Shining,” JJ had hissed to Hayden as Shane and Rozanov body-checked a forward into the glass in perfect sync beside the bench. JJ’s voice was loud enough for Shane to shoot them both a look even as he flicked his wrist and the puck shot out from between the forward’s skates, instantly picked up by Rozanov. 

He hadn’t turned around, because he didn’t have to—he could hear Rozanov’s skates carving through the ice, knew he was deking out the defence that had been slow all night and then faking a backhand shot before sending it flying into the top corner. 

He heard the telltale sound of the puck clinking against metal, and he nodded decisively without breaking eye contact as the buzzer sounded and the home crowd erupted in celebration. 

“Fucking Terminators,” Hayden had said breathlessly, wide-eyed.)

Shane is just as good on his own, too, and he’ll have to be at the combine. Almost no one in the league can catch up to him, except maybe Rozanov, so it’s just as well they’re on the same team most of the time.

Except they’re sort of… competing against each other, when it comes to the combine. So there’s that. 

Mostly, the problem is that Shane hasn’t thought about it nearly as much as he should. Fuck, he’s been having sex when he should be training, thinking about Rozanov when he should be prepping, and having fucking beer when he should be packing. He needs to be ready for this thing, and instead it’s barely crossed his mind. 

Fuuuuuuuuuuuuck. Shane can’t let this opportunity pass him by. 

Neither can Rozanov.

His eyes are still fixed on the ceiling when the bathroom door opens, and Shane is momentarily distracted—as he always, always is—by the sight of Rozanov’s bare and still-wet chest, at the crucifix glimmering against his skin and the curls dripping onto his shoulders. 

But then he gets a hold of himself, because Rozanov says the thing, like Shane somehow knows he will.

“I should go.”

Shane is silent the whole time he gets dressed. He knows he should probably follow Rozanov to the door and hand him his jacket, say goodnight like the polite host he is, but he… can’t. He doesn’t want to move. Doesn’t want to give himself away, to let Rozanov know that he just wants to catch the musky scent of him in the collar as he hands the jacket over, something else to hold the ghost of til next time. 

Staying still feels kind of insolent on his part, but Rozanov just keeps his eyes trained on Shane the whole time he gets dressed again. Just like he did their first time.

“See you next lesson,” he says in the doorway of Shane’s bedroom.

“Not until after the combine,” Shane blurts out, and Rozanov blinks. When he says nothing, Shane adds, “we should focus on training. Not—together, but. Y’know. Um. We should both be prepared.”

Rozanov is pressing his lips together, and Shane has the sneaking feeling he’s trying not to laugh. “Yes, Hollander. Okay. We will both train.”

I wish we could have this all the time, he wants to say. “I’m visiting my parents first,” is what comes out instead. He cringes at the apologetic tone in his voice. “In Ottawa. I’ll be gone until Thursday night, then they’ll drive me back and I’ll fly with you guys to Toronto.”

Not the most ideal time for a trip, but… “It’s my dad’s 50th,” he says awkwardly when Rozanov stays silent again. “And my parents’ 25th wedding anniversary the day after that.”

Rozanov’s expression is unreadable. “Ah. Fun.”

“Not really,” Shane says quickly. “It’ll be a massive party, with a ton of music and dancing. I’ll probably have to make a speech.”

Rozanov’s mouth quirks up at the corner. “Your worst nightmare, then.”

Almost. Shane nods. “I love them, but… it’s gonna suck, yeah.”

It’ll suck without you around, Shane bites back. Stay for a while. Speak Russian to me again. Say something, anything.

Rozanov is still staring at him, solemn and silent, and Shane is about to fill the quiet with more babble when Rozanov crosses the distance in three short strides to kiss him again before shaking his head and turning to leave. 

Shane stares at the closed door. Did he… fuck, did he realise what Shane was thinking last night? What he’d almost said, what he’d almost said again just now? Shane doesn’t know how, but his mom always says he’s not as good at hiding his emotions as he thinks he is. What if it was written all over Shane’s face, and now Rozanov is trying to find a way to tell him without telling him that he’s taken everything way too far and Rozanov doesn’t feel the same way? That he’s done?

But Rozanov texts him when he gets home.

I thought of next lesson. 

Shane flushes at the flood of relief that washes over him when he sees the message. Next lesson. Okay.

What is it?

Shane busies himself making a salad while he waits, glancing over at his phone at least once a minute. Finally, just as he’s about to add the dressing, the screen lights up. 

I want to know how many times you can cum in one session.

Fuck. He chews on the string of his hoodie and contemplates a reply.

That doesn’t sound like a lesson.

The reply is immediate.

Lesson is learning how many times you can cum. Keep up

That doesn’t sound like a very valuable lesson, then. Maybe I should see how many times I can make you come instead.

Shane’s entire body feels like it’s aflame. 

This too. But then we would go all night

You would get very tired

I’d do it anyway.

Is he revealing too much? Shane imagines it, bringing Rozanov to the edge over and over again, coaxing out groans and shudders from his oversensitive body. It feels like so much. Fuck, maybe he should—

I’d let you.

Rozanov ditches the team hangout—an escape room, apparently—the next day, saying he has to do something with Svetlana. Shane is totally and completely not jealous of the undoubtedly gorgeous Russian model that is apparently closer to Rozanov than Shane initially realized. Not in the slightest. 

It’s not like Shane was going to that thing anyway, but any flicker of hope that exists for his attendance is snuffed out by Rozanov. He spends the evening instead working out in the gym until he can’t feel his entire body, then stumbling home and watching footage of Team Canada practicing. It’s an old ‘visualizing’ technique Mom had started for him when he was little, but nowadays it’s more comforting than anything to watch; remembering how he’d traced the invisible lines the skates carved into the ice on the screen over and over again, imagining he was one of them until he could draw the skate patterns in his sleep. 

He keeps checking his phone. Nothing but a string of incoherent messages in the team group chat.

It still feels too dark, too quiet in his tiny apartment. 

He runs twelve kilometres the next day almost without realising, and by the time he’s done the sun isn’t even up yet. Long day. He just groans and turns left instead of right at the lights, heading towards the gym. The thudding of his heart only helps quiet the noise in his brain a little.

At practice later Rozanov is his normal, shit-eating grin, wicked slapshot-having self, but he’s noncommittal about their later plans when Shane finds them alone in the locker room for a brief moment after everyone files out to head to the ice.

“I might be busy after we get back from the combine,” he’s saying as he tapes his stick, not looking up at Shane. “I will let you know.”

“Actually, don’t worry,” Shane says quickly, aiming for flippant. He shrugs with one shoulder. “I’ll probably have plans with Rose right when I get back, so.”

Rozanov stills for a moment, their gazes meeting, and then his eyes skitter away to look at something in his duffel. “Okay.”

Shane pauses. “Another time, then,” he suggests, heart in his fucking throat, pleading please, normal, let’s go back to normal, and Rozanov looks up and holds his gaze. 

“Another time,” Rozanov confirms. “Have a good time in Ottawa.” And then he’s gone.

***

Ironically, Shane actually runs into Rose the next day. 

This time—thankfully—he doesn’t actually physically collide with her, but he spots her in the hallway of the Humanities building and she’s coming over to him in seconds. Shane wonders if she even notices the way the crowd seems to magically part for her by now. 

“I was just going to text you,” she says after they’ve hugged, stepping aside to let a group of students pass by and stare at her curiously. “I feel like it’s been ages. Do you want to get dinner tonight?”

“Oh, I don’t know if I should—”

“We have so much to catch up on.”

Shane swallows. If only that were true on his side, as well. He had nothing he could actually tell her. “Yeah, I’m sorry, just—I’m going home to Ottawa later today and the NHL Combine is this weekend, so I’m prepping—”

“Oh my God, of course,” Rose says instantly, putting a hand on his arm. “That’s so exciting, though! Especially before you’ve even graduated. Is anyone else on the team going?”

“Yes—uh, Wyatt Hayes, Troy Barrett,” he ticks the names off on his fingers, wincing as he gets to the next two for very different reasons. “Dallas Kent, and. Uh, Ilya Rozanov.”

Rose nods along, but she wrinkles her nose when he gets to Kent and raises her brows when he gets to Rozanov. “You and Rozanov, directly competing against each other?” She pretends to fan herself. “Watch out, right?”

“What?”

“I just mean—you and Rozanov, y’know, your whole rivalry thing.”

He didn’t think that was common knowledge amongst anyone but the team and their girlfriends. He swallows. “Well, uh. Usually we’re teammates, just, uh, competitive with each other, I guess but…”

Rose is still nodding. Oookay, time to change the subject.

“Uh, yeah. It’s mostly just a lot of physical evaluations and tests and psychological exams, but I’ve heard they might want to see us on the ice this year as well.”

Rose whistles. “Jesus. That sounds intense.”

Understatement of the fucking century. He feels a muscle tick in his jaw, and it takes him a second to respond. “Yeah, it is. It’s a lot of work.”

Rose takes the unintended blow-off easily. “Well, good luck, and you’re gonna kill it,” she says, and looks as if she’s preparing to go.

“No, sorry,” Shane replies, reaching for her hand. He really does appreciate her empathy, and running into her is like seeing a clear figure in the fog that has been his dad. “Sorry. It’s just been…a lot lately.”

“I know,” she says, and she laces their fingers together and squeezes, glancing down the hall to the students disappearing in the distance before stepping closer. “Look, I… I get the feeling you don’t have a lot of people to talk to about—like, things and stuff.”

Shane feels the ghost of a smile cross his lips. He can see the look in her eyes, thinks he knows what she’s really talking about, and finds none of the shame from yesterday flood his body. He’s just grateful for a friend like her.

“Yeah, ‘things and stuff’ can be hard for me.”

“So, after the combine,” she says decisively, nodding and squeezing his hand once more. “We’ll hang out. And if you wanna talk about things and stuff, you know I’m around.”

“Deal.”

***

Shane is not going to text him. 

He’s not.

He had Rozanov underneath him less than twenty-four hours ago, and spoke to him earlier today. He’s fine without him. 

He’s got plenty to focus on, besides; his dad has put in all of his retired energy into making their anniversary a party for the ages, so now Shane has a speech to prepare and a suit jacket to get tailored and cupcakes to pick up. It’s definitely a lot to keep him busy, so he throws himself into it wholeheartedly, even if he still wishes he was doing literally anything else.

It’s his dad’s birthday the next day. Shane gets him a new set of golf clubs and the promise that he’ll come out on the green with him sometime soon (he’ll have to think of a more creative way to get out of that one), and they have a nice, chill dinner at home.

“Are you okay, honey?” Mom asks, peering at Shane with concern. “You’ve barely eaten your salmon.”

“Yes, yeah, sorry,” Shane says, and automatically picks up his fork. His phone is still clutched in his left hand, where he’s been glancing at it every few minutes. 

Not that Rozanov is going to text him. He doesn’t have any reason to, after all; he knows Shane is away, that they won’t have any chance for a hookup until after the combine, so there’s no point. Except…

Shane is thinking about him, is all. He’s gotten better at balancing it, now able to think of Rozanov while he’s on his morning run rather than being so distracted he’s unable to go, but it has the unfortunately side effect of leaving him semi-aroused more than half of the time. He thinks about jerking off. Doesn’t. He doesn’t want to give himself permission for his errant thoughts to run wild, doesn’t want to know what desperate things his mind will concoct this time.

He rolls over in bed and tries very hard not to scream.

“Shane, honey, can you grab the quiche from the table there?”

“Bud, have you seen my cufflinks? I could’ve sworn they were on the table…”

“Don’t forget to put all the jackets in the hall closet away so there’s space!”

Shane’s head is already rattling with instructions and orders by the time the first guests arrive, but he quickly realises that this party will bring a new problem: he has to mingle. He’ll be surrounded by over a hundred people who know him, but he'll be lucky if he can recognize ten people here. He’s always been bad with names and even worse with faces, but since he started at McGill his brain has been pretty much filled with hockeyhockeyhockey and he finds himself wishing he had someone to whisper information about a person in his ear while they were approaching.

He mostly just goes for a lot of, “wow, so good to see you,” and, “my parents will be so excited you’re here,” and then ships them off in the direction of Yuna and David somewhere in the epicentre of the guests.

It’s a tasteful party, low music and appetizers and lots of laughter, but it’s also crowded. Everyone he sees says oh Shane, you’ve gotten so big, look at you! and so your father tells me you play for McGill now, well isn’t that something and congratulations on that win against Alberta. 

Shane laughs and nods and thanks them at all the appropriate times, but he can’t shake the unnerving feeling that every person he meets thinks they know him a lot better than they actually do, over-friendly with hands clapping backs and too-bright laughter that make Shane’s teeth feel fuzzy.

However nice it is to be home even just for a few days, the disorder of it all is catching up to him. He can feel his lids growing heavy with exhaustion, manages to excuse himself from some third cousin’s treatise on the shameful state of housing in Canada just in time to slip into the bathroom unnoticed. 

With the music muffled through the door, Shane’s brain feels quiet enough to finally take a deep, shaky breath as he stares at himself in the mirror. He looks alien, eyes a little too big and hair a little too tousled, and wonders when it was that people started ruffling his hair like the long lost sibling Shane never knew he had.

He grits his teeth, watching a muscle tick in his jaw. Checks his phone. Nothing. 

Fuck.

The party goes much longer than is strictly necessary, a cacophony of noise and colour that grates on Shane’s nerves well after the lights have been turned off and the last guest has been poured into a taxi. His parents head off to Dad’s anniversary gift—a room booked at a gorgeous spa so they can have some ‘alone time,’ gross—leaving Shane to walk around aimlessly picking napkins and plastic champagne flutes off the floor.

He had a glass of champagne himself, and he doesn’t know if it’s a placebo effect but he could swear he feels it fizzing in his veins as he heads up the stairs. Stupid, given how close he is to the most important events of his life so far, but that pretty much sums up the past few weeks for him.

With a deep sigh of relief, Shane collapses onto his bed. It’s a little weird, being back in his childhood bedroom with all of his posters of Scott Hunter and no time to process it before he heads off for the combine, and it doesn’t help that he just spent the entire evening having his ear talked off by distant family members. His parents so owe him.

He feels like he didn’t really process the leaving part. It’s less than four days, knows he’ll be crammed into planes and hotel rooms with Rozanov at the combine soon enough, but after weeks of pretty much having him on tap, the sudden drought is… tough.

He turns his TV on and picks a sitcom to watch in the background, only half paying attention as his thoughts stray back to Rozanov once again. He’d thought it would be nothing, coming here—he’s gone months, years with no sexual activity to speak of and he’s been absolutely fine. But it’s been three days since Rozanov touched him, and he’s pretty sure he’s close to setting himself on fire. He and Rozanov were regularly getting off multiple times a day, and now—this.

By the time Shane is done distracting himself with thoughts of Rozanov bursting through the door and sweeping him into his arms, it’s been well over an hour. He’s been circling his bellybutton with the tip of his finger, he realises, and shudders absently before rolling onto his stomach and shaking his head to himself. No. Focus. Put your mind on something else.

He opens his phone, and after a few rounds of online chess he checks his message. The only one he reads is from JJ, and it’s a barely coherent string of Frenglish accusing him of the utmost betrayal. Shane’s heart leaps into his throat as he reads, but he quickly discovers that it’s not what he thinks: someone on the team saw him and Rose talking before he left for Ottawa, and JJ is convinced once again that she’s his secret girlfriend. If only, Shane thinks.

He decides to switch to Instagram. The first post, of course, is from Marly.

@therealcliffmarly: BOYS NIGHT @__carmichael @jeanjacquesboiziau @barrett_troy @il__ya81

The photo is blurry and dark, clearly taken in a club, but Shane can make out the outline of Rozanov’s face in the right corner—hair a mess and grinning with his arm draped over someone just off camera with long dark curls.

He looks elated and so full of life. The camera is shining just right so Shane can see the sweat glimmering beside the crucifix on his bare chest, and Shane stares at it until his throat feels dry. 

Fuck. Well, now he’s hard.

Shane rolls onto his stomach to groan in frustration, but it does nothing to help him—now he has added friction against his rapidly hardening cock, and he whines pitifully as he rolls his hips just once against the bed.

Being face-down like this makes him think of Rozanov even more—Rozanov pushing between his shoulder blades to press him into the sheets, Rozanov draping himself over him and continuing to thrust while murmuring a litany of praise in both English and Russian. Rozanov.

God, this is pathetic.

But Shane’s thinking of thrusting now, and suddenly he wants Rozanov’s cock inside him so badly he could cry. He rolls his hips again and thinks desperately of what he’d said last time they were together, how he wanted to keep Shane on his lap all the time. Shane could really use that right now.

He rolls onto his back, pushes his basketball shorts down to mid-thigh and stares at his cock accusatorily, watching another bead of precome seep from the top. Traitorous dick. 

Well, he’s here now. With a groan of frustration and a half-turn he’s able to reach his bag on the floor, and once he’s lifted it onto the bed he reaches into the side pocket for the bottle he knows is in there. Just a little bit of lube to slick himself up, and he’ll be well on his way. All he needs to do now is not think about Rozanov while he’s doing it.

His fingers close around the bottle, but as they do they graze against something else and he freezes. He’d packed so hastily, grabbing stuff from his drawers and shoving them in his bag, that the firm silicone was an afterthought he hadn’t even noticed packing.

He flushes. He couldn’t… could he?

He’s alone, for one, which is a rarity in this house and at school. He doesn’t need to worry about noise. He’s also embarrassingly, ridiculously turned on just from that one sweaty bare-chested picture of Rozanov that he probably won’t need much. Maybe he won’t need that at all, actually.

He slicks up his fingers with lube and begins stroking himself, eyes screwing shut. They inevitably drift back to the picture of Rozanov on Marly’s account, his bright eyes, the curls pasted to his forehead, the V of his hips jutting into dark jeans…

God, he’s so close already, but he already knows it won’t be enough. He feels strung out, frayed nerves leaving him oversensitive and numb at the same time. He’s catching the edges of sensations in all the wrong places, his hand feeling clumsy and unskilled. He knows what fingers he’d prefer to have wrapped around him. It’s obvious now that he can’t come just from this.

He pours some lube onto one finger, then shuts his eyes. Okay. It’s okay, he can do this, he’ll just—come and it won’t be shameful at all, everything is fine. The finger probing at his entrance feels foreign and awkward, but he pushes in, testing.

He isn’t usually this tight when he and Rozanov do this, is he? He knows he struggles to relax at first, but he’s trying to replicate Rozanov’s soothing touch along his legs, his biceps, and it’s not doing anything. If anything, he just feels more tense.

Another finger doesn’t really help, although now he’s able to brush the tip of one finger against his prostate. The short zing of pleasure that has his flagging cock twitching back to life gives him hope, so he keeps going—but no matter how much he angles his wrist, he can’t reach it again. 

Eventually, his hand is cramping and he’s glaring at the thick piece of silicone now abandoned on the bed beside him. Fuck it. He’s come too far not to finish now.

He’s slicking up the dildo with an impressive wave of shame and pushing it inwith a sigh of relief. Yes, this is better. It’s a little smaller than Rozanov, but he thinks it helps dissociate the Russian from the act in question—this is just Shane, getting off by himself. Nothing to see here.

But again, he brushes his prostate, feels his cock jerk in interest, and Rozanov springs to mind. He remembers how surprised he’d been the first time he sank down onto Rozanov and realised how different it was from this, how much more. It was another experience entirely to have a whole body beneath him, and he finds himself wishing half-hysterically that Rozanov was here—not just here now, but here in general.

He probably would’ve taken the party by storm, charming Shane’s austere elderly neighbour Mr Singh and somehow convincing his Great Aunt Mildred to dance. He’d probably even find a way to get Mom to relax.

Shane screws his eyes shut, goes back to thinking about the dildo currently inside him. Yes. Pleasure, et cetera. He can do that.

Only he can’t. He’s too ashamed to go back to looking at the picture of Rozanov, but knows that won’t be enough either—he can’t seem to get the angle right with his already cramping wrist, and the dildo is too small to get the job done.

Shane is humiliated to discover he’s on the verge of tears. God, why can’t he get his shit together and just have a stupid orgasm?

His phone vibrates.

No way. No fucking way it’s him. 

It is.

Are you awake?

Shane stares at the screen. Is this even real? It takes him a second, but he’s able to get the hang of typing with one hand. He doesn’t want to take the dildo out, doesn’t want to admit defeat, but it also feels too far to keep going while he’s seeing what Rozanov wants.

Yes.

What are you doing right now?

Shane chews his lip then decides to sidestep around the question. Where are you?

Home. We went to a club.

I saw.

How?

Marly’s post.

Ah

Was boring anyway

How sad for you

So are you busy?

Why are you asking?

Because. 

Because why?

Because I want to know what you are doing right now.

Shane hesitates. 

Just at home by myself

Doing?

Nothing. 

Are you jerking off?

Shane’s breath hitches at the question. He supposes it’s the logical conclusion for a nineteen year old with an empty house, but…

Fuck. He’s taken too long to reply.

Fuck, you are aren’t you

Fuck it.

Maybe.

Hollander.

Shane swallows. He can hear Rozanov’s mouth forming the word.

What are you doing to yourself?

Absently, Shane rolls his wrist and winces at the discomfort. He still feels so close, like he just needs a little more to give him that final shove over the edge, and he’s not above doing what he has to do to get it.

I’m using the dildo

It’s not enough

Fuck

You wish it was my cock?

Shane feels himself flush all the way down to his chest. You know I do.

The reply is immediate.

Heard you were hanging out with Rose

Shane only barely resists the urge to roll his eyes.

She’s my friend. We’re friends.

Why are we talking about this right now?

Shane holds his breath, types I texted you tonight, not her|

After a long moment’s hesitation, he presses send. Rozanov replies within a heartbeat.

Can you call?

Shane blinks. He… wasn’t expecting that. But the thought of Rozanov talking him through it, coaxing him to orgasm? To hell with his whole ‘I’m fine’ tactic. He wants to come now, and he wants Rozanov to be the one to make him do it.

Yes.

To his surprise, it’s a FaceTime call that pops up. He’d expected a voice call, but this is even better. He scrambles to sit up in bed—as much as he can given the dildo in his ass—and checks himself on the screen. His hair is mussed and his face is flushed enough that it’s obvious what he’s been doing, but he supposes there’s no use hiding that fact from Rozanov. With a deep breath, he clicks accept. 

A few moments later, Rozanov’s face appears. He’s in his bedroom, leaning against his headboard like Shane is. His hair looks soft and still a little damp, the lengthened curls dangling in front of eyes currently studying Shane with an expression he can’t name. 

He swallows. He’s about to speak, when—

“You wear glasses.”

“Um. Yes?” Shane flushes, reaching to take them off. “They’re just for reading.”

“Leave them on.”

Rozanov’s voice immediately takes on the even, authoritative tone he reserves for in the bedroom with Shane, and Shane shudders as he pushes the glasses back on his nose. If he wasn’t still ridiculously hard and holding a dildo inside of him with one hand, he’d probably be teasing Rozanov for the way he’s looking at him right now—like he wants to reach through the screen and eat him. Right now, Shane would let him.

“How… how was your night?” Shane asks, because now that he actually has Rozanov in front of him he finds he wants to know beyond just ‘it was boring’.

“Not interesting,” Rozanov replies dismissively. His eyes flicker to the bottom of the screen. “Show me.”

Shane can’t help himself. “Fuck off.”

It’s funny how he can still see Rozanov’s eyes darken even over FaceTime. “Show. Me.”

And Shane does, complying with a bite to his lip. He has to take the dildo out to readjust and he makes a noise at the loss, which Rozanov recognizes without seeing what he’s doing.

“Were you on your back?” Rozanov asks, shaking his head in pity. “Is hard like this.”

“I noticed,” Shane manages. “Uh—hold on.”

With shaky hands, Shane positions his phone leaning against his lamp on the nightstand and shuffles back awkwardly. He’s sitting back on his heels, his cock curving proudly up to his stomach and smearing precome all over his t-shirt, which he quickly pulls off after removing his glasses. He sees the tiny Shane in the box on the screen reach up to adjust his hair nervously. God, say something.

“Fuck, Hollander,” Rozanov growls, eyes flitting all over the screen. He sits up, ripping off his shirt in one fluid motion so that Shane can see the hair in the middle of his chest, the light bouncing cinematically off one pec. “Glasses back on.” 

When Shane doesn’t automatically comply, Rozanov taps just beneath his eyes gently without looking away. Clumsily and after a moment’s confusion, Shane pushes his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. Personally, he thinks he looks stupid, completely naked and slick with lube with his nerdy glasses on, but Rozanov’s expression suggests he disagrees. A lot.

His voice is a deep rumble when he speaks again. “Good. Touch yourself for me.”

Slowly, Shane watches the tiny him on the screen take hold of his cock and gives himself a few languid strokes, careful not to use too much pressure. Now that he actually has Rozanov on the phone, he doesn’t want this thing to end before it even begins. He closes the window that shows his face, instead focuses on Rozanov’s expression as he watches Shane touch himself, rapt.

“How many fingers?”

“What? Oh. Two.” He squirms, feeling empty and exposed. 

Rozanov shakes his head again. “Is not enough.”

“Wanted it,” Shane gasps as he twists his wrist around his head. “Wanted the burn.”

Rozanov makes a desperate noise. Despite not having been trying to get off for the past half an hour, he seems pretty on edge, too. “Show me your dildo.”

Shane complies, picking it up from where he’d discarded it on the nightstand and holding it up. Rozanov lets out a low whistle.

“Wow. I was expecting sparkles.”

“Fuck off.”

Rozanov cocks his head. “Is too small, yes? Doesn’t fill you up like my cock does.”

Shane whimpers, honest to God whimpers. Rozanov looks like Christmas came early. “I want…” Shane trails off, still stroking his cock.

“What? What do you want?” Rozanov makes a noise that Shane knows is because he’s squeezing his own cock.

“Wanna come,” Shane whines petulantly. “Please.”

This is why Shane didn’t text Rozanov before. He didn’t want to admit that the depth of his want extended outside of their regularly scheduled hookups, that he spent hours and hours dreaming about Rozanov in every position imaginable and still wanted more. He didn’t want to be reduced to a begging mess over a long distance, only to be left alone.

“You will,” Rozanov promises. “I will help, yes?”

“Are you… are you touching yourself, too?”

There’s a bit of rustling, and then Rozanov puts the camera down somewhere on the bed. In this position, Shane can just about see the tip of Rozanov’s cock peeking out from his waistband as he slumps down against the pillows, and as he watches, rapt, Rozanov pulls his sweatpants down just enough to tuck them behind his balls and reveal his cock already rock hard. Victory.

“Yes, Hollander,” he replies, moving his fist upwards and letting out a low groan. “Show me how you wish you could take my cock.”

And. Well. What’s Shane supposed to say to that other than yes?

“I—I—”

Fuck his stupid stutter. Now that he actually has this chance, he still can’t find the words to ask for what he wants and Rozanov isn’t even here.

“How do you want me?” Rozanov asks, sensing his indecision. “Do you want to ride me?”

Shane’s brain immediately goes back to their first time as it had done earlier, and he nods vigorously. “Yes, yeah, wanna ride you,” Shane mumbles nonsensically as he reaches for the lube. He yelps when he squeezes the bottle too hard, drizzling slick all over the back of his hand, but he manages to put the cap back on and wipe off the excess which he uses to lubricate his own cock while he re-covers the dildo.

Once he’s finished, there’s nothing left to do but to… do it.

With a shudder, Shane slowly begins to lower himself down. He’s not sure if it’s just because Rozanov is now watching him, too, but it does feel so much easier in this position—he meets only a little resistance as the blunt head pushes past the tight furl of muscle, and then gravity is working with him to help him take every inch.

“F-fuck, Rozanov—”

“Yeah? Is better?”

“Fuck yes, so much better—fuck, wanna see you touch yourself.”

Shane has lost all ability to feel shame now. He begins to move up and down on the plastic cock, using the sounds Rozanov is making through the tinny speaker as he strokes himself in time to fuel his imagination: he imagines it really is Rozanov underneath him, pumping into him and angling himself just right so that Shane sees stars. 

It takes some searching to find his prostate, and some angling instructions from Rozanov, but the first time he cries out Rozanov grins and strokes himself faster. “Yes, there we go, good boy.”

Shane whimpers, picking up his own pace as he feels the heat coiling in his gut once again. It feels like an elastic band, and this time, he knows it can snap. 

“How long were you trying before you texted me?” Rozanov asks conversationally, as if he doesn’t have his cock in his hand and isn’t watching Shane fuck himself on his dildo over FaceTime. It probably looks a little stupid with Shane’s head bouncing up and down on the screen, but he’s too turned on to care.

“You texted me.”

“How long?” Rozanov demands.

“Fuck, I don’t—ah—thirty minutes?”

Rozanov coos. “Poor Hollander’s dick,” he says, leaning in as if to talk to Shane’s cock directly. “Don’t worry, I will treat you better soon.”

“Y-yeah?”

Rozanov chuckles at the obvious invitation. “Yes. I have been planning.”

“Planning—oh, fuck—planning what?”

“Next lesson. Was thinking about what you said about showing off for me. Maybe I want more.”

“Another mirror?” Shane asks, biting his lip. It had been hot, but… he’s not sure if he wants to make eye contact with himself while he has sex a regular thing.

Rozanov shakes his head slowly. “This is warm up. But no, no spoilers. Show me how you make yourself come.”

Shane gasps, the dildo rubbing in just the right spot. His cock is leaking steadily into his fist now, and knows he’s dangerously close.

That’s why he says it.

“Wish it was you,” he babbles. “Fuck, wish you were here.”

Rozanov lets out a long breath, and is silent for a long beat, just watching Shane pant and fuck himself on the dildo. Finally, he nods. “Me too. I would fuck you right.”

“You always do, fuck—”

“Fuck, Hollander, show me how you come, good boy—”

“Ah!”

Shane bites down hard on his tongue as he comes. He’s not worried about the noise so much as he is at what he’ll say if he’s left unmuzzled, and luckily he’s able to keep any dangerous words at bay. He barely has enough time to take a breath and get his wits about him before Rozanov is groaning on the screen and spilling an impressive amount of come all over his chest.

“Fuck,” Rozanov says succinctly when he’s done, looking half-lidded at the screen.

“Yeah,” Shane agrees with a little laugh, easing himself off the dildo with a wince. It doesn’t feel nearly as good to keep inside of him after he’s finished as Rozanov does.

“Feel better?” Rozanov says.

Shane nods. “I do. Uh… thank you.”

The corner of Rozanov’s mouth lifts into a smirk. “For getting you off over phone like magic?”

Shane rolls his eyes, but he’s flushing. “No, for giving me some spank bank material,” he says, gesturing to Rozanov’s cock softening against his thigh.

“‘Spank bank’?” Rozanov echoes, wrinkling his nose.

Shane winces. “I know. Gross phrase. You get the point.”

“Yes,” Rozanov replies, another grin covering his face. “You jerk off to me.”

“No, I didn’t mean—”

“You have bank of material.”

“Rozanov—”

“You miss me,” Rozanov sing-songs, and then freezes. There’s something so vulnerable in his expression that Shane can’t help himself.

“I do,” he admits.

I miss you all the time. I miss you even when you’re right next to me.

Rozanov is silent, watching him for several long beats. He’s quiet for so long that Shane thinks he’s mad, he’s going to hang up, and then, quiet as a mouse: “I do too.”

It feels safer than saying I miss you too, Shane knows, but he gets it anyway. And then the moment dissipates like smoke in the wind. Rozanov clears his throat, and Shane sits up and pulls his shorts back up his hips, the romantic rose-tinted glasses discarded suddenly. He’ll clean up in a minute. 

“You have learned a lot,” he says, his pixellated face impassive.

Shane squints. 

“I have,” he allows, speaking slowly. “Like you said the other day though, still a lot more to learn.”

Shane really isn’t sure what’s left, except for maybe that whole thing Rozanov was talking about of seeing how many times he could come in a row, but he knows he’s eager to find out. With Rozanov.

Rozanov hums. “Not much,” he replies finally, his voice growing quiet. Shane feels the tension settle over the call like a thick blanket, wants desperately to get back to the gooey territory they were just on when they admitted they missed each other. “You will be an expert soon.”

An expert on you, Shane thinks. Only you.

He doesn’t know what to do with the expression on Rozanov’s face, impassive with what looks like anguish flitting over his face before he shutters the emotion tight. He just knows he wants it to go away.

He just needs to get them back on solid ground first. He picks his phone up with his clean hand, settling back against the pillows and pushing his glasses up his nose. He sees Rozanov’s eyes follow the movement.

“What made tonight boring, then?” Shane asks. “Did Marly spend the whole night trying to get with the bartender again?”

“No. Well, yes, but…” Rozanov sighs. He rubs his eyes, and seems to be considering whether to continue the conversation now that it’s obvious they’re done. Shane can usually pretend these conversations are just filling time between lessons, an intermission of chat and cuddling until they’re ready to go again, but Shane already knows that’s not how this call will end if it continues. 

Eventually Rozanov seems to decide to continue. “Night was just boring.” His eyes narrow. “This is your childhood bedroom?”

Shane glances around and flushes. “Yeah.”

“Show me.”

“Rozanov—”

“Hollander,” he shoots back, and he says it so firmly that Shane finds himself flipping the camera before he knows what he’s doing. Rozanov is quiet as Shane slowly pans around the room, pointing and quietly explaining what this trophy or that poster is. He doesn’t say anything as Shane pans past his wall of medals and trophies—many of them rather embarrassingly, due to his mom, mounted in cases—but he grins when Shane pans to the wall opposite his bed.

“You have Scott Hunter poster?”

Shane flushes. “Yes. He’s one of the greatest players of all time.”

“Crosby is greatest player,” Rozanov corrects, then cocks his head in consideration. “Actually, NHL is very progressive to have Hunter.”

Shane’s brows furrow in confusion. “...why?”

“First captain to be blind and deaf.”

Shane’s eyes bug out of his head. “Rozanov.”

“First captain to need a walker to get to the ice.”

“Asshole.”

“Do you think if you slashed him his leg would crumble to dust?” Rozanov asks thoughtfully, eyes glimmering with mirth. “This is what happens to corpses, yes?”

Shane can’t help it. He laughs. It comes from deep inside him, bubbling up and out of his throat, and Rozanov looks delighted as he watches Shane chuckle with a matching grin on his face. While Shane doesn’t appreciate the Scott Hunter slander, he has to admit that Rozanov is pretty good with chirps. Sometimes.

“Maybe we’ll get to see him this weekend,” Shane muses, his stomach flipping at the mere thought. “The Admirals play the Guardians on Saturday.”

“I don’t think we have much free time, but I hope so,” Rozanov replies, though it sounds like he’s saying he hopes so more for Shane’s sake than his own. “So…how was your anniversary?”

“My parents’ anniversary. But yeah, it was great.”

Rozanov raises his eyebrows. He can obviously hear the exhaustion in his voice. “Hollander.”

“It sucked. I stuttered, like, the whole way through my speech, and I spent the whole night running around getting appetizers for people because my parents didn’t want to pay the catering company to staff it.”

Rozanov hums in sympathy. “Was loud? Lots of people?”

Shane nods. “All crammed into our house. It would be one thing if it was summer and we could have them in the backyard, but we were all stuck in the living room instead.”

After a moment, Rozanov rolls onto his side and props his head on his hand. “Who was there?”

Shane instantly recognizes the invitation for what it is. Talk to me. And who is Shane to refuse? The house always feels creepy with his parents gone, and he needs some time to gather his wits again before he can think about going to sleep.

“Well, first to arrive were my godparents…”

Almost an hour later, Shane is hanging up with a grin on his face. They’d talked about the party, about the club, about his parents, about hockey, about the combine, and it felt… normal. Natural. There was none of the stilted silences of their early conversations, where neither of them knew how to navigate whatever they were doing. Shane still felt a lot of things were going unsaid—knew a lot of that, in particular, was on his end—but now Shane knew Rozanov well enough to talk into the gaps, and vice versa. There seemed to be a silent agreement that tonight they both just needed someone to talk to, and neither one acknowledged the fact that they were feeling lonely in the first place because the other one wasn’t there. 

As Shane’s finger hovers above the ‘end call’ button as it has for the last five minutes, both of them stuck with so much more to say lodged in their throats, Rozanov smiles softly at him. 

“See you tomorrow?” he asks around a yawn, and Shane nods. His dad is driving him back in the morning, so plenty of time before their flight.

“See you tomorrow,” Shane confirms, but it still takes him a while to hang up the phone.

He is so fucked.

Chapter End Notes

OOOOOOOOOOOOOF y'all

despite how special this chapter is to post and how much work i've been doing i actually have disturbingly little to say because i have been doing nothing but this and my diss so i'm pretty much all worded out lol.

here's like three thoughts anyway:

first: shane and ilya you are so silly. and stupid. that's all.

second, THE GLASSES *tap tap tap*. i couldn’t write this scene and NOT put it in lmao it’s my favourite connor storrie-ism after his evil limp wristed attack of shane on the phone in the cottage episode

third, i've been going back and forth about where i want this story to end. i've written it so currently they're second years, but they could go to the draft anytime of course so that's not a massive issue. i have soooooo many ideas for future stuff in this verse, but i'm also really conscious of not dragging this story out unnecessarily because i feel like there's a natural place to stop... i would def like to write more if you'd like to read it though so basically just i hope you enjoy whatever i do decide lmao

not having a beta is good because i'm impatient but i also don't know anyone irl who watches heated rivalry or loves me enough to listen to me yap about my fics consistently so i have NO ONE TO MAKE THESE DECISIONS WITH it's rough but we out here and i am LEARNING to repress my LIBRA INDECISIVE TENDENCIES.

so all that is to say i'm very fluid and love love love reading your comments to hear what you all think and want to happen! interacting with everyone is the absolute great joy of writing fics, even though i've been absolutely horrific at replying to comments with this fic i swear i'm usually much better :( it's hard when there are so many of you <3

and lastly thank you so so much for over 2000 kudos! just means the world that you guys are enjoying me smushing these two boys' stupid idiot faces together and writing absolute filth.

see u very soon!!!!!!!!!!!

Chapter 10: you just sit there wishing

Chapter Summary

coming up: basically just excessive amounts of yearning. like so much

Chapter Notes

writing this fic is kinda like using a rolling pin because the more i roll this dough out the longer it gets... so anyway i've had to break this original chapter into three now but it will make SENSE i promise - hence why i have now committed to a 13 chapter count (for THIS story......................)

kind of random but there's a sorta detailed description of a character's fear of planes in this so. consider my warnings heeded

“Where’s your boy Hollander?”

Ilya’s head snaps left to look into the aisle, where Wyatt Hayes is stowing his bag in the overhead locker with an inquisitive look. Did he translate that right?

“My… what?”

“No, I mean—sorry, not, like, your boy,” Wyatt says quickly after a beat. He looks a little embarrassed, at least.  “I just meant—y’know, it’s always you and Hollander.”

“Oh. Um. No idea.” Ilya, not for the first time, glances down the aisle towards the front of the plane, which remains absent of Shane Hollander. “He was supposed to get to Montreal this morning, I think.”

Ilya knows. Of course he does. He’s been texting Hollander for most of the day, receiving updates like I’m so bored and this drive sucks and my dad won’t stop playing country music I feel like Dykstra’s on aux again!! that makes Ilya smile every time.

(“Wow, this girl works you up, brother,” Marly had commented earlier this morning when Ilya hopped off the treadmill like his ass was on fire so he could type out a reply to Hollander.

Ilya just raised a sardonic brow. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’re blushing.”

Ilya scowled. “Never in life have I blushed, Russians do not do this.”

When Marly turned around, Ilya surreptitiously raised a hand to his face. His cheeks were hot. Fuck.)

But it’s weird for him and Hollander to be texting, obviously, so he keeps it to himself.

“He will be here,” Ilya says firmly, but secretly he’s beginning to wonder. 

Did they have some kind of car trouble on the way here? Are they stuck on the side of the highway in the snow, trying to change a tyre? Or worse (for Hollander at least), did something happen that prevents him from being able to go to the combine at all?

“Oh, there he is,” Wyatt says just as Ilya feels the magnet in the centre of his body jerk to life hopefully. He knew before Wyatt even spoke that he was here, and doesn’t want to think about how in the hell that’s possible.

Hollander is standing at the top of the aisle, talking to a flight attendant who is enthusiastically gesturing down the aisle, presumably directing him to his seat. He nods, thanking her, and Ilya barely represses a snort as he watches her helplessly call out to him, “uh, let me know if you need anything else!” Hollander doesn’t turn around, because of course he doesn’t. He probably didn’t even notice she was flirting with him.

He always notices when Ilya flirts with him. Ha.

“Nice of you to finally join us,” Wyatt says when Hollander finally reaches them, and Hollander scowls. 

“There was traffic coming back, and I had to stop by my place to grab my bag, okay?”

Wyatt holds up his hands. “No problem, captain. Just glad you’re here.”

Hollander’s face softens into something resembling a smile, but it’s still tight as he turns to put his bag away. Ilya watches, rapt, as a strip of pale skin is revealed where his hoodie rides up when he lifts his arms, has to swallow and look away before he does something stupid like set his mouth to the bare skin. 

Hollander seems tense as he takes the middle seat between Ilya and Troy Barrett, and Ilya studies him carefully. He’s looking for signs that something is wrong between the two of them—a sign that Ilya revealed too much by saying he missed him last night, for example, even though Hollander said it first. Even though it’s true.

Ilya knew, realistically, that he could go out in search of a hookup any night he wanted while Hollander was gone. He had that insatiable itch under his skin that he knew could only be scratched by having a warm body beneath him, but for whatever reason he hadn’t. He just… wasn’t interested. Not right now. 

And he’d struggled not to text Hollander before yesterday. He hadn’t even known what he would say—just hi, how are you, how’s Ottawa? Fuck no—but then he went to that shitty club and couldn’t for the life of him get drunk no matter how many shots he took, and then he was rejecting the offer of an admittedly beautiful girl to go back to her place, and then he was stomping into an empty apartment and realising that he hadn’t felt this lonely in a long time. So he’d texted are you awake? and Hollander replied Yes, and then they were off to the races.

Ilya had actually never done that before. FaceTime sex. He’s never had anyone he wanted to do that with, could always just find someone else to entertain him in person instead. Even he and Sveta didn’t do that, content with their in-person hookups whenever they happened but otherwise using text just to send each other memes and gossip about their lives. 

God, he hopes he gets the chance to see her this weekend. He’d really appreciate the opportunity to talk to someone that actually knows him. 

But… Hollander knows him, too. They talked for over an hour about nothing even remotely sexual, and Ilya was horrified to find when he hung up that he’d shared things about himself, about his life back in Russia. In English. Nothing like what he’d said when Hollander allowed him to talk in Russian, but… things. He was even more horrified to realise that he could happily have gone several more hours.

They’ve texted in the half a day since, but Ilya isn’t sure what Shane will say to him now. Will it be obvious in his gaze, will he know how Ilya feels about him and now he’s ready to let him down gently? Or will he say something cruel in front of the whole plane, many of them teammates and other players headed to the combine, to truly make his point?

No. Not these. 

But what?

Hollander finally settles back against the seat, but he doesn’t look over at Ilya. He keeps his eyes trained on the headrest of the seat in front of him, but even beneath his hood Ilya can make out the dark circles under his eyes. Jesus, he looks tired. Did Ilya do that? They hadn’t been up that late, but maybe. He really does look like he might be sick any second.

But he still doesn’t say anything. Ilya realises with dawning horror as the plane begins taxiing that the ball is in his court—after the phone call, it’s up to him to break the silence stretching like an elastic band between them. 

All thoughts of last night drift from his mind as he finally turns his head fully and takes in Hollander’s expression.

He cocks an eyebrow. “Are you… okay, Hollander?”

Hollander purses his lips, then shakes his head and leans in. For an absurd minute Ilya actually thinks he’s going to kiss him, hates the way his heart flutters at the idea. It’s only been four days since you touched him, Ilya says to himself. You’re fine.

He doesn’t know when he started counting their kisses. He thinks he might have been doing it the whole time. All he knows is he takes stock of each one because he knows they’re finite, that every kiss he and Hollander share could be the last one. 

This moment won’t be another one to add to his collection, but he waits anyway, heart in his throat. Will he—

“Rozanov, I feel like we’re all gonna die.” Hollander glances around the plane with obvious apprehension, glaring at the roof with such disdain Ilya half expects it to disintegrate under his gaze. “We’re all gonna die in this fucking sardine tin.”

Wait, what?

Ilya would laugh at Hollander’s wide-eyed panic if it wasn’t so obviously real, white knuckles curling over the plastic of the arm rest as he stares back at Ilya.

“You don’t like flying?” Ilya guesses, because duh.

Hollander shakes his head, biting his lip. “It’s just so… claustrophobic. Like—” he lowers his voice, leaning in further. Ilya fights not to let his eyes slip shut at the scent of rain. “It’s just us, then a tin cage, then nothing. How the fuck is that normal?”

Ilya does risk a smile at this, and he’s relieved when Hollander’s irritated eye roll has a tinge of amusement to it. “Is okay,” Ilya says. He doesn’t really know much about planes—he’s never really thought about it, if he’s being honest—but he wishes that he had some facts to throw out now.

He doesn’t care about trying to figure out if he and Hollander are on even ground after their phone call last night. All that matters right now is making sure Hollander gets through this flight without throwing up or throwing open the emergency door and leaping out.

“Planes are weird,” Ilya begins, and Hollander scowls at him. He holds up his hands. “But it will be okay. I fly all the time, and I am fine, see?”

Ilya doesn’t mean to, but the unintended instruction has the added bonus of getting Hollander’s eyes to flicker over to him, skittering nervously over his body before coming back up to rest on his face.

“I read something,” Ilya says. “Turbulence is like jello, yes? And plane is—”

“Yeah, I know that one,” Hollander grits out, squeezing his eyes shut just as the plane turns a final corner and begins to rapidly accelerate. “Not—helping.”

Ilya’s body is humming with stored up energy, urging him to reach out and put a hand on his still-bouncing knee, interlace their fingers, anything. But they can’t. Even as Ilya has the thought, Dallas fucking Kent is turning around in his seat and peering between the tiny gap in the middle at Hollander, Ilya and Troy.

“Let’s fuckin’ go, boys!” he says, at least a few decibels higher than is polite on an airplane during take-off. Kent’s eyes flit to Hollander, and Ilya can see his grin through the seat. “Scared of heights, Hollywood? Need someone to hold your hand?”

Ilya glances at Hollander, expecting him to still have his eyes squeezed shut in terror, but instead finds those onyx eyes steady and trained on Kent.

“Fuck. Off.” 

Two simple words, and yet they’re as forceful as a blow to the face—maybe more so because barring the snipes he reserves for Ilya, Hollander rarely curses at the team. He watches the same thought process flit across Kent’s face, his expression going from glee to surprise to anger in the span of a few seconds. 

And Hollander means it when he says it, Ilya knows, but he also says it like he doesn’t care.

Damn it. Ilya is so fucking turned on right now.

“What the f—”

“God, Dallas, can you give it a rest? Just turn around and sit down,” Troy snaps, suddenly lifting his head from the window. He’s talking to Kent with a tone Ilya has never heard him use with his best friend before, like he’s a stroppy child in the middle of a tantrum and Troy is a mom that’s tired of his shit.

The combination of Hollander and Troy—neither of them angry people in the slightest—snapping at Dallas is enough of a blow to get him to obey Troy and slump back into his seat, ignoring Wyatt when he quietly snickers beside him.

Ilya isn’t very interested in whatever the fuck Dallas Kent is doing, though. He’s more worried about Hollander.

When he turns back, Hollander is still staring at the gap between the seats where Kent’s face was moments before with a clenched jaw. He’s whiteknuckling the armrests, and Ilya isn’t sure whether it’s because of his rage at Kent or because they’re now in the air.

“Hollander—” Ilya starts, but he doesn’t get a chance to say anything else before Hollander’s eyes are open and he’s shaking his head. 

“It’s good, I’m good,” he says, giving Ilya a tight smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. He rummages around in his backpack and produces his headphones, putting them over his ears with a terse nod in Ilya’s direction. He glances over one more time. “Thanks. I’m good now.”

Ilya nods back, and then Hollander is turning very pointedly to his movie. 

Okay then.

***

Shane hates planes. He always has.

Thankfully, he doesn’t have to fly a lot with the Marauders; it’s actually a lot more long road trips on the bus, which would be much worse for anyone who wasn’t essentially nose blind at this point to young 20-somethings and their hockey-related stench. It actually suits Shane down to the ground. 

They’ve been invited by the NHL, though, and the organization is paying for their air fare, so he can suck it up for one plane ride. Even if they’re flying economy. 

And he has a middle seat. 

And there’s a shit ton of turbulence. 

It also doesn’t help that he’s seated between Troy Barrett—who is texting enthusiastically and generally looks like he’d rather do nothing less than talk to Shane—and Ilya fucking Rozanov, who generally couldn’t give less of a shit. 

They haven’t spoken since Shane (rudely, if he’s admitting it to himself) dismissed him, and Rozanov does not seem bothered by that fact. He had only watched Shane busy himself getting his water bottle from his backpack and inspecting the complimentary headphones and then finally turned away.

Turning up his music helped during the first few minutes, but it’s once they get to cruising altitude that the problems begin. He knows the whole ‘the plane is suspended in jello’ theory, he doesn’t care. Turbulence is freaky as hell, and every time the plane shakes he thinks it’s going to fall out of the sky.

He thinks he’s doing a pretty good job of hiding it, at least. Wyatt and Kent are none the wiser in the row ahead of him; Troy is turned away, looking out the window with his hoodie up and earbuds in; and Rozanov… well. Since he watched Shane unpack, he hasn’t looked at him since.

They haven’t acknowledged their phone call the night before at all. 

Shane doesn’t know how he expects him to acknowledge it, of course. Not here. But… Rozanov hasn’t even really looked at him since he got on the plane.Instead, he’s leaning back against the headrest, headphones on, eyes closed and generally none the wiser to Shane’s anguish. 

It’s a slight distraction, at least, to look at the way Rozanov’s legs stretch obscenely out into the aisle. He can’t help it, his left knee is crammed up against the arm rest in front of them, and Shane can feel the heat of his thigh radiating just mere inches from his. He can also feel the heat of his skin through his hoodie, their elbows almost-but-not-quite brushing against the armrest. He hasn’t moved since they took off, either to acknowledge Shane’s presence or to move his arm away.  

It is definitely not distracting.

About thirty minutes into the flight the plane hits another patch of turbulence, and Shane feels his stomach launch into his throat as the plane dips down, down, and then levels again. This one gets a few yelps and titters from the packed flight, but no one is screaming.

Fuck. Shane, quite rudely, leans over Rozanov to look down the aisle. He squints, and after a beat he spots the flight attendant in her seat at the back—and she seems to be playing a game on her phone. That’s always a comforting reminder he’d learned from his dad—if the flight attendants weren’t freaking out, you didn’t need to freak out.

And then the plane dips again, and Shane curses under his breath and screws his eyes shut as he tries in vain to get his heartbeat under control. 

Rozanov’s finger twitches against his arm, so gently that Shane would think he hallucinated it if he wasn’t so attuned to his presence. With a furtive glance at Barrett, who now seems to be engrossed in his movie, Shane shifts back—and then Rozanov’s pinky is intertwining with his own, a subtle but silent promise that things will be okay. 

Shane doesn’t dare to move. He doesn’t dare to even breathe. He just stares down at their interlinked hands as if they’ll disappear if he looks away.

They stay like that for a lot longer than they should.

***

The combine, as Shane predicted, is gruelling. They arrive in the afternoon and are immediately carted off to an orientation speech, where they’re then taken to fill out a mountain of paperwork and questionnaires in the massive ballroom at the hotel. The weekend is acting somewhat like an All-Star game, as all the players from different teams mill around and greet each other like old friends as they fill out their forms. 

“Hollander, man, good to see you!” It’s Carter Vaughan, a McGill alum about to start his second season with the New York Admirals. Carter had been the one to show Shane around campus when he’d first arrived, and though he thinks he wouldn’t necessarily gel with the loud, exuberant forward in any other situation, he was glad for his mentorship then and his company now.

“Good to see you too, Vaughany,” Shane replies with a warm smile, clapping Carter on the back. “It’s been a while. How are the Admirals treating you?”

“Fuckin’ A. We might not get our chance at the playoffs this year, but I’m telling you, it’s coming. We’re gonna sweep the whole thing soon enough.”

“Good luck with that. Pretty sure the Voyageurs are way ahead of you.”

“No way, man. No disrespect to Montreal, but they haven’t won a Cup in, like, fourteen years.”

“The Admirals haven’t won in ten!”

Carter waves a dismissive hand. “Details. Listen, when you’re playing for Montreal, maybe they’ll have a chance. Until then… it’s an Admirals dynasty, baby!”

Shane rolls his eyes, but secretly he’s pleased that his former mentor is so confident at his NHL prospects. “So, what are you doing here?”

Carter shrugs. “My old linemate is here, and we were in Toronto for the game so figured I’d come say hi. Actually, you know him—it’s Roz.”

“Rozanov?”

Carter grins. “Yeah. We played together in my senior year, when he first came to Canada. Jesus, I’ll tell ya—he didn’t speak much English back then, but boy could he play. I mean, you know. I really wish I coulda come out to see you two play together, but with my schedule…”

God, Shane really should’ve remembered about Rozanov and Carter. They both went to Loyola, Shane knows that, but he never played against them at the same time—it just never clicked, for some reason.

As if summoned by his name, Rozanov floats past them with a drink in his hand. Shane has the absurd urge to ask if there’s any alcohol in the cup, even though he knows the no alcohol rule is strictly enforced and they don’t even have enough time in their days to slip out of their hotel rooms and find an LCBO. Rozanov just looks so relaxed.

“There you are, dude!” Carter yells, and in an instant he’s dragged Rozanov over and wrapped him in a bear hug. Rozanov looks at Shane over his shoulder like he’s currently having the life squeezed out of him, and Shane just barely resists the urge to laugh. “Fucking legend. How’s it going?”

Rozanov looks around the ballroom, then waves the sheath of blank forms he’s clutching and raises his eyebrows. “Just got here, so…”

“Right, right. Well listen, you guys get a go night on the last day, and we’ll all still be around, so if you and the other Marauders boys wanna come out with us, just say the word.”

Shane blinks. Go night. “We… you…” he says faintly. “Scott Hunter?”

Carter laughs. “Yes, Hunter will probably be there. Think about it, alright? We’d love to have you.”

Then he bounces off, no doubt to greet one of the other million guys he knows here, and Shane turns to Rozanov with wide eyes. “Did he just…?”

Rozanov snorts. “I really don’t understand what you see in Hunter. He’s, like, 45 million years old.”

“He is not. He’s only a few years older than us.”

“He’s a dinosaur,” Rozanov says firmly, glancing down at his papers and then levelling Shane with his gaze. “And when we get to the NHL, we will destroy him and his stupid team.”

We.

When Shane finally collapses in bed that night—Wyatt snoring like a truck in the single beside him—his mind is still whirring with thoughts of all the tests they’d had to do and we, we, we. 

Shane knows, obviously, that they’re both good enough to be in the NHL. Hell, they’re good enough to be the number one and two picks, respectively, and pretty much every commentator he sees agrees with that—it’s just a question of the order. Shane has his predictions, but he won’t know until the draft, and that’s still months away. 

He’d imagined what it would be like to be in the NHL with Rozanov more times than he’d liked to admit, playing against him, but now he imagines something different. What if, somehow… they got put on the same team?

It’s unrealistic and unlikely with teams so rarely needing centers at the same time, but… it’s not impossible. It could happen. And the thought of getting to play with Rozanov for longer, to feel that impossible feeling that when they were on the ice no one else could touch them, is almost too much to handle.

All he can do now is his best. He’s done the prep, he’s put in the work, and he’s ready.

***

Ilya isn’t sleeping. He feels like his body has a magnet pulling him towards Hollander’s room.

He rolls onto his stomach, buries his face in his pillow, and considers very seriously whether Barrett would wake up if he screamed.

***

Thirteen hours later, Shane isn’t so sure he can do this. 

After a rushed breakfast and another speech from someone else in the league, they’re brought to the NHL Head Office where they spend the whole day being herded from room to room. They do more psychological testing here, a blank-faced woman with a sharp, beady-eyed stare and a propensity to scratch furiously at her clipboard as Shane talks drilling him with questions until he feels dizzy. There’s no time to relax, though, because soon after they’re brought into another room where he’s asked questions that sort of feel like a Sorting Hat test—you come to a fork in the road in a dark forest, which way do you pick? Which animal would you say you are most like? And other mind-numbing questions that make Shane feel like he’s choosing wrong even though he knows, objectively, that there’s no wrong answer. 

He’s wrung out by the end of the second day, barely sparing enough energy to eat in the hotel restaurant before he calls an early night and heads up before curfew. He pretends to be asleep when Wyatt comes in, doesn’t want to entertain conversation of predicting how their next day will go or talking about comic books he’s never heard of. He’s a bad roommate, and a worse Captain, but he needs the time to himself. 

He doesn’t think about Rozanov and Barrett, two doors down.

Because he, meanwhile, seems to be taking everything in stride. He doesn’t keep a strict diet like Shane’s and hasn’t been seen staying after practice for a workout for the last week, but Shane later overhears from the guy who was behind him that he had the most reps on the bench press of anyone invited to the combine. He even waltzes around after the psychological testing round like he doesn’t feel any of the deep-seated exhaustion that Shane feels after having to talk about himself like that for hours, and Shane hates him for it. 

Fuck that. Fuck him.

His pinky still burns from where Rozanov intertwined theirs together on the plane. He still can’t sleep. 

***

Ilya still can’t sleep.

Ilya knew nothing could happen between them at the combine. He knew that beforehand, knows it’s ridiculously dangerous and more than a little logistically impossible, and yet—he wants it anyway.

That’s pretty much the story of his life the past few weeks. 

It’s just that he’s barely even gotten the chance to see Hollander, let alone talk to him. Whenever he steals a glance in Hollander’s direction, he finds the centre deep in conversation with Wyatt at the dinner table or sat in the NHL offices, lost in the hundreds of pages of psychological assessments they’re having them do. They spare each other a ‘good luck’ when they pass each other in between physical assessments, but that’s about the extent of their conversation since they got on the plane. 

He huffs, staring up at the ceiling. Troy has been even quieter than usual on this trip, apparently lost in his head, which has done nothing to help Ilya get his mind off things. Their curfew is stricter than strict, so it’s not like he could sneak out and distract himself that way either. 

Not that he wants to. He just wants…

His phone vibrates in bed beside him.

Please be him, please be him, Ilya chants in his head because he’s pathetic, and when he sees ‘Jane’ on the screen his heart soars.

Are you awake?

Well, this feels familiar.

Yes.

The reply takes a long time to arrive. Ilya can imagine Hollander bent over his phone screen in thought perfectly. He wonders if he’s wearing his green hoodie, if he has one hood string in his mouth like he always does without thinking.

Can I see you?

Ilya frowns, glancing over his shoulder at the Troy-shaped lump in the single bed beside him. Troy’s a pretty deep sleeper when it comes to light, Ilya can flick bedside lamps on and off no problem, but he’ll jump awake at the slightest sound—if Hollander let Ilya do what he wanted to him, there’s no way he could be quiet. 

It’s a stupid idea to even entertain. Ilya knows Hollander is probably thinking the same thing, kicking himself for making the request in the first place when he’d been the one to point out that they couldn’t do anything at the combine, and still…

Ilya wants. And he knows Hollander wants, too. 

He’s considering asking whether Hollander could feasibly ask Wyatt to leave their shared room for a bit—no, the answer is no, he’s insane—when a much simpler solution dawns on him. 

East stairwell. 5 minutes

Getting out of bed and finding a hoodie to shrug on from his suitcase is easier said than done when his temporary roommate has the ears of a bat, but he manages to find the blue one he knows Hollander likes on him and slips out of the door a minute later.

The coast is clear. He checks the time again. It’s well after midnight, so he knows no more room checks will be happening tonight—but security will probably be patrolling occasionally, so they have to be quick. And careful.

Ilya locates the stairs, and then walks half a flight in each direction craning his head to make sure no one else is there—and they’re in the clear. The whole stairwell is deserted, so Ilya paces for a few minutes before he realises he probably looks like a serial killer and takes a seat on the bottom step. 

As soon as the door to the stairwell opens, though, he’s leaping to his feet like his ass is on fire. Part of him is expecting NHL staff or hotel security there to take him back to his room—or worse, kick him out of the whole combine—but it’s not either of those. It’s just Shane Hollander, looking rumpled and tired and so damn kissable that Ilya can’t breathe.

“Hi,” Hollander whispers when the door shuts, glancing furtively at the stairs. “Is anyone—?”

Ilya shakes his head. He swallows. “Hi.”

“Hi.”

“You said that already.”

Hollander’s lips quirk at the corner, his cheeks turning pink as he looks down, and God. Does he even understand what he does to Ilya when he does shit like that?

Ilya’s hands twitch at his sides, itching to reach out and pull Hollander close, but he stays still. Hollander is staying on his side of the landing, leaning against the wall as he eyes Ilya with something he can’t name—apprehension, maybe—so Ilya will just… stay right here.

“How’s the combine been going so far?” Hollander asks.

Ilya shrugs. He’s pretty sure he did very well in some of the physical exams, knows he’s one of the stronger players here, but he’s also pretty sure he somehow figured out a way to bomb the un-bombable psychological tests. There’s no wrong answer, that’s what they’d said, but Ilya is pretty sure taking several minutes to remember the word ‘transition’ in English and refusing to move on until he figured it out wasn’t right. He can still remember the matching looks of impatience and irritation on the examiners’ faces as he’d said, what is word—there is change, you move from one place to another—no, hold on please, is—-

“Fine,” is all he says in response to the question, though, because how can he explain all of that? “Busy.”

Hollander blows out a breath, nodding seriously in agreement. “I know, right? I thought we’d get the chance to, like, tour the facility, ask some questions of our own to the teams, but… nope.”

“They don’t care what we think about these things,” Ilya says with a wave of his hand. “They want to see how much money we can make them.”

“That’s a bit of a reductive viewpoint—”

Ilya doesn’t know what ‘reductive’ means, but he understands. “Is just business, Hollander. We are prize cows. They want to see how fat we are before they send us to murder house.”

“Slaughter.”

“What?”

Hollander is smiling a little.  “The word you’re looking for is slaughter. Not murder house.”

“Ah. Okay. Slaughter.” The word tastes foreign, bitter and metallic on his tongue. Ilya never does mind it when Hollander corrects his English, but it makes him feel especially warm in comparison to his experience during the testing today. When it comes to Ilya’s English, Hollander is kind, patient, and apparently charmed by his accent—everything the NHL isn’t. 

Good thing Ilya is too good of a player to ignore. 

He bets Hollander got in on his psychological testing alone, never mind his skills on the ice. He probably answered them in English and French. Fucker. 

“Well…?” Ilya says, and grins when he sees Hollander narrow his eyes. “Come here.”

Ilya lifts himself from the wall and takes a slow, measured step towards Hollander. Hollander’s eyes track the movement with—not surprise, but anticipation. Like he’s been waiting, almost like Ilya has. 

“No, you come here.”

Hollander takes another step closer, then another.

“No, you come here.”

Ilya stops two feet from Hollander, who makes a noise of frustration and finally goes to close the gap himself. Ilya had only wanted to see that moment, to see him want it enough to take it himself, but instead he finds himself placing a palm flat against Hollander’s chest and pushing him against the wall just to see what he’ll do.

The effect is immediate. Hollander’s cheeks flush a dark red, and he looks seconds away from stomping his feet in frustration. “Rozanov,” he whines, eyes still trained on Ilya’s mouth. Ilya licks his bottom lip out of interest, and is delighted when Hollander’s eyes darken as he copies the movement. 

“Hollander,” Rozanov echoes back, mocking. He always does like producing that blush on Hollander’s cheeks; it makes him feel like he’s achieved something, however stupid it is. Sometimes he feels like he’s too mean to Hollander when it comes to sex, always asking him what he wants and making him beg, but he knows as he sees Hollander’s desperate expression now that this is exactly how he wants it too.

Hollander huffs. “We haven’t touched in, like, five days, Rozanov. Please.”

“Six,” Ilya corrects, and then freezes. God fucking damn it. 

Hollander blinks. “Six?”

“It’s. Um. It’s been six days, not five.”

A slow smile spreads across Hollander’s face. He looks like Christmas came early. “You were counting,” he says, his grin evident in his voice.

“Fuck off. Was not.”

“Were too,” Hollander shoots back, wrapping a hand around the arm still holding him against the wall. “You missed me.”

It’s eerily similar to their conversation on FaceTime and Ilya’s stupid admission, and he can see in Hollander’s eyes that he’s noticed it, too. 

It’s Ilya’s turn to be brave. “I did.”

I miss you all the time.

The magnet in Ilya’s body has a strong pull. It yanks him forward for the last few inches, giving Ilya just enough time to see Hollander’s smile and catch the murmured me too before he kisses him.

Hollander makes a noise like relief into his mouth as soon as their lips touch, and Ilya hears himself let out a similar noise. The kiss is coming up for air after holding your breath underwater, it’s cool water sizzling over hot stone, it’s a crackling fire defrosting numbed fingers. It’s dirty and sweet and affectionate and angry all at once, and Ilya can’t get enough.

He’s mad because he knows now that he needs this, that he needs this more than he’s let himself need anything in a long time, that when it inevitably disappears—because it will—Ilya will be left grasping at empty air, trying to catch smoke in his bare hands.

But that hasn’t happened yet. And Ilya has no use for mourning things before they’re gone, he tells himself, so he does his best to let go of the anger, get his shit together and kiss Hollander back harder just like he deserves.

The kiss won’t go anywhere, and they both know that. Even if they weren’t in a public stairwell, it’s far too risky to be doing anything out of their rooms this late to begin with—they’d have far bigger problems than seeking out an orgasm if they were caught. 

It feels a little weird, kissing just to kiss and knowing it. It’s like they’ve both suddenly become shy, laughing breathily into each other’s mouths as hands slip just barely under hoodies to graze warm skin and fingers tangle themselves in hair but don’t pull.

The Hollander Ilya is touching right now is a far cry from the one who’d been on his phone screen only two days ago. That Hollander had been wild, desperate, shameless—this one is tentative, needy but clearly afraid to ask for too much.

That’s okay. Ilya knows what he wants, anyway. He kisses Hollander thoroughly enough for him to forget his own name, and by the time they wrench apart a few minutes later they’re both obviously hard and panting.

It’s Hollander who finally yanks himself back, and as he stares at Ilya he begins to laugh. “You look—”

Ilya can’t help it. He laughs too at the sight of the boy across from him.“No, you look—”

And then what follows is a few more minutes of hushed laughter and more kisses as they try to make themselves presentable enough to go back to their rooms, Hollander adjusting Ilya’s curls while Ilya swipes the excess moisture off Hollander’s lips with his thumb. He has the absurd urge to push in, and from the heat in Hollander’s eyes he knows he wants the same thing but there’s no way that wouldn’t end in one or both of them getting on their knees in this stairwell and the whole point of tonight was to be clandestine, quick. He just kisses Hollander hard instead and hopes he gets the message.

It’s like getting a quick fix just to stay on an even keel, a hit of Hollander to take the edge off before Ilya can have him back in his bed come Monday. It can’t come soon enough. Ilya has plans.

“I’m excited to be back in Montreal,” Hollander whispers, reading his mind. 

“It’ll be worth the wait,” Ilya promises. “This lesson is good one.” He can’t resist squeezing Hollander’s biceps, running his hands up to frame his face and give him a chaste kiss. “We will be back soon.”

“Just interviews and ice time to go.”

“And drinks with Scott Hunter,” Ilya reminds him, and this time when Hollander goes red it doesn’t feel nearly as satisfying because it’s Hunter that’s doing it. He feels himself scowling. “Is crazy, you having crush on a fossil. I think this is illegal.”

Hollander whacks him on the arm. “Fuck you. Scott Hunter is a national treasure.”

“Hunter is American.”

“He’s borderless. Besides, he’s about as American as Justin Bieber is Canadian.”

“Ah, so you know Justin Bieber and still not Matt Damon?”

Hollander rolls his eyes. “Fuck you.”

“Oh, I plan on fucking you.”

The flush is back again, and this time he’s the one that made it happen. Score.

Hollander glances again at his watch and grimaces, tipping his head forward to rest against Ilya’s. “It’s almost 1. We should go.”

“Yes.”

There’s a long beat where Hollander is staring at him and saying nothing, and for some reason Ilya thinks for a moment that this is it, that Hollander will end it all—but instead he just mumbles something that looks like fuck it and tugs him back into another heated kiss. 

They have to adjust themselves all over again a minute later. Ilya literally could not give less of a shit.

***

Shane is sat next to Rozanov in the hotel later on the third day, waiting to be called into their respective interviews. Players rotate between a number of hotel rooms throughout the day, talking to reps from each of the major NHL teams about their experience, their skills, and what would make them a good fit for the team—it’s nerve-wracking, because while there’s an obvious set of things they’re looking for, there are even more qualities that seem to be unwritten rules, things Shane doesn’t know he’s supposed to have. 

But he’s practiced questions like these—tell us about your worst game, who is the toughest coach you’ve played for, why should we draft you—for months, drilling them over the phone or at the dinner table with his mom, his dad sat in the living room and waiting to start their nightly board game. He could answer them in his sleep, usually… but dealing with nerves is a different thing. 

Rozanov, meanwhile, seems to be unflappable. He’s reclining against the chair in his charcoal grey suit, his long, muscular legs somehow looking even longer when they’re stretched out and topped with pointed black dress shoes, and seems to be humming a song with his eyes closed. Generally, he looks like he couldn’t give less of a fuck what happens to him. 

When the third rep comes out to grab someone and their eyes flicker over to Rozanov in the corner, Shane whacks him on the arm. “Sit up,” he hisses. “Take this seriously, okay?”

Rozanov harumphs, but he does sit up and clasp his hands in front of him, at least. He squints at Shane. “What’s your problem?”

Shane stops bouncing his leg to glare at Rozanov. “Oh, I don’t know,” he says sarcastically, barely able to keep his voice in the hushed whisper that the silent hallway demands of them. “Maybe the fact that you have the chance to actually make a good impression on a team you want to play for, on the Bears, and you look like you’d rather be literally anywhere else.”

Rozanov’s eyes harden, but Shane could swear he sees him flush as he looks down. “Whatever. They like me or they don’t. I won’t waste time with a team who doesn’t accept me.” He gestures to himself emphatically, then slumps back down in his chair and raises a brow at Shane as if willing him to challenge him. 

Shane just huffs, folding his arms. He can't force Rozanov to take it seriously if he doesn't want to, but he just hopes it doesn't ruin his chances of getting on a good team.

The interviews are even worse than the psychological evaluations, because these people aren’t as good at restraining their expressions. Shane notices every time his answers aren’t eloquent enough, hones in on every raised brow and pursed lip with the focus of a sniper and spends the time in between each one lamenting all the mistakes he made in the last interview. 

He just… wants this. So badly it hurts. 

Just like he wants a lot of things. 

Rozanov saunters out of his interview with the Bears with a smirk only minutes after Shane emerges from his interview with the Admirals. He’s buzzing from the attention from the team of his favourite player, even if he knows they don’t have any need for a new center right now—it’s enough that the rep said you’re a fantastic player, Shane, you’re one to watch for sure. 

“Good?” Shane asks when he sees Rozanov, even though it obviously was.

Rozanov lifts one shoulder. “Everyone is obsessed with me,” he says as he collapses in the chair beside Shane, his head lolling to one side to give him a syrupy grin. “Is such a hard life.”

“Sounds terrible,” Shane replies dryly, but he’s smiling too. 

Now it’s time for the part Shane has most been looking forward to: playing hockey. 

It’s an unusual thing for them to do, apparently, since usually the combine is entirely dedicated to physical evaluations, psychological tests and interviews, but according to Carter (via Rozanov, who had been ambushed by the Admirals player again yesterday) they wanted to see how the players matched up against each other directly this year. 

Shane is a lot less worried about this than he was about the interviews. He knows he’s not the most personable of players, doesn’t have the social battery of JJ or the charm of Rozanov or the interests of Wyatt, but he’s lethal on the ice and he knows it. It doesn’t matter that he babbled about how great Scott Hunter was to the Admirals, or how he’d told the Voyageurs that Coach Wiebe was the hardest coach he’d ever played for because he was the nicest—all that mattered now was making up for it, showing them exactly why they wanted him on their team. 

First, though, he has to get through Rozanov. 

The players are split into four teams, and Shane is horrified to learn that while he has objectively the best goalie in the league on his team with Hayes, he is not on the same team as Rozanov. He’s playing against him. 

So… Shane has sort of always wondered what it would be like to play against him now. The Rozanov he met when he was fifteen was very different from the one he knows now at nineteen, everything relentless and rude and kind and caring amplified by eleven, not to mention the fact that he’s, like, double the size now. Shane also knows that Rozanov is a force, and he’s realizing with dawning horror that he’s reluctant to play against him for a very important reason.

He finds it incredibly, incredibly hot. 

They hadn’t bothered dividing the teams evenly between locker rooms—as long as there was space, they said, suit up. This has led to Rozanov being tucked in next to him in the crowded room, his voice quiet when he speaks but still managing to ring in Shane’s ears. 

“I’ve missed playing against you,” Rozanov says as they both reach into their bags for their tape at the same time. Shane glances over, finds Rozanov already watching him like he knows exactly what he’s thinking at the thought of them competing. Fuck.

“You miss losing?” Shane asks lamely, mostly to deflect from the unexpected intimacy of Rozanov’s comment. 

Rozanov scoffs to his left. “We only ever played three games against each other, Hollander, but we won two of them.”

“I scored more goals.”

“I had more assists.”

“I had more ice time—”

“Jesus, will you give it a rest?” Wyatt says from Shane’s right, sounding exasperated. “You’re both great. Your teams were both great. Et cetera. Now let’s play.”

Shane just flushed, and then frowns into his bag. “Fuck. Fuck, where the hell is my tape?”

Of course he’d forget something as simple as his fucking tape. The one time he gets the chance to do something at the combine other than talk about himself, to show them what he can do, and he doesn’t even double check his bag beforehand, just forgets it. Of course.

“You can use mine,” Troy Barrett offers, but Shane shakes his head when he holds it up. It’s waxed tape. God, he can feel his face beginning to show signs of panic but he can’t get himself to stop.

“No, uh—I mean, thanks, but—”

“Here.” Shane has only half-turned when the object comes into his view, and he catches it easily. When he realises what it is and looks up, he finds Rozanov and one of those damn half-shrugs again. “Is unwaxed.”

“I…”

Rozanov looks impatient, and…flustered? “Is what you wanted, yes?” he says, after several more seconds of Shane opening and closing his mouth like a fish. 

They’ve been playing on the same team for several years now, Shane knows he uses unwaxed tape too, but… he didn’t know Rozanov knew he did.

“Yes,” he finally manages. His throat feels dry. “Um. Thank you.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Shane sees Victor St Simon, a defender he knows vaguely through JJ that plays for Universite de Montreal, squint dubiously at the small circle of tape in his hand. 

“I don’t know if that’s gonna be enough tape for a whole blade, man, maybe someone else has mor—”

“Hollander does toe-only,” Rozanov replies.

It just so happens to be at the exact same time Shane says, “I just do toe-only.”

They share a look. It feels like Rozanov is trying very hard to burn his hockey gear off with his eyes. Shane looks away.

St Simon leans over to meet Wyatt’s gaze. “Are they always like this?”

Wyatt squints at them, and Shane can practically see the calculations going on in his head. “No. They’re not, actually.” 

Ohhhh God.

“Trying to throw Hollywood off his game, Roz?” booms Dallas Kent across the locker room, his too-loud laugh quickly dimming the conversation amongst the other players. “Kill ‘em with kindness and all that?”

Shane would be glad for the interruption to Wyatt’s thought process if it wasn’t in the form of Dallas fucking Kent. A few stalls down, he sees Troy Barrett stiffen as well.

Slowly, too slowly, Rozanov turns to face Kent, his expression stony and impassive. He looks bored. “No,” he says simply. “I need Hollander on his game. This way I have actual competition.”

Rozanov makes a pointed, slow sweep up to Kent’s face and arches a challenging brow. It’s just normal enough of a chirp that the guys from the other teams just whistle and laugh, gradually going back to their conversations— they don’t recognize the barb for what it is. We are not friends, and especially not here. Don’t fuck with me.

Kent’s cheeks have slowly turned a mottled red, and his dark eyebrows are low over his eyes as he fumes at Rozanov, but he still doesn’t say anything as Rozanov calmly turns back to his duffel. Wyatt lets out a low whistle once it seems clear that no swords will be drawn today.

“Jesus, Roz,” he says. “You’re scary when you’re mad, you know that?”

Rozanov just smirks. “You could never make me mad, Hazy.” He pats Wyatt’s cheek, which totally doesn’t make Shane jealous because he has totally not been turned on since Rozanov gave him the stick tape and hard as a rock since he stared down Kent.

Wyatt blows him a mocking kiss just as Troy walks over, shaking his head. “You know he’s not gonna let that one go, right?”

“I am counting on it,” Rozanov says firmly, and then narrows his eyes. “I thought you two assholes were friends.”

“Like two peas in an asshole pod,” Wyatt mutters under his breath, and Shane snorts. They did used to be tight in first year. When Rozanov’s eyes flicker to him, his gaze is full of mirth.

Troy is shaking his head again. “Not anymore,” he says with such venom and hatred that Shane along with both of his Marauders teammates immediately fall silent. “I’m done with that son of a bitch.”

Shane gets a sneaking suspicion that there’s a lot more to this story, but he knows Troy won’t share it here. Rozanov seems to know this too, because he claps a firm but kind hand on Troy’s back.

“Well done. You are not asshole by association anymore.” He grins. “Now you are just asshole by yourself.”

“Fuck off,” Troy says, but his lips are twitching at the corners. He glances down at Rozanov, then nods once. “I’m glad I’m on your team, Roz, that’s all I’m gonna say.”

“Not today,” Rozanov says cheerfully. “You all should watch out.”

Whatever smile that was ghosting Troy’s mouth disappears. “You should watch out,” he says, lowering his voice and jerking his head minutely in the direction of Kent, who is talking emphatically to some guys from Saskatchewan. “This is supposed to be a friendly match, but he’ll be coming for you anyway.”

Rozanov’s face takes on an uncharacteristic soberness as he nods in response, but it’s gone in a flash. He smirks again. “I don’t mind this friendly competition.” He glances at Shane and then Troy. “Keep me from getting bored with you.”

“Also, Troy,” Shane interjects awkwardly. “You should check the board again. I’m pretty sure you and Kent are playing against each other, not us.”

Troy’s expression darkens, and he stalks off to check the notice board with Wyatt following. Finding himself with an unexpected opportunity alone, Shane turns to Rozanov and finds him frowning down at his feet.

Shane follows his gaze and immediately sees the problem. Beneath the sock that Rozanov has just pulled down is a massive blister, the large white bubble protruding out of his heel surrounded by reddened, angry skin.

“Fuck,” Rozanov hisses, shaking his head. He pokes the white bubble and grimaces, turning to his stall to glare at the sleek black dress shoes he’s been wearing all weekend. “These fucking smart shoes.” 

Shane brightens. “Hold on,” he says quickly, rummaging back through his bag. He knows he has them somewhere—

Yes!

“Here.” Shane hands Rozanov a neat pile of blister plasters in an assortment of sizes. He might be dumb enough to forget his own stick tape, but somehow he always remembers to keep an emergency medical supplies bag stashed in the bottom of his duffel. 

Rozanov stares at the plasters for a beat too long, then blinks and plucks them out of his hand carefully. “Uh. Thank you.” He sounds genuinely surprised.

Shane flushes. He can be prepared, too. He doesn’t want to make a big deal of it, though, so he focuses on pulling his skates from his bag while Rozanov quickly applies the plaster to his foot, wondering whether he’ll need—

“Hollander, should I put on extra—oh.” Rozanov stares down at the pair of socks that Shane has just tossed to him as if they’re a bomb. “Um.”

Shane feels himself flushing a deep scarlett. “It’s just a pair of socks, man, whatever,” he says quickly. God, Shane wants to die. “Just hurry up and try not being late for once.”

“Thank you.”

Once again, Shane is touched by the sincerity in Rozanov’s voice—and once again, he doesn’t dare look up. He can feel Rozanov’s eyes on him for a long beat, and knows that he’s thinking about kissing him. His mind—for the hundredth time today—goes back to the stairwell last night, to Rozanov slowly and methodically kissing him senseless and then laughing in the hallway as they crept back to their rooms and Shane instinctively flattened himself against the wall when an automatic light flickered on. The Rozanov he’d seen last night was open, vulnerable, and wanting, and Shane could feel that same Rozanov looking at him now.

“Y’know, I think you’re forgetting something,” he says conversationally as he sits to lace his skates, a little closer than might be necessary.

“What is that?” Rozanov’s voice is unnaturally even. 

“In the time since we’ve played each other, we’ve been on the same team.”

“No, really?” Rozanov deadpans.

His sarcasm drops when Shane turns his head, levelling him with a gaze he knows is almost as intense as the heat boiling inside him. He leans in closer, just a bit, just to watch Rozanov’s eyes flicker to his lips. 

“I know all your tricks now,” Shane murmurs, and then he’s turning back to his skates and pretending his cheeks aren’t flaming. 

He waits, face hot, for a reply. Instead, Rozanov just leans down and begins trying his own skates. 

Their knuckles brush as he pulls the bow taut. Shane wants to scream.

“Not all of them,” Rozanov whispers back, and then he’s gone.

Shane grins. Game on.

It’s fun to push himself on the ice, but it’s even more fun when Rozanov is there. 

His ‘team’—a pair of aggressive forwards from Manitoba and a few burly defensive linemen from Buffalo—push forward, clearing the way enough for him to dart between two red jerseys and scoop up the puck where it had been abandoned behind the net. He sprints, switching hands to maneuver the puck around another guy on defense, and in his peripheral vision he sees Rozanov take off after him. 

Perfect. If he didn’t know how many people were watching him closely from the stands right now, he’d be grinning.

Rozanov is, on most days, a little faster than Shane, and that’s what Shane is counting on. Because while Rozanov won’t have a problem catching up with him, he’ll run into some trouble with his stick handling once he gets there—Shane’s reflexes are faster, sharper.

He drives Rozanov across the ice and then pivots sharply. He was right. Rozanov struggles to change direction and bend to get the puck, and the millisecond longer that it takes him to reach for it is all Shane needs. With a quick spray of ice shavings on Rozanov’s skates, Shane turns and takes three strides before he’s flicking the puck into the net like it was always supposed to be there. 

On their next shift together, Rozanov wins the face-off because he winks. He honest to God winks at Shane just before the puck drops, and Shane is so stunned that he doesn’t realise Rozanov’s taken the puck until he’s almost at the net already.

Shane seethes through the rest of the play, waiting for his chance, and next time they bend for the face-off he glares at him. 

“What the hell are you doing?” he hisses under his breath, glancing to his left where the team reps sit in the stands with their clipboards.

“Having fun,” Rozanov says with a shrug. “I think I will get a hat-trick tonight, but do I do now, or wait til later? Because I don’t know, waiting til last minute is more fun—”

The puck drops. 

Shane wins the face-off. When he gets the hat-trick first, Rozanov is grinning almost as widely as he is.

He leaves the ice a few hours later feeling sweaty and elated. They ran drills, had a few more friendly matches, and did a few agility competitions as well. Shane won in all but one of the races, and his team trounced Rozanov’s with ease. 

(It wasn’t Rozanov’s fault, and that was obvious—the two guys on his line were uncoordinated and uncooperative and their goalie seemed to be blind, but Rozanov still managed to scrape together wins against the other two teams that Shane knew the reps would find him impressive for.)

All in all, he did a good job today, he thinks. He was quick, decisive, and deadly on target. 

He did it. There’s nothing else to do but wait to find out how he did. He’ll get more detailed feedback from his coaches, but he’s heard a rumour that the NHL likes to bestow MVP awards at the end of the weekend as well.

There’s one other thing.

“Are you going to that bar thing downtown after the awards?” Troy asks as they change, some of the first few back after their last game. 

“What thing? Oh, with—Vaughany and the Admirals?” Troy nods, and Shane scratches the back of his neck. “I don’t know…”

He wants to go, would die for the chance to meet Scott Hunter and the rest of the team, but he’s also… scared. It’s not exactly familiar territory for him, and he has no idea what he’d even say to anyone except Carter. Still, when is he going to get the chance to party with Hunter after the Draft?

It’s time to go to a fucking club.

“Fuck it,” he says with a nod. “Let’s go.”

The bar the Admirals take them to is little more than a dive, sticky counters and cracked vinyl booths with walls covered top to bottom in posters, licence plates and patches from all over the world. It has a certain charm to it, Shane supposes, even if it’s dark as fuck. And smells like stale beer. And he keeps stepping in something wet.

It doesn’t help that Rozanov is standing in the same group as him. His hair is longer now, Shane notices, curling behind his ears in a way that makes Shane want to tug on them. It’s distracting, and so is Rozanov’s tight tank top stretching across his muscular chest, and his big hands holding that tiny cup, and his glittering blue-green eyes, looking anywhere but at Shane. 

He’s just mad he didn’t win the weekend’s MVP award, but too bad.

Fuck that. Shane looks away hastily, tugging on his collar—

Only to be confronted by Scott fucking Hunter walking up to him with Carter by his side. 

Hooooooooooly shit.

He’s even more impressive in person, towering well over six feet with a broad chest and massive arms topped by piercing blue eyes and tousled sandy blonde hair. He’s an Adonis, basically, and Shane feels both starstruck and more than a little turned on.

“Boys, I want you to meet our fearless leader,” Carter says, pushing Hunter towards them. “This is Scott. Scott—this is Roz, Hazy, Barrett, and Hollander. They all play for the Marauders.”

Scott shakes each of their hands in turn, congratulating them. “Well, you guys are a stacked team if you have so many players here,” he says with a grin. Damn right. Shane likes to think they could easily fill a quarter of the combine’s list just with McGill players and they’d have a very solid roster.

“Dallas Kent’s here too, but…” Carter trails off, glancing over at Troy. Clearly word of their argument has gotten around. “Sorry.”

“What is it?” Scott asks, looking confused, and then his expression clears. “Oh, did you say Kent? Never mind. That guy’s a fucking asshole.”

Shane sort of can’t quantify the idea of his idol being as pissed off with Dallas Kent as he is on a daily basis, doesn’t understand how that would arise, how they know each other in the first place. He’s so incredulous over that fact that he bursts out laughing, just barely resisting the urge to clap a hand over his mouth after the sound leaves it.

He feels Rozanov’s gaze on him like being doused with cold water, and doesn't dare turn towards him. 

“Sorry, I just… didn’t expect you to know him,” he manages, looking instead to Scott fucking Hunter.

The Admirals Captain smiles, pearly-white and dazzling, and Shane feels like he might faint. “He got the same scholarship I did when we were kids,” he explains. “He’s always been a bully.” Scott turns to Troy. “Good on you, man. Good to see you again.”

“You too, Scott.”

(Okay, Shane definitely needs to grill Barrett later.)

And then Scott is turning to him. “Anyway, I know you, Hollander,” he says, and Shane freezes. Scott laughs. “Congratulations on the NHL Combine MVP Award. I saw a tape of you playing in the World Juniors the other week, too. You’re an incredible player.”

Oh God. Shane can’t look away. He might drown in those eyes. Actually, he might sink through this sticky bar floor.

“Wow,” Shane manages. “T-that’s an incredible honour to hear from you, Mr Hunter.”

“Scott,” he corrects, and flashes another dazzling grin as he claps Shane on the back. “You’re having a hell of a season, man. By Draft Day the teams’ll be on you like sharks, trust me.”

Shane smiles awkwardly. He never does know how to take compliments like this. “Thanks,” he says after a beat too long. “I mean, yeah. I hope so. I’m hoping to get drafted somewhere close to home. My parents still come to pretty much every game they can. They just called me to congratulate me on the combine, actually.”

Scott’s eyes go surprisingly soft. “They’re in Ottawa, right?” Shane nods, and Scott grins. “Maybe you could play for the Centaurs.”

Shane laughs. He has nothing against the team, but they’re… awful. He definitely did not get the gene for his Dad’s love of the Centaurs, that’s for sure. “God, I hope not,” he jokes back. “They won’t be able to afford me.”

“So hey, what do you think about me and the old fucks doing some shots with the Marauders, a pre-draft good luck charm?”

And… well. Who is he to say no to Scott Hunter?

“Fuck yeah,” Shane says, and when he turns to the group he sees both Troy and Wyatt grinning and high-fiving, apparently celebrating their uptight captain giving them permission to drink too.

But Rozanov is gone.

He’s just… gone. And Shane didn’t even notice. Where the hell did he go?

“Alright, where’s your boy Rozanov?”

Shane’s blood runs cold. “My… what?”

“No, I mean—” Scott laughs, shaking his head. “Not, like, your boy. It’s just always Hollander and Rozanov, y’know?”

“Oh. Right. I actually—he was just here a minute ago.”

“Said he was getting some air,” Troy supplies, busy setting up the line of shots with Wyatt. He looks over his shoulder at Shane and then jerks his head towards Scott, widening his eyes. 

Shane nods, grinning. He can’t believe it either. “He’s missing out,” he says in a low voice, and Wyatt laughs in response. 

“Fuckin’ tell me about it,” he says as they all watch Scott Hunter order a large round of vodka shots.

Shane has the unbearable urge to ask what brand of vodka they have. He wonders for a moment whether it’s the pure stuff that Rozanov likes, but it doesn’t matter. Because Rozanov isn’t here.

Fuck him. No, fuck this. Shane fucking earned this award, not him, and now Scott Hunter wants to celebrate it with him? Hell yes, he’s gonna do it.

A minute later there’s a shot lined up in front of him, and once Carter counts down to ‘GO!’ they all down it in one. Shane barely feels the liquid burning his throat, too preoccupied with his friends beside him cheering as he’s handed an extra shot of some green liquid he suspects might be absinthe. 

He downs it anyway. It’s a fucking celebration.

It’s the first alcohol in his system tonight, and he was careful to eat some food before he left—the last thing he wanted was to make a fool of himself in front of Scott Hunter. Still, he feels a pleasant fizz in his veins as he falls into conversation that is easier than expected with Scott, Carter, and a few other guys that play for the Admirals.

They ask him about the Marauders, and how the combine has been going. They seem genuinely interested to hear him talk about why he chose to go to university rather than straight to the NHL, though Carter and a few others encourage him to leave as soon as possible. Only Scott seems to actually understand why Shane pursued an education, and he deftly steers them away from the topic when Carter seems stuck on nagging Shane about when he’s going to ‘take the leap.’

Shane isn’t scared. He’s just prioritising his education. That’s just being smart. 

He wonders why Rozanov didn’t go straight to the draft. They’ve never actually talked about that, have they? He seems to enjoy doing Russian Literature, always has his head stuck in a book when he’s not watching those stupid Fast and the Furious movies—a dichotomy Shane never can wrap his head around—but he doesn’t seem particularly passionate about school, and Shane never sees him in the library. 

He seems to sort of just… float places. So easy.

Just like he floated away tonight, without a care in the world. 

Shane is suddenly angry at the thought. The fact is, if he’d won the MVP award Shane would be right where he is now, watching Rozanov do the shot of absinthe and get all the attention instead. He’s a good player. Shane can accept a loss against someone as talented as Rozanov. So what the fuck is his problem?

He blinks himself out of his reverie. Present, he chants to himself, and it sounds like a prayer. Be present. Be here.

“Great game against Toronto last night,” Shane says to Scott at the next lull in conversation. “You’ve been on fire recently.”

“Yeah, the whole team’s really meshing,” Scott replies with a smile and a nod. “Got a few tough games coming up, though.

“I mean—yeah, but mostly… I don’t know.” Shane cuts himself off, scratching the back of his neck. Is he really going to say this, right now? Fuck it. “I’ve been watching you play since I was a kid, Mr—Scott. And this season, the momentum you’re gaining—everyone says it’s going to slow down, right, but don’t listen to them. You guys have something magic, with all of you playing like one unit with you as the conductor. It’s… it’s incredible to watch, honestly. So yeah, I think you guys can go all the way this year. New Jersey next week will be nothing.”

Scott is quiet as Shane stumbles through his little speech, all of his buddies lost in other conversations with the combine players. When he’s done, Scott’s smile seems more genuine than the rest he’s freely given out tonight—-he looks softer, genuinely touched by Shane’s words.

“Thank you, man, really,” Scott says, ducking his head to meet Shane’s gaze. “Honestly, it’s been a while since I heard that much positivity. Pretty much everyone is convinced we’re gonna crash and burn at any second.”

Shane shakes his head vigorously. “No way. I believe the opposite.”

“Well,” Scott replies, his crooked grin widening. “I’ll believe in anything.”

Chapter End Notes

hey... how y'all doin....

buckle up cowfolks i have some things to say and they're brief for once:

there is no greater joy than subverting canon. this is a piece of information that may become important later. :)

i hope you all enjoyed the yearning, the tension, et cetera. they just want to see each other and give each other plasters (yes i'm british so they're PLASTERS) and stick tape <3 no smut in this one but um. next chapter will make up for it i guess? also a lot of tea is being clocked in recent chapters but only in a ... minor capacity if ya know what i mean so like don't worry ab that

now the funny part is that i do actually have a new beta reader... but i kinda wanted to sling this out into the world and then let them do their wizard magic on the rest of this tbh like here have at it!!!! as weed genuises i'm pretty sure we can figure it out.

i originally was gonna have it end at shane scoring a hat-trick at the combine but i rlly wanted to wedge in some of my scott scenes because it's so fun lol. but u guys when i reread some of the things i wrote as shane's internal dialogue i was like damn this fic might actually turn into shane realising he's in love with scott hunter instead but i was just projecting LMFAO

it's okay you guys i would die for ilya so he is safe :) i just like having these little interludes at the end of chapters sometimes instead of ilya and/or shane having an earth shattering realisation lol

also i hate writing dallas as much as u guys probably hate reading him but a villain there must be and so here we are. once again interpreting canon in new and exciting ways is very fun

anyways it's time for me to lock in to my diss at the library so if anyone sees someone frantically chugging a monster with two laptops, one pair of crocs and a dream, don't ask any questions. i will cry.

i hope everyone is having a great start to the year so far because i personally am still coasting on a post-cottage high that i'm hoping takes me all the way through to my graduation...

as always please let me know what you think in the comments and so excited to see you all in the next chapter!!!!

bye <3<3<3

Chapter 11: you could still make love

Chapter Summary

coming next: jealousy is bad, dallas kent is worse

trigger warning: mentioned sexual assault (and thus spoilers for role model)

Chapter Notes

my dough analogy from last chapter is only more true because what was supposed to be one chapter is now FOUR but that's my beta's fault and you'll be hearing more about that in the end notes.

anyway here's 14k of fuckery for you all <3

(if you noticed the chapter count went up again no you didn't)

Ilya knows what Hollander probably thinks. He thinks he’s a sore loser, that he ran away. Maybe he thinks he’s jealous. As if Ilya could be jealous of Scott Hunter. The man’s one hundred thousand years old, for fuck’s sake, and Hollander’s crush on him is nothing more than childhood idolization.

Obviously.

He takes another drag of his cigarette and tilts his head up, staring at the CN Tower protruding obscenely from the neat line of skyscrapers above him. He’d made a beeline for the bar’s exit, and is now standing just around the corner and trying not to feel suffocated by the massive buildings surrounding him from all sides. 

No, it wasn’t Scott Hunter that made him flee to this alley. Or jealousy—about winning, anyway.

I’m hoping to get drafted somewhere close to home. My parents still come to pretty much every game they can. They just called to congratulate me, actually.

That’s what Hollander had said to Scott, a soft smile on his face. 

If only.

Ilya ignores his phone vibrating with the tenth call of the night and looks up at the sky. That’s not the person he wants to talk to, either. He takes a slow, deep breath of the cool air and pictures the stars he knows are there above the hazy clouds.

“It went great, Mama,” he tells them in Russian. “A few teams want me really bad, I think. I could go to the draft whenever I want. I’m gonna be okay.”

This is the only place Ilya can truly talk to either of his parents. 

***

The vibe in the bar has shifted somewhat since their first round of shots, a few friends of friends drifting over to join the group while some Admirals wander off with girlfriends travelling with them or to go find a stranger to occupy their time. Shane is still standing with Wyatt, Troy, Scott and a few Admirals, and they’re discussing some superhero movie that recently came out—while Shane smiles and nods and tries to look like he knows who ‘Captain America’ is—but then the door to the bar bangs open. 

Is that Rozanov? He’s only been gone a few minutes, but maybe—

Worse. It’s Dallas Kent.

“What the fuck is he doing here?” Troy growls in an echo of Shane’s thoughts, glaring in Kent’s direction as he makes a beeline for the bar and leans in front of a group of girls to get a drink. Shane watches Troy’s hands curl into fists. 

“It’s a combine celebration, Barrett,” Frank Zullo sneers. “He got invited just like everyone else.”

“He shouldn’t be here,” Troy says again, shaking his head. He always sounds serious, but right now there’s a tinge of something like rage shading his voice. “I’m not fucking around. I thought he wasn’t… he needs to leave.” He looks to Shane and then to Scott, clearly looking for help when no one moves. 

Shane and Scott share a look. Shane, personally, has no idea what’s going on. He’d thought Troy and Kent were best friends up until this weekend. He can see the sincerity in Troy’s eyes, though, and he knows something is happening. He’s his Captain, anyway, so it’s his responsibility.

“It’s—it’s your choice, man,” Shane tells Troy. “I trust you. If you have a good reason for wanting him gone, he’s gone.”

“Do you want me to grab security or have a few of the guys deal with it?” Scott asks.

Troy shakes his head, now typing something rapidly on his phone before looking up and keeping his eyes trained on Kent making his way over to the group. Kent looks drunk. “No. I got it.”

Troy strides over to Kent, clearing the distance in three strides despite being way too short for that to be possible. He can’t be heard over the din of the music, but everyone in their group watches, enraptured, as he says something and then puts a steady, warning hand out.

Kent sneers, speaking in a low voice.

Troy says something very short back.

Kent spits something else, grinning when he’s finished, and Troy throws his beer in Kent’s face.

Everyone is up in the span of half a second, pushing to get to the pair that are now screaming at each other. Shane has the weird sensation that he’s going to see Troy and Kent dropping their gloves, ready to spar on the ice, but this isn’t hockey—this is just a bar, and this is just Dallas Kent throwing a wild drunken punch.

It doesn’t get the chance to connect, because Scott is there all of a sudden, blocking Kent’s fist easily with his arm and stepping right in front of him. “What the hell is going on?” he yells, and he’s the picture of the star captain taking charge of the situation.

Troy is still heaving out his breaths. He looks like he’s—is he crying? “Fuck you, Dallas,” he says to Kent, pointing a finger at him. “Everyone’s gonna find out by tomorrow anyway.”

“You’re a fucking liar,” Kent growls.

“I’m not, and neither are those girls. I know what I saw. Those texts, Dallas? You’re a fucking rapist.”

Oh.

Troy practically spits the word, and Shane feels the entire group go very still. Only Kent is left still moving, frozen for only a second before he’s back in angry motion as he hurls insults at Troy.

“You’re such a fucking pussy, you—you liar, it’s fucking pathetic. It’s all lies! No one will ever believe them.”

Troy angrily wipes at his face, then he shrugs. Nonchalant, despite the tears in his eyes. “Maybe. But I do. We all know exactly what you are.” He takes a step forward until they’re almost chest to chest again, the arm Scott keeps between the pair the only thing separating them. “Y’know, you should probably leave and get back to the hotel. The girl sent me those screenshots of you begging her not to tell anyone, and I called the fucking police.”

Kent’s mouth opens and closes several times, but no words come out. Even in the dark of the bar he looks redder than Shane has ever seen a person go as he glances around, clearly looking for someone to jump to his defense. No one comes.

Shane is shocked by the revelation, but he can’t say he’s surprised. He wishes he’d seen something, been able to help somehow—but Troy had been sent those screenshots for a reason, and he’s clearly helping now. He’s mostly just surprised that it was Troy that called him out—and to collect evidence and send it to the police already too, no less.

The crowd parts like the Red Sea, leaving Kent quivering in the centre. Only Scott stands nearby, ready to jump in if need be, along with Troy who hasn’t moved from his spot. 

“Get. The. Fuck. Out.” His voice is low and measured, but he doesn’t need to speak loudly for everyone to hear him.

He just keeps staring at Kent as his ex-best friend screams about how Troy is the scum of the earth and that he’ll never get away with it, watching as two Admirals drag him out the door with the promise to take him straight to the hotel. 

The silence in the bar when the door shuts again is deafening, and Shane is pretty sure he hears the bartender pointedly turning up the music on the speakers to try and make it less awkward. It works, because most of the non-hockey patrons eventually go back to their conversations and shooting pool, only shooting the odd curious glance their way, but several of the players scattered throughout the bar still have their eyes trained on Troy. 

“That was intense,” Scott says just as the silence becomes unbearable. “You okay, Troy?”

Troy releases a shaky breath, sinking down onto a bar stool numbly. He puts his head in his hands “What just happened?”

“You were a badass, is what happened,” Gardner, a forward for the Admirals, says emphatically. “Seriously, man, props to you.”

Troy’s tiny smile is watery but genuine, and widens a little when Scott orders another round to celebrate. 

“Look, that was a lot,” Scott tells him, putting a hand on his shoulder. “For anyone. We’d all understand if you don’t feel much like celebrating now, but…”

“I’d say we have even more reason to celebrate,” Wyatt interjects. “Like, justice is prevailing.”

Troy sighs. Shane knows if he was in his position, he’d be running out the door in the opposite direction to Kent just to get some peace and quiet for a few moments—but Troy isn’t Shane. After another beat of hesitation, and despite looking like he wants to - as Shane's mom would say - toss his cookies, Troy raises his glass in acknowledgement of Wyatt’s words.

“The Wicked Witch of the Eastern Provinces is dead!” Scott announces to the bar at large, and everyone cheers. He pauses. “Well, almost.”

“He’ll be detained pending charges!” Wyatt suggests instead in the same cheerful voice, and everyone raises their glasses again. Troy looks exhausted, but he’s smiling too.

It feels strange, hoisting their glasses after something so intense just happened. Shane still doesn’t know quite how to process it himself, though he knows he’ll have to face it come tomorrow when they go back to Montreal. 

He looks to Troy now, though, and suspects that some normalcy is exactly what he needs right now—even if normalcy is drinking with Scott Hunter. 

Still, it’s his duty as captain to check in. “That was really brave, Barrett,” Shane tells him quietly when they have a moment alone. “Do you… wanna talk about it?”

Troy gives him another tired smile. “Thanks, Hollander. I think, uh… another time, maybe?”

Shane nods. This really isn’t the time or place to get into this any further, and Shane knows it—he just wants to make sure Troy knows he can talk to him.

“Night off?” Shane guesses, and Troy smiles a little. 

“Night off,” Troy replies. “Besides, we’re celebrating, Mr MVP.”

Shane flushes, but he allows Troy to hand him another shot when it comes around and downs it gratefully. See, he tells himself proudly as he watches Troy laugh and turn to say something else to Wyatt. You can be a good Captain when you try.

The mood lifts considerably after that, Troy as relieved as the rest of them to be promised a Kent-free night. There’s a little more talking and laughter, and Shane wonders dimly the whole time what Rozanov’s reaction would’ve been to what just happened. He probably would’ve been even quicker than Scott had at getting involved, and Kent almost definitely would’ve left that conversation with a black eye. He’s still not entirely sure he won’t by tomorrow.

Where is he? Shane already knows he’s going to be mad that he wasn’t there, especially because he’s closer with Troy than Shane is—but he’ll be able to help after the fact,  at least. He just really wishes he could’ve seen Rozanov stare down Kent in front of Scott Hunter. Maybe throw a punch or two. Maybe they both would’ve thrown him out.

Shane shudders. That fantasy is going to haunt his dreams for a while. 

***

Ilya’s cigarette is almost finished when he finally looks at his phone screen, bracing himself for what he’s going to find. He has three missed calls from the Colonel, but he’s surprised to see Sveta :) calling right now instead.

He answers, sniffing. He doesn’t really feel like talking to Sveta, had ended up being vague and noncommittal over text about whether he’d have the chance to see her while he was in Toronto because he didn’t know what to say to her. He doesn’t know how to tell her that the weekend will pass them by without them crossing paths, but he owes it to her to figure it out.

“Hi, Sveta,” Ilya mumbles, rubbing at his eyes. God, he’s tired.

“Look up, idiot.”

Ilya’s head jerks up just as he finally notices the black SUV pulling up at the curb, Sveta clambering out with a grin. She’s wearing dark clothes with a big white fur coat, looking every bit as glamorous as she is because of course, and she’s smiling at him like he hasn’t been dodging her texts for the last week.

“What are you doing here?” he says when he’s finished hugging her.

Sveta plucks the cigarette still dangling from his fingers and arches a brow, taking a long drag. “Hanging out with my friend, no thanks to you.”

Just as the words leave her lips, Ilya hears the door open and a moment later Carter Vaughan is rounding the corner with a goofy grin. “Vetrova, my one true love!” he exclaims when he sees her.

Sveta rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling too as she hands Ilya his cigarette. “Hey, Carter,” she greets him fondly, standing on her tiptoes in her black boots to hug him back.

“Did you text her, Vaughany?” Ilya asks, still struggling to comprehend how Sveta just appeared out of thin air.

Carter gives him the biggest ‘duh’ look Ilya has ever seen. “Of course,” he says. “I’m surprised you didn’t. Come on, us Loyola kids have to stick together, right?”

“Even though you betrayed me by going to the Admirals,” Sveta tells him, and Carter groans. 

“Come on, we’ve been over this,” Carter replies, wrapping an arm around Sveta to shield her from a strong gust of wind as he begins to lead her inside. “You know I’ve been an Admirals fan since I was a kid, and the Guardians kind of suck. Sorry.”

“No, they do,” Sveta admits, “but they might have been better with you.”

“Aw, that’s so kind,” Carter deadpans, and then shrugs. “Sucks for them. Me and Scotty beat their asses yesterday.” 

They’ve almost reached the corner now, and for a moment Ilya thinks that they’re going to round it without acknowledging him again, leaving him to finish his cigarette. They might as well—it’s not like he’s good company right now. The cigarette is down to the filter, though, so he drops it and watches the cherry red roach sputter and then die against the wet Toronto pavement. 

Well, shit.

He’ll just stare at the sky for a bit and contemplate… things.

But then Sveta is turning them both around and holding out a hand, looking at him expectantly. “You coming?”

Ilya swallows. He really doesn’t deserve her. 

He doesn’t really want to go inside, but Sveta is eager and Carter is smiling and he has just enough alcohol in his system from the vodka he and Barrett had before they came out to pretend that this is a good idea. 

“Da, coming,” Ilya replies, and grabs her hand. It’s easy to fall into step with them.

“Damn.” Carter surveys the line they’ve formed with smug appreciation. “We look like the world’s hottest throuple,” he says proudly. 

Ilya can’t help but laugh along with Sveta at this, but his smile fades as soon as she turns away.

Time to face the music. 

***

“What are we gonna tell Coach tomorrow?” Wyatt whispers a few minutes later, watching Troy eagerly showing Scott how to shotgun a drink from a glass. It turns out that all you need to lift spirits, apparently, is to actually lift spirits.

“That’s up to Troy, the girl, and the Montreal Police Department,” Shane replies after a moment of thinking it over. His words are a little slurred, but he thinks he's doing okay. “I mean, the police will probably notify Dallas’ family and the coaches before we even touch down, but Coach might want to talk to Troy himself. I don’t know. I’m sure a tense meeting is in my future, no matter what.”

“Maybe Rozanov can come,” Wyatt offers. “Y’know, Assistant Captain support.” He winces. “Well, you probably wouldn’t find that very supportive.”

I would, Shane thinks. I really, really would. What comes out instead is, “yeah, probably not. He’s not, a, um. Calming presence. He can help with Troy, though, checking in and talking to him. I think he—”

The words die on his lips when the door to the bar opens again, but it’s not the Admirals that kicked Kent out returning. It’s not a random bar patron, either.

It’s Carter, grinning maniacally with his arm around a stunning woman with skin the colour of honey and dark curls fanning her head, and the woman is holding Rozanov’s hand.

Svetlana. 

Shane recognises her instantly, of course. It’s not like he stalked Rozanov’s Instagram, she’s just in a lot of the photos, and he’d happened to be scrolling by and—

Okay. Shane might have stalked. He’s actually pretty sure he recognises that white fur coat she’s wearing from a post of Rozanov’s last December, which. That’s worrying.

She’s even more beautiful in person, because of course she is, and she makes Rozanov look even more radiant. Maybe it’s just the joy showing on his face, the glimmer in his eyes despite the dark circles underneath them and the smile stretching his lips whenever he looks over at her. 

Shane’s stomach does an ugly, swooping thing at the sight of Rozanov’s easy affection for his—what? He knows she’s not his girlfriend, he doesn’t have those, but… something. She’s something.

Shane isn’t anything.

Fuck, a voice in his head whispers as he watches the trio approach their corner of the bar. They’d make a really hot throuple.

“Boys, I’d like you to meet the fire of my loins, the love of my life—”

Svetlana elbows Carter in the stomach, tossing her hair over one shoulder. “Shut up, Carter,” she says with a fond shake of her head. 

Shit. Shane likes her already. 

“Hey, everyone—this is my best friend, Svetlana Vetrova,” Rozanov announces, letting go of Svetlana’s hand to present her to the group with a flourish.

It’s immediately obvious that she’s known both Carter and Rozanov for a long time, and pieces start clicking together in Shane’s mind.

Svetlana rolls her eyes, but she doesn’t elbow him, at least. “Sveta,” she corrects with a warm smile as she scans the small crowd of Admirals and Marauders and associates gathered in front of her. “Thanks for letting me crash your party.”

Her accent is slightly softer than Rozanov’s, and Shane thinks he remembers Rozanov saying something about her living here for a few years longer than he has. Wasn’t she the one he billeted with when he first came to Canada? Shane strains to remember the details of the conversation he’s retraced the outlines of so many times in his head. All he’d processed at the time was the fondness in Rozanov’s eyes when he talked about her.

“The more the merrier,” Scott says with a kind smile, standing and offering the bar stool to her. When he insists, she accepts it gracefully, sliding onto the seat and slipping her jacket off her shoulders. Shane could swear almost every guy in the room starts drooling at the sight of her bare back with only a silky tie at her neck securing her black top. 

“C’mon, girl, I’m your favourite honorary Torontonian,” Carter says with a cheeky smile in Rozanov’s direction. “Loyola people gotta stick together!”

Sveta just shakes her head. “Scott Hunter is my favourite honorary Torontonian,” she replies, reaching out to fist bump Scott Hunter who grins back. “He likes poutine.”

“It’s not my fault the cheese curds taste like plastic!” Carter exclaims, making the group break out into an argument about poutine in seconds. He points an accusatory finger in Sveta’s direction. “And how do you even know that about Scotty?”

Sveta shrugs. “He said it in an interview last week,” she says, and frowns when everyone stares at her. 

“Sveta has forgotten more about hockey than any of you fossils will ever know,” Rozanov explains proudly, sliding easily into the space on Sveta’s other side. “But Hunter, she uses your interviews as bedtime story. Sends her right to sleep.”

Scott looks very tired of Rozanov’s shit already. 

“Okay, but—” Carter splutters, indignant. “Why is poutine the defining factor of favouritism? You don’t even like it either.”

“This is because she is Russian, not because is bad,” Rozanov explains, and Sveta nods emphatically. “But yes, poutine is also bad.”

Sveta mock gasps, leaning over to hit Rozanov’s arm. The grin he gives her is one of the purest Shane has ever seen on his face. 

“It is not! Okay, who can help me out here?” She turns to the larger group, apparently completely unphased by the way there are at least ten hockey players clumped in a loose circle around her. Her eyes scan over each person in turn. “Frank Zullo, you’re from New Jersey. Sucks you won’t get to face them in the playoffs after they traded you, but they’ll be out soon enough anyway. Regardless, no poutine opinions allowed. Carter, stop waving your hand, I already know what you think. Troy Barrett—oh, you’re from Toronto. What do you think of poutine?”

Troy looks surprised and more than a little terrified to be called out by name. “Me? Oh, uh—I don’t mind it. Um. I guess.”

“So you don’t like it, and you just don’t want to offend anyone,” Sveta replies, her accent making her words sound even more blunt, and when Troy hesitantly nods she just turns to the next person. “Cale Poisson, you’re from fucking Belgium and your name means ‘leaf fish’. Put your hand down.”

The Admirals guffaw, a combination of surprise at Sveta’s level of knowledge and amusement at all her jokes. She grins, apparently satisfied, and plucks Rozanov’s beer bottle out of his hand to take a long sip. He just rolls his eyes fondly and takes the bottle when she gives it back, moving to stand beside Wyatt and pretending to shield the bottle from her.

“So, Svetlana, are you joining us for the night’s festivities? We have an MVP award winner here, and he’s sure as hell not gonna celebrate himself,” Scott jokes, and then all the heads are swivelling to look at Shane. 

He’s still standing on the edge of the circle, frozen to the spot he’d been standing in when he first recognized Sveta, and he realises he probably looks very strange so he forces himself to take a step forward and sheepishly smile. 

The other players cheer, but Shane is only focussed on two things—Svetlana, narrowing her eyes and beginning to move in his direction, and Rozanov just behind her, who is staring after her and generally looking like he wants to die. 

“Sveta, please,” she calls over her shoulder to Scott, flashing him a quick smile. “And let me just congratulate the lucky winner myself, then we can be on our way.”

She turns back to Shane. God, she’s lethal. Her skin is clear and smooth, and her eyes are lined with smudged black that makes her light hazel irises even more piercing when paired with her long, angular brows, glossy dark lips and an impressive mane of dark curls. She’s wearing a black silky top that ties behind her neck, her back completely bare, and the leather pants she pairs with it somehow makes the outfit look more elegant, not less. 

This is the kind of person Rozanov wants.

She tilts her head, giving Shane a perfect view of the large hoops adorning her ears. “Congratulations, Shane Hollander,” she says, holding out her hand. “I’m Svetlana Vetrova, but you can call me Sveta. I’m a friend of Ilya’s.”

“Y-yeah, I know,” Shane says quickly, shaking her hand, and he’s expecting Sveta to roll her eyes at his stutter and awkward reply or just walk away entirely. Instead, though, she smiles.

“Oh, you do? Has he been talking about me?” Sveta arches a perfectly shaped eyebrow, the twinkle in her eye the only hint to Shane that she’s making fun of him in a friendly way.

“No, he just—well, yeah. He’s mentioned you a lot to—to the team,” Shane manages, tacking on ‘to the team’ just in time. He racks his brain, trying to think of a story Rozanov has told him recently that proves he’s telling the truth. “Uh, the other day he told me about the time your two families went to Egypt when you were ten and your parents signed you up for a belly dancing class, but you wouldn’t go by yourself so he went with you and ended up performing a solo for everyone at the end of the week.”

Sveta stares at him. For a moment he’s wondering if the story Rozanov told him is a complete fabrication, that he’s going to find out that everything he’s ever been told by Rozanov has been a total and utter lie.

“He never tells anyone that story,” she says finally, and her gaze is as sharp as a blade when it settles on Shane. “Too embarrassing, he says. But he told you?”

“He told the team,” Shane rushes out, which is even more implausible but Shane doesn’t like the idea of her thinking he and Rozanov were having some kind of deep heart to heart on their own. Which, like, they were, it was on the phone after he made Shane come so hard he almost blacked out, but that’s besides the point.

As they study each other—Sveta’s gaze scrutinizing and Shane’s undoubtedly terrified—Shane wonders suddenly if Rozanov has told Sveta about them. He knows they’re close, closer than he’d like them to be if he’s being honest, and this secret he and Rozanov have feels like the kind of thing you’d share with your best friend if you could, but… Shane isn’t sure Rozanov can. Even so, he is glad Rozanov has someone to talk to besides him; he gets how being able to talk in your mother tongue with someone else is important, even if he can’t relate. 

Still.

It’s very frustrating to try to hate someone so cool.

As Shane glances over Sveta’s shoulder and sees Rozanov still watching them with a kind of abject fear and worry Shane so rarely sees on his face, he knows he hasn’t said a word about them. He wants this secret to stay secret as much as Shane does.

But they might not have a choice, because Sveta is staring at Shane as if he’s a fruit she can’t remember the name of, frustration and surprise and amusement flitting over her face like a flip-book. She seems to be thinking hard, her lips pursed as she finally lifts her eyes from Shane to look at Rozanov behind her. He’s still watching them and looking like he’s going to throw up as Troy talks rapidly to him. 

Shane is preparing to defend himself and Rozanov, to explain the situation and try to make sure that Sveta doesn’t spread this to the rest of the Admirals or, God forbid, the Marauders. He doesn’t know how, but he will. 

“You know, I have known Ilya for a long time,” Sveta says after about a minute of silence, leaning one elbow against the bar and gesturing to the bartender for another round of shots. “Since we were babies. Our mothers used to be best friends.”

Shane stills. He hadn’t known that. He'd thought they first met when Ilya billeted with her family, but clearly the connection runs much deeper.

“I’ve seen him in every phase of his life,” she continues. “All of the good, and all of the bad. He’s been there for me through it all too. And… well.” She smiles a little shakily, taking the shot glass the bartender hands her and staring down at it like it’s a death sentence. Her eyes dart back up to Shane’s, and there’s something more pointed in her gaze now. “The one thing I’ve learned about Ilya is that he feels things a lot deeper than he lets anyone see. And the past few months, he’s been feeling a lot. Do you understand?”

Oh.

Shane… thinks he gets it. He’s already seen the cracks in Rozanov’s impassive, unflappable mask before, he knows there’s a possibility that he feels more than he lets on, but Rozanov is a tough person to get to open up. All he really knows is that Rozanov likes sex and cars and danger and, for some inexplicable reason, Shane. It might not be in the way that Shane wants him to, but he’ll take it. 

Isn’t it better to have a little part of Rozanov some of the time rather than none of him all of the time? 

Shane certainly thinks so.

But Sveta is trying to tell him something here, and he thinks he understands. Keep chipping away at him, Sveta is saying. Keep trying. Be there for him.

“I think I understand,” Shane says finally.

Sveta keeps studying him, and Shane waits. “You two talk a lot.”

“Um. Yes?”

Sveta nods again. Shane feels like he’s taking a test he didn’t know about. 

“I’m glad, Shane,” is all she says finally, and then she takes a sip of her drink. Thank God, I’m free, Shane thinks to himself for a moment, but she doesn’t look like she’s finished. He braces himself for more interrogation. “So… you are from Ottawa?”

Wait, what?

Shane blinks. Sveta is looking at him expectantly from above the rim of a shot glass as she tips it back without flinching then sets the empty glass back on the table.

It’s the way she says his name, the ‘sh’ softened into a ‘zh’ sound that makes Shane feel like she’s whispering in his ear. It feels so intimate, and she’s cocking her head like she knows it. 

It’s a pity Shane just realised he doesn’t like women at all. He would’ve been honoured to pretend to fantasize about her later.

“I am,” Shane confirms, nodding. “Born and raised. I played junior hockey out in Thunder Bay for a bit, too.”

Sveta hums, and it’s such a Rozanov mannerism that Shane has to fight not to look up at the other Russian in the room. “How do you like Ottawa versus Montreal?” she asks.

Shane can’t resist a grin at that, some of his brave facade slipping as he realises what she’s doing. “You’re baiting me into an obvious ‘Toronto versus Montreal’ debate, and it’s not happening,” Shane tells her with a shake of his head. “They can’t compete where they don’t compare.”

“Oof, I’m stealing that,” Sveta replies appreciatively, flipping her hair over his shoulder. “Only I’ll use it to say that Montreal can’t compete because it doesn’t even begin to compare to Toronto.”

“Oh, because you want to pay $4,000 a month for a shoebox?”

This gets a real laugh out of Sveta. It’s a surprisingly deep sound, like it’s pulled from the centre of her chest, and Shane feels himself warming to her immediately. Fuck.

“You got me there,” Sveta says. “But you have too much French.”

“You got me there,” Shane shoots back. “But that’s kind of, like, the point.”

“And Hollander is bilingual, so no problem for him.”

***

Hollander stills when Ilya speaks, having delighted in sneaking up on the pair while they were preoccupied. 

“You’re a warrior,” Sveta says to Hollander with another laugh. “I can’t wrap my head around French.”

“That’s only because your tongue is so used to Russian,” Hollander explains eagerly, and then he freezes. 

Ilya freezes too.

What the fuck did Hollander just say?

They’re able to get a hold of themselves, Hollander jerking back into motion a millisecond later, but Ilya knows Hollander can feel his shoulders shaking with silent laughter as he says, “I just mean—the syllables. The tongue placement, the way you hold your jaw, it’s all different with the Russian language. Um. It’s hard to—y’know, to switch. French is almost as bad as English.”

Ilya snorts. “Almost. English is evil language.”

“You’ve mentioned,” Hollander deadpans, rolling his eyes, and Sveta chuckles.

Ilya is not pleased. This is exactly what he was afraid of. “What did you say to him?” he demands, turning to his friend. “You have been… what is the word—” he cuts himself off and switches to Russian. “заговор.”

“Conspiring.”

“Yes. You have been conspiring with Hollander. Turning my captain against me.”

Ilya loves watching the way Hollander follows the conversation in a group, eyes bouncing back and forth between people like a tennis match, but he likes it best when he feels that slow liquid slide of Hollander’s gaze drifting up his body to rest on his face.

“I was always against you,” Hollander reminds him with a grin, and Ilya scoffs. 

“Oh, yes. We hate each other. Blah blah. Boring.” He blows a raspberry. “Hollander, what were you talking about?”

“Toronto versus Montreal,” Hollander and Sveta reply at the same time. They share a look. Sveta wiggles her eyebrows, and Hollander snorts. Oh God.

“See! I knew it! I will file complaint against you, Hollander. It will say ‘my captain bullies me, he turned my best friend against me’—’”

“Shut up,” Hollander says, giving him a gentle shove, but the smile on his face is fond.

Ilya can feel Sveta glancing between the two of them and forces his face into a more neutral expression, hoping it’s enough to turn her perceptive stare away from him. He always hates when she does it to him—it’s way more fun on other people.

“You know, Shane, you have my respect,” Sveta says suddenly.

Hollander looks like he’s afraid he just stepped in a bear trap. “Thank you…?”

“You’re the only person who Ilya has ever played on a line with not as center, did you know that?”

“I didn’t.” Hollander turns to Ilya, but he’s already studiously avoiding his gaze. “You never told me that.”

“Not big deal,” Ilya mumbles, and he thinks Sveta and Hollander share another look. “I just didn’t want to hear your crying when Coach Wiebe put me as center, so I said I’d do it.”

There’s a clear teasing tone to Ilya’s words, and Hollander knows him well enough by now to catch it—there was a time, Ilya knows, where Hollander would’ve thought he was being serious.

 “You’re so thoughtful,” Hollander replies, batting his eyelashes and pretending to swoon, and Sveta barks out another laugh.

The mention of their coach clearly reminds Hollander of something, because he sits up and turns to Rozanov. “Oh, did Troy tell you about—”

“Kent? Yes.” Rozanov grimaces, shaking his head. “мудила ёбанныйis. Is fucking awful. Disgusting. I am surprised but proud that Barrett did something about it.”

“Same,” Hollander replies, and then grimaces. “Practice is gonna suck tomorrow.”

“For you and Barrett, yes,” Ilya replies with a shrug. “But not for everyone else. Just wait. Kent will be off the team before we land in Montreal.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Sveta says cheerfully. “Anyone else?” 

Hollander fumbles in his jacket for his wallet when Ilya nods. “Oh, you don’t have to—” Ilya says, putting a hand on his arm. 

“No, really—”

Ilya leans into his ear, enough distance to look like he’s just leaning in to be heard over the music but close enough that Hollander can feel his breath against him. “Hunter and the Admirals probably paid for other drinks already, if the bar even let them, but doesn’t matter. Watch.”

He turns, and together they watch as Sveta leans over the bar to flag down the bartender who puts down the drink he’s making for an older guy as soon as he sees her wave. 

“What can I get for you, Miss Vetrova?” the bartender asks, as if they’re in the bar of a swanky hotel rather than a dive on Ossington. 

“Three whiskey and Cokes for my brothers and I, please,” she says sweetly, then reaches into her bag, pretending to rummage for her wallet.

No sooner has Sveta opened her purse than the bartender is practically leaping across the counter to stop her.

“Your money’s no good here, Miss Vetrova, you know that,” he rushes to say, shaking his head vigorously. “Please, enjoy.”

When he turns away to grab their drinks, Sveta throws a saucy wink over her shoulder at them both. Ilya is grinning when Hollander looks over with wide eyes. “You’re friends with her?” he says quietly, staring back at Sveta with something akin to reverence in his eyes. 

Ilya feels his smile soften at the edges. “I am very lucky,” he replies simply, and Hollander is silent.

Lucky.

***

“—so then Rozanov, like the beauty that he is, walked right up to the guy and said—” Carter clears his throat, switching to an exaggerated Russian impression. “Give his money back, or I break your face.”

Sveta, seated beside him at the table, snorts. “Ilya loves playing the villain.”

Rozanov temples his fingers and waggles his brows ominously, making the small group laugh. “I like doing fake Russian accent,” he says with a shrug. “Is fun, being what stupid Canadians think we are.”

“And it gives you an excuse to wear leather,” she points out, and when a few of the Admirals laugh she quickly adds, “I mean jackets.”

The thought of Rozanov in leather-anything else kind of makes Shane want to implode, so he is not going to think about that right now.

“Anyway, the guy caved pretty quick after that, especially when I said I’d tell everyone about his fake I.D. scam,” Sveta adds. “I told Carter we just had to bring Rozanov. Would have been much faster if he’d listened to me in the first place.”

Carter holds his hands up. “I’ve admitted many times, I thought Rozanov was a clown when he first came to Loyola,” he says with a shake of his head. “I was wrong, obviously, and I own up to that. But him getting my money back was how we became friends, so it was worth it.”

“No, we became friends when I showed you how to pick locks,” Rozanov reminds him, grinning, and Shane is reminded with all the grace of a gut punch for the fiftieth time since the trio walked into the bar of the easy intimacy and shared history of a long friendship. 

It’s one that Shane hasn’t really experienced before. He has family friends, a few cousins scattered across Quebec that he’s spent stilted holiday gatherings with, and a lot of teammates, but no one he’s truly close to from his younger years. He spent most of his childhood on the ice. Or with his parents. 

And then, high school. He went to a few parties in his first semester, just barely cool enough by association, had a beer occasionally and played spin the bottle a few times, but he always interacted just enough to make him feel—he didn’t know, normal, maybe—before he’d allow himself to slip off and walk home alone. He had more teammates, buddies, but not friends. He was content in the silence. 

Until Hayden. He did more than fill the silence. He’d been the one to skate up to him on his first day on Varsity in his freshman year and introduce himself with a fist bump, and then basically hasn’t stopped talking since then. Their friendship has always been easy and simple, both of them slipping into each other’s lives with ease—sure, Shane quietly thinks the way he and Jackie are now speeding towards marriage (and probably children soon after) is a little too fast, and Hayden is overly invested in finding Shane a girlfriend, but they work. 

They run together, they watch hockey, they train. When Hayden does convince Shane to go out—more and more, he’s been noticing recently—they have a good time, and Hayden rarely disappears with Jackie without at least telling Shane where he’s going first. It’s good.

He wishes Hayden was here, that he could interject with some quippy story about himself and Shane that would have everyone laughing the way Rozanov, Sveta and Carter are captivating them right now. He doesn’t know what story he’d tell. Maybe something that makes Shane feel like less of a loser, because right now all of his best memories and stories he can come up with are with his parents or on the ice. 

Or—

Nope. 

It’s not like Shane could tell any of those stories anyway. He’d just stutter and ramble and generally make a mess of the whole thing.

“Ilya, did you tell them about the—” Sveta says, jolting Shane from his reverie, and then she says something in rapid Russian. Rozanov cackles.

“I think Hunter would not be able to handle this story,” he replies in English, shaking his head. His eyes flicker up to Scott’s, playful and daring. “Is not for elderly audiences.”

The group collapses into laughter that drowns out Scott’s indignant “I’m only a couple of years older than you!” and in the middle of it, Rozanov meets Shane’s gaze for a second. Shane feels the weight of that single glance like an anvil on his chest, even as he tries to laugh along with the rest of the group.

***

Why the hell does Hollander have that face on his face?

He’d thought they were fine, that everything was going well and that Hollander had even gotten along with Sveta—though he still didn’t know what they actually talked about, which was mildly terrifying—but now he’s staring at the whiskey and Coke in his hand like he’s trying to break the glass with his mind.

Like, Ilya can practically hear the violins playing in the background. He looks like he should be staring out of a window at the rain. His forehead is ever so slightly crumpled, his lower lip quivering infinitesimally, and Ilya is well aware that no one else is noticing but he is. He can see it, plain as day. 

He’s upset about something.

“Rozanov, I’ve been meaning to say,” Scott says, rudely interrupting Ilya from his Hollander-induced reverie. “I saw a clip of your goal against Toronto a few weeks ago. That fake-backhand shot?” He whistles. “Lethal.”

Ilya pointedly ignores the thing that his stomach does at getting such a compliment from an NHL player because it’s Scott Hunter, and just nods. “Yes. I am best player in university league. Maybe, probably, whole world.”

There’s a pointed scoff from across the table. Hollander, still looking down at his glass, is shaking his head in disbelief. His mouth is twitching at the corner, fighting a smile.

Ilya grins. Yes.

“I think you’ve got some tough competition for that top spot given we’ve got the MVP right here,” Scott says, clapping a hand on Hollander’s shoulder and making him jump. “Right, Shane?”

Shane.

What the fuck? Since when did Scott fucking Hunter know Hollander well enough to call him by his first name? Only, like, Pike does that. Hollander, Hollz, Hollzy, these are the names Ilya hears him called all the time. Hollywood, by assholes like Dallas Kent. 

Not Shane.

It’s bullshit.

“I’ll listen to him when he wins MVP,” Hollander says simply with a shrug, which gets another laugh out of the group. 

Scott seems to have noticed Hollander’s sour mood, and Ilya is so caught up watching him watch Hollander that he barely catches the barb tossed his way. It sounds so dismissive, especially when Hollander doesn’t even look over. Ilya manages a smirk and a roll of his eyes.

“Think you’re gonna cinch your last World Juniors title for Canada?” Scott asks Hollander, and Ilya stills as Hollander’s eyes flicker to his, unbidden. 

The thing is. 

The thing. Is. 

You’re not supposed to smoke here.

Ilya still remembers that day so clearly.  He’d looked up from the cigarette he was struggling to light and blinked through the harsh winds at the boy standing a few feet from him with a wrinkled nose. 

He recognised him immediately, of course. Shane Hollander had been the talk of the Canadian hockey world ever since Ilya arrived the year before, and Ilya could admit he felt a strong desire to beat him. Very strong. He’d practically been jumping for joy by the time they got the chance to play each other that first time. 

Hollander might not have won that first game, but he won the second. More importantly, though, he had the honour of being the first fight Ilya got into on Canadian ice. 

Ilya had taken an admittedly cheap shot at one of Hollander’s linemen, something about how his team’s net was in that direction and Hollander joined in when they got in each other’s faces. Ilya was enjoying the up close view of Hollander’s freckles disappearing beneath his angry flush, reveling in deepening the scarlett of his cheeks.

And then Hollander broke his nose.

It had been an accident, mostly, a headbutt delivered with a little too much force and at just the right angle to make the centre of Ilya’s face explode with pain, the ice splattered with blood. Looking at Hollander then—frowning at him and his cigarette in the Ottawa cold—he could still taste the blood on his teeth.

Loyola hadn’t played Hollander’s school yet that season, so Ilya had been (im)patiently waiting for the chance to match up against him at the World Juniors. He might be living in Canada, but he would win this for Russia—especially if he got to take the medal right out of Hollander’s hands, in his hometown no less. 

He knew Hollander felt a similar pressure—both of them were freshly sixteen, the youngest on their teams that year, but they were undoubtedly star players already and it was looking likely that they’d both be elected captain for next year’s tournament in Saskatchewan. 

Wherever the hell that was. Ilya didn’t care. He just wanted to win. 

They didn’t win that year, but neither did Canada. Ilya watched the United States hoist the trophy and clapped stiffly, his teeth gritted as he imagined the vitriol his father would unleash over the phone as soon as they were done, but he smiled genuinely when he looked across the ice and found Hollander already looking back at him. He wasn’t even clapping, just fuming silently as he glared at Ilya.

Game on, he’d thought.

Victory was so sweet when he’d won last year, as Captain no less, and it was even better to get to shake Hollander’s hand and say, “see you at practice.” He knows Hollander will be coming for him this year. He’s counting on it, in fact. 

World Juniors, Ottawa, 2009. That was the first time he’d properly spoken to Hollander.

Sitting at the table in this Toronto bar, Ilya wonders what would happen if he time-traveled and told his old self what he and Hollander have become. Whatever that is. He imagines telling himself, so, you know how you discovered a few years ago that you’re bisexual? Yeah, keep up with that. When you see an ad for a sex tutor on Craigslist, make sure you say yes. And don’t run away when you see who opens the door.

Would young-Ilya even believe him? He doubts it. 

“Canada has gold written all over us this year,” Hollander replies to Scott with a smirk, taking a sip from his glass as he eyes Ilya over the rim. “Russia won’t know what hit ‘em.”

“I will know,” Ilya says cheerfully. “It will be your slow players that I slam into boards on my way to score tenth goal of the night.”

The group laughs again, but only Hollander can see the heat Ilya knows lingers in his eyes. He sees something similar back in Hollander’s, and is reminded of his gaze only hours ago as they’d faced off on the ice. It was just today, and already Ilya can’t wait to have Hollander across from him again. 

Or underneath him. Or on top of him. Whatever Hollander wanted, really.

And that’s just sad. Ilya grimaces at the thought even if it flits across his mind, because seriously, he needs to get a hold of himself.

“I think Shane’s too fast for you,” Scott says to Ilya with a cheeky grin, as if he knows him. 

“I know exactly how fast he is,” Ilya mumbles into his glass, and he swallows back panic when he sees Scott’s raised eyebrows and goes for a lazy smirk. “How slow, I mean. Answer: very.”

Ilya catches Sveta’s eye and tries his best to convey one single message in his gaze. Save me. To his relief, she stands to get the drink Troy just ordered from the bar and brings it over, lingering at Ilya’s side. Her presence makes him feel a little more solid, less like he’ll disappear if Hollander doesn’t look at him or punch Scott Hunter if he says shit like that again.

“Didn’t he beat your time on that obstacle course thing we did by, like, two whole seconds, Roz?” Wyatt muses, and Ilya glares at him. 

“Do that stupid race ten times, I will win nine,” Ilya declares emphatically. “Was just unlucky.”

“And usually you’re so lucky,” Hollander mutters. Ilya narrows his eyes, confused, but ignores him. 

“I guess we’ll find out in two weeks then, huh?” Scott says. “That’ll be the real test.”

“Is not test.” Ilya waves a dismissive hand. “Is gentle stretching.”

Wise to his cracks by now, most of the group just groan or chuckle before the conversation drifts to the NHL and Scott begins explaining—as if the Marauders are all schoolchildren—how the draft will work for them as university players.

Beside him, Sveta nudges him. “What was that?” she whispers in Russian, leaning down to his ear to be overheard. 

“I don’t know,” Ilya replies. He’s glad for the distraction, and turns in his seat to face her a little more. “Just—distract me or something, okay? I feel…”

“Crazy?” Sveta suggests, and he scowls at her. She just laughs, wrapping an easy arm around his shoulders. “I’m kidding, of course. But yes, I can help. I’ll pay more attention to you, I promise.”

Ilya smiles, grateful that she doesn’t begrudge him for whining like this. “Do you want to sit? I can—”

“No, no,” Sveta replies, shaking her head. “Zullo wouldn’t stop staring at my chest, so I’m good to stand for a bit.”

Ilya glances over at the massive player. His gaze is still lingering on Sveta, but quickly flickers away when Ilya glowers at him. “Can I punch him? Please say I can punch him. I’ve had enough of creepy fucking assholes tonight.”

Ilya doesn’t realise he’s glaring at Scott now until Sveta hugs him to her side and puts a hand in his hair. “Don’t hit the Admiral, Ilya,” she says softly. “I can handle myself. Just… have a good time, okay? Enjoy yourself. You deserve it.”

“I am having a good time,” Ilya relents, because he’s being unfair. He kisses her cheek, smiling when she giggles. “Thank you for coming tonight, even though I was being a shitty friend.”

Sveta shrugs. “You were, but I understood why. And you’re welcome.” She places a tender kiss to his forehead, and Ilya’s throat gets tight. He really doesn’t deserve her.

“God,” he says with a sigh when he pulls away, aiming for arrogant impatience. “I need another drink. Shall we—”

Wait. Where’s Hollander?

***

Shane almost stumbles on the lip of the door to the rooftop patio, but he manages to catch himself just in time. Jesus, is he drunk?

That whiskey and Coke sent him over the edge, he decides. When he goes back downstairs he’ll stick to water. 

If he ever goes back downstairs.

He tells himself that he just wanted to get away from the crowded, stuffy bar with too loud music and too many people. He just wanted to see the skyline, to see the city from a different angle. 

Either of those things are true. Both. The air is fresh and crisp in his lungs, pluming out in soft clouds from his face as he exhales, and Toronto is beautiful from up here—all twinkling lights and glittering water in the distance and bustling streets vibrating with possibility.

It’s just that he also just needed to get the fuck out of there. 

He’d been watching as Rozanov pulled Sveta close to him, whispering something in her ear that made her laugh. He kissed her cheek. She kissed his forehead. 

Shane was out of his chair. He had to find the bathroom, he’d told Wyatt, and then he’d stumbled through the crowd until he found a door with an arrow pointing upwards and started climbing the stairs. 

And now he’s up here, pacing back and forth in an area tucked just behind a wall and trying not to lose his shit.

He doesn’t know what he’s doing. Not just—up here, by himself while his favourite hockey player and a bunch of other NHL stars chat to his friends about life, but in general. With Rozanov, with everything.

What the hell is he even doing? He’s messing with his career, his life for this. 

He needs to get a hold of himself.

Never mind the fact that Rozanov’s easy proximity to Sveta makes him feel like someone is standing on his chest, or that Rozanov’s team will probably win the World Juniors and Rozanov will smirk and he’ll have to sit there through the whole award ceremony knowing that, even after being summarily defeated by his archrival, he still wants that archrival to kiss him stupid at the end of it. 

Never mind that. He’ll just—not think about it. 

Shane laughs out loud to himself, and the sound rings out on the empty patio. Yeah, that’s been working so well for him so far. 

***

“I need a smoke,” Rozanov announces unceremoniously to the table, already standing from his chair.

Sveta catches his gaze, and her eyes widen almost imperceptibly. What are you doing? her eyes are saying. He feels his phone vibrate in his pocket, probably his father in another sign from the universe to not be an idiot. 

He doesn’t reply to Sveta, or reach for his phone. He’s already gone.

***

The door opens. Shane stills, straightening his jacket and his hair and generally trying to look less like he’s having a crisis on a rooftop in the middle of December, but it turns out it doesn’t matter.

Rozanov doesn’t even look in his direction as he approaches the railing, apparently preoccupied with lighting the cigarette perched between his lips. When he finally gets the flame to catch, he takes a long drag and then tilts his head back, blowing out a thin cloud of smoke into the already hazy sky. His eyes are shut, and he looks so blissful at that first inhale that Shane bites back the you’re not supposed to smoke here already lingering on his tongue. 

That’s the second time tonight that memory has come back to him. He can still see it now, the way he’d snagged Rozanov’s gaze at the mention of World Juniors and known somehow that he was thinking of that same cold day back in 2009 where they’d first spoken to each other. 

Shane swallows hard, staring at Rozanov. What the hell is he doing here? Well—he wanted a smoke, obviously, but… Shane doesn’t know what he’s thinking. 

He’s just suddenly so fucking mad that Rozanov interrupted his rooftop crisis, and now the fact that he’s tucked in a corner hiding like a child makes him want to hit something. He just wanted some fucking peace and quiet, and instead he got the one thing that brings him nothing but chaos and noise. This is his crisis rooftop. How dare Rozanov take that from him?

And it’s that thought that propels him forward those few steps, his movement muted by the wind howling against the building. He still moves softly, feeling strangely like he’s approaching a wild animal, but there’s no surprise in Rozanov’s expression when he finally turns.

Shane folds his arms over his chest to brace against the wind. “What are you doing up here?”

Rozanov raises an eyebrow, and Shane’s eyes go to the cigarette pinched between his pointer and middle finger. He watches as Rozanov takes a drag without looking away, pursing his lips to blow the smoke away from Shane’s face as he studies him. 

“Needed some air,” he says finally. “You?”

“Um. I wanted to see the view.”

Rozanov watches him for a long second, taking another drag, and then laughs. He opens his arms, looking expectant. “Well…?”

“Well what?”

“We are alone now.”

“Yes.” Shane swallows. “So?”

“Aren’t you going to suck my dick?”

Shane’s jaw drops. “Fuck you,” he spits. “You are unbelievable. You suck my dick."

Instead of replying, Rozanov narrows his eyes. “Are you drunk?”

“No.”

“You are.”

“Am not. I had, like, two shots.”

“Good for you. You should be celebrating.”  He sounds bored. Something in Shane breaks.

“What the hell is your problem?” he snaps, and Rozanov blinks. “What? All you do is beat me, and then I win one fucking thing and you can barely even show your face? You just—you just ignore me, all the time?”

“дай мне силы,” Rozanov mutters, looking away to take another drag, and then he’s turning to face Shane fully. Shane just stares, waiting for a reply he can actually understand. “Not everything is about you, Hollander!”

“Then what is it?” he demands.

Rozanov growls in frustration. “You wanted to see the view? Check it out! Fuck!” Rozanov takes a few steps away from Shane, who feels the loss of his proximity as acutely as losing a limb. He flicks his cigarette butt over the edge of the railing, and they both watch it spin like a helicopter seed towards the ground—the real world, that seems so far away now. Up here is just him, the wind whistling in his ears, the low fog casting everything in a grainy grey against the night, and Rozanov.

“Just—go back to fucking Scott Hunter,” Rozanov mutters, his voice tight as he turns away.

It’s only now that Shane is moving closer that he truly notices it—the tension in Rozanov’s shoulders, the way he’s holding himself taut like a bow string drawn for attack. He hasn’t seen him like this since—

Now that he’s realised, he doesn’t have to ask. “My father has been calling,” Rozanov says finally, deflating. “All weekend, but… more now he knows I didn’t win MVP.” 

Shane’s brain snags on the choice of words. “Did you—did you answer him?”

Rozanov shakes his head without looking over. “Don’t need to. I can have our conversation all myself.” Rozanov straightens, adopting a stern expression that twists his features into something much more severe. Shane has never seen him look like this before, and he doesn’t like it. “You lost, Ilya. You are Russia’s biggest disappointment. Failure.”

His face is unreadable when he turns back to face Shane, but he thinks he can see the anguish in it anyway.  Shane takes a step forward.

“Hollander.”

He says his name like a warning. He says it like a promise. How can it be both?

“Rozanov,” Shane whispers back, and takes another step. He juts his chin out, thinks absurdly that he wishes he was just an inch taller so he didn’t have to tilt his head up to look the other boy in the eye. He wants more answers than he’s getting. “You know your dad’s wrong, right?”

Rozanov studies him for a long beat. “What is this, reverse psychology?” he tries to joke, but it comes off flat. 

“No,” Shane says simply. “Are you—are you going back for the break? Will you see him?”

Rozanov shakes his head. “He is away with my stepmother.” 

“I’m sorry,” Shane says, and it’s automatic. He just can’t imagine a world where not seeing his family at Christmas is a good thing.

Rozanov shrugs. “Don’t be. We don’t celebrate Christmas much anyway, and this way I don’t have to see him.” He laughs, and this sounds flat, too. “Is fine. I… I will stay with Sveta, I think.”

At least he’s not alone, a voice in Shane’s head says, but he still can’t wrap his head around Ilya’s family sucking enough that he doesn’t even want to see them on Christmas. He doesn’t know Sveta, but she’s good for Ilya, he thinks. Despite the way his stomach twists every time he thinks about it, Rozanov always seems to get lighter when he’s talking about her. 

He just wishes they weren’t also… whatever they are. It makes Shane’s head hurt.

“Christmas in Toronto,” Shane says with a nod, trying to keep his voice steady. “Cosy.” 

“Yes.”

“With… Sveta.”

“Yes.”

Shane bites his lip. “You—you can talk to me, y’know. If you want.”

Rozanov smiles, but it’s tinged with sadness. “I know. Not now, but…” he cuts himself off, taking a shaky breath. “After. When we are back.”

It feels like a constant reminder, chiming in his head. After, Shane chants to himself. After. Everything is always after.

After he’s done with Sveta, for example.

“Okay,” he replies, feeling pathetic, and then gives an involuntary shudder when another gust of wind almost blows him off his feet. 

“You should go back inside,” Rozanov says, turning back to look at the skyline. “We will be leaving for club soon.”

“Right,” Shane replies, coming back to himself. We. He’s coming. “Right. I should go. Um. See you downstairs?”

Rozanov doesn’t say anything. He just looks back over his shoulder at Shane like he’s trying to work something out. Eventually, Shane is done waiting—nothing is coming, because he’s being an idiot. As always. 

He’s hesitating as he turns away when Rozanov grabs him. All at once he’s being hauled in for a kiss, rough and bruising and claiming. 

Rozanov pushes him against a pillar and takes, licking into his mouth like he can taste Shane’s desperation, the way he’s been buzzing for Rozanov’s presence all weekend. 

Shane kisses back, because of course he does, he’s pathetic, but in the instant that Rozanov’s hand curls into his hair and pulls he realises that the door to the patio they’re standing in is glass. 

It’s  only a short walk from the bar, anyone could walk by. Anyone could see them like this.

In an instant Shane is pushing Rozanov back with his jacket curled into his fists, staring him down with as much of the anger he dares to let show on his face. He’s—he’s missed this, missed Rozanov kissing him like that, but… 

“What the fuck are you doing? We’re at—at fucking Scott Hunter’s party, in public.”

Rozanov looks like he’s trying very hard not to roll his eyes. “No one is looking. No one is even out here on this stupid terrace.”

“You don’t know that. We’re right out in the open.”

Shane watches the war on Rozanov’s face, and he recognises it because he has a similar battle going on in his own head. Everything he’s just said is true, this is so stupid, and yet. 

And yet. 

The stairwell last night wasn’t enough. It’s been si—a week since he last felt Rozanov shudder beneath him, and the fact that Rozanov had been counting had only made Shane want it more. He feels dizzy with lust. The distance between them for the last week has made him feel like an elastic band stretched tight, unable to relax, but now that Rozanov is here he feels everything in him want to loosen, to give himself over.

Yes, this, his body sighs. More.

Rozanov goes in for another kiss, and Shane is flipping them around and pinning him against the pillar before he can think, still unsure what he wants to do himself. Sveta might be downstairs, she might be Rozanov’s best friend, but Shane is the one who has him here, now. He just knows he doesn’t want this to end.

But they’re still in public, where anyone could see. Shane scans the patio desperately, the hum under his skin reaching a fever pitch.

Instead of letting Rozanov go and walking away, like he should, Shane grabs his hand and tugs while sending a furtive glance back towards the door. He leads him to a small alley tucked behind a shed for the boiler, and after another moment’s hesitation he’s shoving Rozanov back into it and stepping around the corner too.

They stare at each other. “Fuck,” Shane mutters.

After only a heated glance, they’re colliding again. Shane loves simple solutions. 

He can’t keep things PG for long. After only a minute of slow and luxurious tongues sliding against each other, he trails his hands down Rozanov’s chest until he reaches Rozanov’s belt and starts fumbling with the buckle as he sinks his teeth into Rozanov’s lower lip just to hear his groan.

“Want you,” Shane mumbles, already lowering himself to his knees. It’s stupid, it’s so stupid and yet—he wants it. So badly it hurts. 

But Rozanov won’t let him sink to the ground, instead wrapping a strong hand underneath his elbow to pull him to his feet. He stares at Shane—undoubtedly taking in his glazed eyes and flushed cheeks, seeing exactly what he has the power to do to him in a matter of minutes—and then swears softly in Russian, tipping their foreheads together and closing his eyes.

The touch helps to ground Shane a little, at least, and he no longer feels on the verge of tears if he doesn’t get his mouth around Rozanov’s cock. He watches Rozanov skating his hands up and down Shane’s arms in a soothing motion, wondering absently if Rozanov feels this pull as much as he does.

“No,” Rozanov replies, but he sounds apologetic. “We will go back to the bar and do some more shots with boring Scott Hunter, then we will go to boring club, then we go to our single beds next to boring roommates. And tomorrow, when we are back in Montreal and you have been waiting all day, I will maybe, maybe do more than just let you suck my dick. Okay?”

Shane shudders. He wants Rozanov, and he wants him now, but he also knows why Rozanov is saying no. If he was more in the right frame of mind he’d be the one saying no, which Shane supposes Rozanov should take as a compliment—Shane is desperate enough to ignore all of his own rules. 

But the thought of tomorrow, of later, is enough to anchor Shane to the present, and to realise that Rozanov is right. They can’t do this here.

“Later,” Shane whispers back in confirmation, and Rozanov nods. Shane bites his lip. “Will I…”

“Will you what?” Rozanov prompts, tucking a finger under his chin to tilt it up so their eyes meet.

“Will I get a reward?” Shane asks. “For winning MVP?”

Rozanov shrugs, but his grin is wicked. “I can suck you, fuck you, whatever you want.”

Shane thinks about it. There’s only one thing he really wants now, and he can’t have it. So he settles for the next best thing. “I want whatever lesson you were planning,” he says finally. “I trust you.”

Rozanov looks back at him for a long time, not moving his hand from his chin as they stare at each other, and it’s just when Shane is starting to think that he’s going to laugh or something that he leans in and captures Shane’s lips in the sweetest kiss.

It’s light and chaste, but it’s this—the realization that Shane must force himself to hold still as Rozanov kisses him otherwise he’ll devour him, that he has to wait until tomorrow until they can get off together—that finally pushes him over the edge.

God. Shane is gay. He’s gayer than a Maypole. 

And possibly in love with Ilya Rozanov. 

Rozanov, who is only with him until these lessons inevitably end. Rozanov, who will probably marry Sveta and have nineteen baby catalogue-ready children that all go on to play in the NHL like him.

Rozanov, who will live a life Shane is only now beginning to realise might never be possible for him. It might never have been possible in the first place.

Fuck.

Gay.

Rozanov pulls away from the kiss, eyes flicking between Shane’s inquisitively, and Shane barely resists the urge to screw his eyes shut so he won’t see the anguish going on inside them. He can’t mess this up, not right now. Not when he already stole this moment, carved it out of the immutable stone that is a typical hockey player’s night out. Shots, girls, dancing. Passionately kissing your rival on a rooftop patio.

“Let’s go,” Shane says, and Rozanov nods, following him back inside. 

***

The club is loud. That’s the first thing Ilya notices. 

His heart sinks when he sees the queue outside next, knows they don’t have a chance of getting in before 1am at this rate, and is just contemplating if he could steal Hollander away to a dark alley somewhere without Sveta noticing when he looks to the front of the group and remembers who they’re with. 

“Good evening, Mr Hunter, sir,” the bouncer at the door says, and Scott nods to him. He greets several of the other Admirals players by name, and waves the rest of the group—a few friends, girlfriends, and the Marauders barring Dallas Kent—through without batting an eyelid. 

“I could get used to this,” Sveta yells into his ear as they arrive in the club.

The room is split into two floors, with the upstairs area serving as a more relaxed bar and lounge whilst the downstairs is lit with flashing lights that illuminate bodies writhing in time to the deep thumping bass of the music. It’s not really Ilya’s style, but he’s been to a rave or two in his time and can get behind drum and bass if he’s drunk. 

The Admirals head upstairs to get more drinks, and Hollander follows with the insistence that he’s buying the drinks for himself, Sveta and Ilya this time—Ilya reminds him he doesn’t have tits like Sveta to push up at the bartender, to which Hollander replies that he still has a few tricks up his sleeve, and the obvious echo of Ilya’s words in the locker room earlier tonight is what has him feeling like he’s set on fire. 

Nothing to do with Sveta’s gaze currently burning into the side of his skull. 

He endures about a minute of it while they wait, swaying to the music, until finally he turns his head and raises his eyebrows. “What?” he says in Russian.

He shouldn’t have asked. He knows as soon as he sees her expression. “Ilya.”

“Sveta.”

“Ilya.”

“What?”

“You’re really going to pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about?” Sveta sighs, crossing her arms and leaning back against the wall of the small hallway they’re tucked into. “Fine. I’m talking about you and Hollander.”

Ilya scoffs, an automatic response, but just as instinctively he feels his eyes dart from side to side to see if anyone else heard. 

Sveta gasps. “Fuck, really? I was, like, mostly kidding, but—Ilya.”

“You were kidding?”

“I mean, I thought you might have something going on with that guy from online but now—wait. Is Hollander the guy from—”

Ilya only barely resists the urge to clap a hand over her mouth. She’s too smart for her own good. “Can you say that a little louder, Jesus!”

Sveta waves an impatient hand. “No one here speaks fucking Russian, Ilya. Hollander? Really?”

“Look, I’ll—” Ilya pinches the bridge of his nose between two fingers, squeezing his eyes shut. God he has a headache. This is why he didn’t want to tell Sveta, why he didn’t want to invite her here in the first place—she’s the person that knows him best in the world. She can read him like a book. He’d known that as soon as she watched him take one look at Hollander she would know how he felt about him, she would know exactly what he wanted. “I promise I’ll tell you about it soon, okay? All of it. But… it’s complicated. We’re not together.”

“You look at him like you’re together.”

Ilya hates being right. “No, I don’t,” he retorts, a little childishly. “And we’re not. We can’t be, obviously, so. It’s just—nothing serious. We get together, we fuck. That’s all.”

Sveta suddenly looks so sad for him that Ilya thinks she might burst into tears in the hallway of this club. “Oh, Ilya,” she says softly, cupping his cheek. “You are so, so…” 

She trails off, shaking her head.

“So, so… stupid.”

“Sveta—”

“Seriously, Ilya, what the fuck?” Sveta says. “You’re so in denial it’s not even funny. I mean, I know he’s not helping the whole situation, but—”

“What, him not feeling the same way back?” Ilya’s throat suddenly feels very dry.

Sveta stares at him. He’s not sure he’s hearing right over the loud bass of the music, but—yes. She’s growling in frustration. She mutters something like, “you two are perfect for each other, I swear,” and then looks up at him. “You two should try having an actual conversation.”

Ilya groans. He knows she’s right, he does, he just… doesn’t want to. Like, really, really doesn’t want to. There’s one simple fact that he keeps coming back to, and it’s that this can’t work. Whatever he and Hollander have, it could never make sense of it in the future version of their lives. It barely even makes sense now. 

There’s just… no way. 

So this whole thing is a futile exercise, then. He should just be done with it. But Hollander is kissing him in stairwells and pulling him behind boilers on patios to try and get on his knees and he has a lesson plan, damn it, and he’s not a quitter. 

He will teach Hollander how to have sex if it’s the last thing he does. Even if it kills him. 

Now he just has an extra hurdle.

“I will try to talk to him,” is as much as he can promise Sveta, and it’s good timing because Hollander has just arrived proudly carrying three drinks in his hands. 

“I didn’t need tits,” Hollander announces when he reaches the table, then takes in Ilya and Sveta’s serious expressions and frowns. “Did I… I can come back, if—”

“No, no,” Sveta says with a smile and a shake of her head. “All good. Ilya always gets a sour face when he speaks Russian.”

Hollander laughs at this. “I know, he looks like he’s eaten a lemon.”

“Oh, there you guys are!” It’s Wyatt, followed by Carter just behind him. “We thought we lost you.”

“Nope, right here,” Hollander replies with a smile. 

“What did you mean, you didn’t need tits?” Ilya interrupts suddenly. Hollander looks confused, and then his face clears. 

“Oh, yeah. So, get this. I was standing at the bar when a guy came up to me and asked me if I was Shane Hollander. I said yes, and he told me he used to go to McGill and that he’s a big fan. Crazy, huh?”

“Not very crazy,” Ilya mumbles. “McGill is big school, many people go there.”

“Anyway,” Hollander continues pointedly. “He bought our drinks to say thanks for all the good work. He said, 'Shane Hollander can have whatever he wants.' How nice is that, right?”

Ilya’s brain snags on this information. He knows, as a guy himself, that they rarely buy drinks for other guys, unless…

Carter and Wyatt seem to come to the same conclusion at the exact moment Ilya does, because Carter nods as Wyatt’s eyes widen. 

“Dude, sounds like maybe he was gay,” Carter says matter-of-factly.

Beside Ilya, Hollander stills. “What?” he says, his voice faint. 

“Yeah, he was probably flirting,” Sveta adds, and there’s a distinct edge to her tone that Ilya doesn’t like. 

“Let’s go dance,” Ilya says maybe a little more abruptly than necessary, scooping his drink up from Hollander’s hand so quickly that the liquid sloshes over the side. That’s fine. He probably doesn’t need any more anyway.

“You know you’re not subtle, right?” Sveta hisses to him in Russian as they make their way towards the dance floor. Ahead of them, Hollander is lost in conversation with Carter, and Ilya watches the coloured lights dance across his cheekbone and thinks, God, you’re so beautiful it hurts to look at.

“I’m well fucking aware,” Ilya grits out. 

***

The guy that bought Shane a drink dances his way over to their little group a few songs in, and seems to get into a conversation with Wyatt about something nerdy for a while before he turns his attention back to Shane. Now that Shane is—keyed in to all of that, now that he knows what he’s looking for, he realises the guy isn’t subtle; constant glances to his lips, a lingering hand on his arm. It’s all an obvious game. 

No one else is even paying attention to them, to any of this, but Shane still feels on edge anyway. It’s mostly because there’s one person he knows that is paying attention, as he has been all night. 

Rozanov has been keeping a pointed distance from Shane since they got on the dance floor, which he likes to think is because he knows what would happen if they got too close, that they’d reach for each other without thinking and then everything would be fucked. Still. Shane would really like to close the distance. 

It doesn’t matter, though. Sveta is dancing in front of him, swaying her hips in time to the sultry beat and raising her arms over her head. She makes the throbbing bass music sound good, almost, when she dances like that. When she and Rozanov dance like that.

Strong arms wind around her waist and pull her back into him. 

He turns his attention back to the guy in front of him, and has to ask him to repeat his name three times before he hears it properly. Elliot, okay. Wonderful. 

Elliot is a financial analyst at some big bank downtown, Shane discovers, only a few years older than him, and he can tell. The chinos-and-quarter-zip-over-a-button-down combination never lies. He’s also still checking Shane out, and Shane doesn’t know what to do with that.

He can’t shove him away or anything, doesn’t want to attract attention. Most of the guys are occupied dancing, but Carter catches his eye behind him and raises his eyebrows. All good?

Shane nods. He had the chance to make a getaway, and he didn’t take it because—well. Because he’s scared, yes, because he likes the hot weight of someone’s attracted gaze on him, yes, but also…

He’s wondered more than once whether the skills he’s learned with Rozanov really apply to other people. 

He’s always shut the thought down. He’s never had any desire to act on it this whole time the lessons have been going on, but now—the image of Rozanov kissing Sveta’s cheek and pulling her close at the bar springs back to his mind.

If he could do that, and then kiss Shane like that on the rooftop only minutes later, why couldn’t Shane do the same?

***

There’s a guy dancing on Hollander. 

Ilya doesn’t notice it the first time he scans the room—not looking for Hollander, he tells himself, just surveying the scene—and has to do a double take, his mind not prepared to locate Hollander with someone else. 

It’s nothing explicit, obviously, and most people probably wouldn’t even know the guy was gay just based on the way they’re dancing, but Ilya sees it. He sees it in the way that he’ll get a little closer and look down at Hollander’s lips and then back away, laughing it off with his gaze still lingering on Hollander’s mouth.

Ilya can’t say he doesn’t understand, because Hollander has a great mouth, but… no. Other people, other men—they aren’t supposed to notice that. 

No one else seems to have a problem with this random guy dancing in their group, which Rozanov supposes is fair given the number of other stragglers floating in and out of the Admirals’ orbit over the course of the night, but he has to wonder if any of them can see his intentions with Hollander written plainly over his face. 

Ilya is trying to keep up with the music. He knows he’s basically just swaying now, stilted and off-beat and entirely not like his usual behaviour on the dance floor, but he can’t move. He needs to watch. 

The guy is tall like Ilya but lean, dressed in the most obnoxious finance bro outfit he could apparently come up with, and he has a smile like a shark. Ilya watches that smile glint under the flashing lights as he leans down into Hollander’s ear and says something that makes him laugh. He wishes he was closer so he could hear if it was Hollander’s fake laugh—a brief titter, nothing more than a polite cascade of sound that he’s never very good at making sound genuine—or his real laugh, the one with the tiny snort that goes up at the end.

Actually, he’s glad he’s not close enough to overhear. He’s pretty sure he’d punch something if he found out it was the second one.

He tightens his grip on Sveta’s waist and tries very hard not to think at all.

***

“Do you want to go somewhere quieter?” Elliot yells into Shane’s ear after the fourth song, nodding in the direction of what looks to be a lounge area off to one side. 

Shane is a little relieved. He can barely hear Elliot over the music, and he hates dancing to begin with. He’ll be glad to be out of the throngs of people.

Just as he’s about to nod and follow Elliot, he notices the silent offer in his gaze and realises with a start that Elliot might not want just to talk.

He glances around. 

No one is looking. No one at all. He can’t even see Rozanov anymore, which is probably for the best. 

Shane supposes that Elliot is cute enough if you’re into that sort of thing, if you’re into men—which Shane has realised tonight that he apparently is. He has kind eyes, a hint of danger in them, and Shane especially likes his crooked smile and sandy hair. He’s surprised to do a scan of his body and find himself buzzing with the pleasant hum of possibility, a low-grade spark of something that could turn into arousal if he tried. 

If he tried. 

He just has to try.

Sure, he might be—gay, but he doesn’t have to be… this. In love with his teammate, with his rival, and completely turned upside down about it. 

Maybe just for tonight, just for a minute, he can pretend that he isn’t any of those things. He can pretend that he’s just a university student in town for the weekend, discovering something new about himself and trying it out. Simple. Easy. No strings. 

The song changes, some synth-y sultry thing that slides into Shane’s head like satin, and the thumping bass makes him bold.

He just needs to get away from all these people.

Shane begins winding his way through the crowd, glancing back to Elliot ahead of him as he scans the people around him to make sure none of his friends have seen. Troy and Wyatt are doing more shots over by the bar, Scott and the other Admirals are holding court in the middle of the dance floor, apparently engaged in some heated dance battle, and Rozanov…

It doesn’t take long for Shane to find him. He’s not sure if it’s just a trick of the fancy lights flashing around him, but he could swear Rozanov is spotlit in the centre of the throng because Shane’s eyes fix on his halo of golden hair immediately. 

He has his head bent, arms wrapped tight around Sveta’s waist with his chest pressed to her back. They’re swaying together, more grinding, really, and Rozanov has one hand buried in her hair and his mouth on her neck.

Shane is hit with a sickening wave of deja vu as he freezes, stuck to the spot and helpless to do anything but watch as Rozanov makes a meal of Sveta’s skin, laughing into her ear and skimming his massive hands across her torso to pull her closer to him. She just smiles, easy and light as she tilts her head back to grant him more access. 

Easy. So easy. 

Fingers skim his, and he startles to see Elliot standing in front of him, looking inquisitively at Shane’s frozen position. He barely even looks over at the other man, because—fuck.

Rozanov has lifted his head, and is staring right at him.

Chapter End Notes

.................
IM SORRY OKAY.
(actually no i'm not)

so first off i'd like to start by saying that all complaints can be directed to @wizardhotbox for cackling maniacally when i wrote the elliot scene and for having so many more mean mean (brilliant) ideas. not my fault i cannot be blamed for these actions (thank you wizard for listening to me yell about this stupid chapter)

anyway let's get into it!!!! you all know this part of the story we are entering the DARK FOREST this is not the end

writing this chapter was actually so fucking tough and we edited and rewrote and moved shit around soooo much so now my head is a mess but like it's finished so FUCKING TAKE IT

speaking of darkness. fuck you dallas kent. you will get what you fucking deserve.

writing jealous ilya AND jealous shane was like a little seratonin treat for me that was crazy!!!!! characterizing it all and making it make sense for them was tough but all the yearning and realization-ing and hybridizing the balcony and bathroom scenes is unreal guys we are working towards a c l i m a x

speaking of climaxing, the sveta ilya carter throuple idea. that's all

sveta clocking hollanov so hard was actually so funny to me but love her being a #ally by being a distraction for ilya while he was having his gay crisis (and shane was having his ACTUAL gay crisis yay for that)

i made a lil comment about subverting canon last chapter and i know this is NOT what you guys thought i meant with the balcony and also the club scene but it is #necessary. also on that note who said i was done :)

lastly i need you all to know i thought about having shane and elliot kiss while shane stares at rozanov bc i want nothing if not to reheat skam season 3's nachos because ~cinema~ but that felt too cruel and also like obv ooc for shane......................................... the urge was there though so i need you all to appreciate that i restrained myself

anyway me and wizard are hard at work on the next chapter already!!! things may slow down a bit since i go back to the uk on friday but i have a fourteen hour travel day, touch-typing skills and a dream so BY GOD I WILL WORK FOR YOU GUYS <3

okay i really hope u enjoyed this one and can't wait to see u all next chapter!!!! :0

Chapter 12: it's the best thing that you ever had

Chapter Summary

in today's episodes: actions have consequences and things are said

Chapter Notes

this chapter is so unbelievably obscenely ridiculously long but it's a reward for all of you acting like it's been nine bajillion years since i updated as if it hasn't been a week and i haven't written 125,000 words in less than a month i LOVE YOU

you can thank me when we're done here... if you still want to.

also wanted to say before we start, fun fact guys ao3 is actually the best matchmaking platform on the internet. on an unrelated note, @wizardhotbox says hi :)

Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck—

No. Okay, stay calm. Shane can do this. He can just—turn and follow Elliot. He can just leave.

It’s just that Rozanov is not looking away as he skims his hands up the outside of Sveta’s breasts, coming up to pull dark curls back from her face so he can continue ravaging her. His hand skims over her throat, and Shane shivers despite the heat of the overcrowded club at the memory of those fingers wrapped around his own neck.

And then he sucks Sveta’s earlobe into his mouth, still not looking away, and Shane sees red.

It’s the look in his eyes as he does it, the knowing gaze that tips Shane over the edge, because he’s kissing her and looking at him like it’s some sort of inside joke between the three of them and Shane is very much out of the fucking loop. He doesn’t look embarrassed to be found with Sveta, on the contrary. He looks almost—pleased.

And why shouldn’t he? It’s not like Shane has any claim over him. He’s free to kiss and fuck whoever he wants…just like Shane is. 

And Shane is. There’s nothing stopping him. Why should Rozanov get to explore other people and he can’t? Shane’s always felt like that was the unspoken assumption in their relationship, that Rozanov was steadily and consistently getting it from other people while Shane sat by the door waiting for him to come home like a fucking idiot.

No, fuck that. Fuck all of this. He might not be able to do it in front of people like Rozanov can, but he can sure as fuck still get what he needs when he wants to. 

He can be a normal university student, exploring himself in a big city. Undercover. Easy. 

It’s not like he’s not—y’know, desirable. Apparently. Rose was into him until he fucked that up, at least, and Elliot seems to want him pretty badly based on the way he’s waiting for him, because he’s still not moving. 

Because Rozanov wanted him, too. Wanted? Wants him. He doesn’t know anymore. Based on their kiss on the rooftop, he’d assume it’s present tense, and they have plans for tomorrow, but he doesn’t know if now he’ll—no.

Shane shakes his head as if he can physically loosen the thoughts from his mind. This is about him, he reminds himself firmly. His exploration, his fun. 

He juts his chin out, looking up to meet Elliot’s gaze and finding patience and something like amusement tinging his gaze. “Sorry,” he says, making an exaggerated shape with his mouth so Elliot knows what he’s saying over the music. “Just—checking on my teammate.”

Elliot seems to accept this, because he turns and begins leading Shane back off the dance floor. The bass is still thumping just as loud in the lounge, which is even darker than the dance floor without the flashing lights, so after sharing a look they continue exploring. 

The club is massive, it turns out, so while they walk around searching for a quieter spot they’re able to chat a little more. They talk about school, Elliot deftly skirting around the topic of sports once he realises that Shane plays competitively and does not want to say anything else about it, and they’re just broaching the topic of movies when Shane is relieved to find an opportunity to change the subject.

“Did you, uh, did you want another drink?” he asks, gesturing to the small bar tucked in the back corner of this alcove. 

Elliot shakes his head, his mouth quirking up at the corners. He really is hot when he smiles, Shane thinks. “I’m good,” Elliot replies. His voice is a little lower than it sounded over the blaring music, and Shane is pleased to find a tingle run through his body at the tone. “Do you want to keep looking? This place is still so loud.”

Shane is glad that Elliot seems as dedicated to finding a quieter spot as he is, so he scans the area and bites his lip as he tries to think. Players from the combine or the Admirals are nowhere to be seen, and there are only a few couples and small groups scattered around, deep in conversation, but they still get a curious glance or two. They don’t exactly fit in with the rest of the well-dressed, bling-y crowd, after all.

“Do you want to go outside?” Shane says suddenly, turning his gaze to the massive double doors that leads to a balcony. It looks to have a few secluded spots, at least, and it’s not like this is the first time tonight that Shane has searched outdoors for a secret place to make out.

Elliot, though, wrinkles his nose. “Ugh, but it’s so cold,” he says with a grimace. “What about…?”

With a quick glance from left to right which Shane appreciates, Elliot tangles their fingers together and tugs him through a small doorway Shane hadn’t noticed before. They round a corner, finding another deserted hallway that looks to be for employees of the club, and start towards a sign at the very end for the bathroom.

“Are you sure we should be—” Shane starts, and then cuts himself off when Elliot looks over his shoulder to raise an eyebrow. Right. No, he’s not going to be boring Hollander tonight. He’s going to be fun Shane. 

He can do that. Elliot’s hand is warm in his, a steady, grounding presence, and as Shane looks down at their joined hands he feels Elliot squeeze once. “Can I ask you something?” he asks, still studying Shane’s face as they walk.

Shane swallows. “Um. Sure?”

“Does anyone know—about you?”

It’s a difficult question to answer. Obviously, the answer is yes. Rozanov knows, and very intimately at that. Rose knows something. Sveta maybe knows something. Each of those two count for half-knowing, he supposes, so he does the math quickly in his head. 

“Two people, but one is two girls,” he explains nonsensically, then shakes his head and tries to organize the words in his head. “I mean—yes. But very very few. You?”

Elliot shrugs. “I’m out everywhere.” He must see something on Shane’s face, because he shakes his head quickly. “I wouldn’t—I would never tell anyone, okay? I just thought this might be…” Elliot trails off, and Shane’s brow furrows in confusion. What is he talking about? Finally, Elliot purses his lips. “I thought this might be your first time, is all.”

Shane laughs before he can stop himself. It’s funny because it’s such a ludicrous idea now, but it was one hundred percent true mere weeks ago. He’d been completely inexperienced, and since then he’s received a plethora of blowjobs and handjobs and given a plethora more. He’s been fucked, and multiple times. He knows a thing or two. He thinks.

That’s the whole point of this, right? To test it. 

“Not my first time,” Shane says as they come to a stop outside the bathroom, slowly shaking his head. “Just my first time here.” He makes a point of raking his eyes up and down Elliot’s body, enjoying the way he smiles at the attention. “So…?”

Elliot gets the hint. With a grin, he tugs Shane into the bathroom and leads them towards a stall—but Shane can’t help himself. He pulls free of Elliot’s grip for a moment, ducking his head to check underneath each door and around the corner at the urinals before he nods—to Elliot or to himself, he isn’t sure. He looks back at Elliot and flushes.

“Sorry.” He stuffs his hands in his pockets. “I, um…”

“I get it,” Elliot says with a nod, and he seems to mean it. “Really.”

Shane takes a deep breath, preparing himself, and this time he’s the one to grab Elliot’s hand and tug him into the stall. He shuts the door behind him, locking it, and then turns. 

Elliot is leaning against one wall of the cubicle, waiting. He seems to be content letting Shane set the pace, staying still as Shane draws closer and not moving even when Shane’s  hands flutter unsure at his sides. 

“Do you—” Elliot starts to ask, but Shane never does find out what he was going to say because it’s in the same split second that Shane is saying fuck it in his head and grabbing a fistful of Elliot’s vest to pull him in. 

The initial collision is a little more aggressive than Shane had intended, but then Elliot is settling his hands on his waist and tilting his head and Shane is steadying himself against his body. He realises only then that a part of him had worried that he’d misread the situation and that Elliot would just pull away, that he’d look at Shane with horror and then run off to find his friends and tell them what a freak he was.

He doesn’t do that, though. Shane is surprised to learn he’s a pretty good kisser—whatever that means coming from him, at least. He has good rhythm, not too much tongue, though the press of his lips is a little firm for Shane’s liking. Still, his hands on Shane’s body are just on the right side of rough as he tugs him closer, and he makes a noise of approval when Shane tangles his fingers in his hair.

Elliot’s lips are rounder than Ro—than the ones Shane is used to kissing, but he’s surprised to find that though the shape is foreign he’s still enjoying himself. Each slow stroke of Elliot’s tongue as he presses him against the cubicle wall makes Shane’s body zing with pleasure, and he finds that he wants more. 

Screw you, Rozanov, he thinks fiercely in his head as he nips at Elliot’s bottom lip, enjoying the growl this elicits. I’m fine. 

He’s just… gay. Which is normal. Sort of. The main point is that it’s fine, he just likes guys sometimes and there’s nothing more to it—-he can go out and find someone to hook up with just like this every now and then and it’ll be fine. 

But—

Is ‘every now and then’ enough to soothe the permanent itch Rozanov has settled under his skin? He sometimes feels like a sex deviant, the way he spends so much of his time thinking about it. And besides, will he even be able to safely find someone back in Montreal? Especially as he nears graduation and the draft, when he becomes more recognizable and he’s no longer a faceless cog in the machine, would that even be possible anymore?

He doesn’t know. He just owes it to himself to find out, because what he’s been doing until now clearly isn’t good for anyone. 

When Elliot dives in to kiss him again, he tightens his grip on Shane’s hips and pins him against the wall, the movement rubbing their clothed cocks against each other. Shane is half-hard and he can feel himself flagging a little because he was so lost in thought, but Elliot is solid and aching against him. 

Oh. That’s… different.

“Do you want to—?” Elliot asks breathlessly against Shane’s mouth, and his hands drift down to Shane’s belt buckle before pausing in wait.

Shane considers the question. If he’s being totally, completely, brutally honest—he’s missed sucking dick. It’s only been a week but Shane wants to feel that achey stretch in his jaw again, wants to feel the heady weight of it on his tongue. 

Does he want to suck Elliot’s dick? Maybe. He’s hot, objectively, and he looks and smells clean. He’s not being forceful, he’s letting Shane set the pace. These are all boxes being ticked in Shane’s head. 

Shane nods jerkily, not trusting himself to say anything, and Elliot kisses him again as they reach for each other with a touch more desperation this time. He can feel Elliot, hard and grinding against his hip, and Shane thinks, yes. This is what I needed. 

But then Shane gets his hand inside Elliot’s jeans first, finding him already mostly hard, and he’s able to give him an experimental stroke. This feels different, too—Shane would have to see it to be sure but it feels a little smaller than Rozanov’s, though it might be just as thick. He’s cut, though, which Shane would’ve thought would be more familiar given that he is as well but instead this angle just makes it feel more foreign. It takes him a minute to get the hang of it.

Still, he perseveres. He likes the sounds Elliot is making, even if the half-lidded eyes and panting are a bit of a turn-off, and when Shane kisses him at the same time he swipes his thumb over the head he swallows the gasp Elliot lets out greedily. 

Yes, this. He likes the feeling of being in control of pleasure like this, being able to dictate how someone feels with a twitch of his fingers or a tilt of his head. It’s a dizzying sense of power, really, and Shane has missed this, too. He allows himself to get lost in it, giving himself over to the sensation of turning someone else into putty underneath him.

Elliot’s hand cups his jaw, tilting his chin up to meet his kisses and swiping his thumb along Shane’s bottom lip as Shane strokes him. And then—

His thumb pushes in.

Shane’s tongue grazes the pad only for a second, but he’s struck immediately with the feeling of wrong, spun off-kilter by the memory: that first time with Rozanov that feels like eons ago, where he’d challenged Shane to get him hard without touching him and he’d mouthed oh, wow, as he watched Shane close his eyes and suck his thumb into his mouth like he was already sucking his cock. 

It had been right before Rozanov’s alarm went off, Shane remembers. He feels like he hears those same alarm bells now. 

Because—fuck.

He’s been having a good time, he has, he’s proved a point to himself, Elliot is great, but he needs to fucking go. 

He’s already recoiled from Elliot’s touch before his body catches up to his brain. “I’m—” Shane starts, and then realises he doesn’t know what he’s going to say, what he even wants. 

Well. He’s figuring that part out, and he’s already a little sick to his stomach about it. 

Even though Rozanov is with Sveta now, even though he’s kind of a dick, even though they’re teammates… he still wants him.

“I’m sorry,” he finally manages to tell Elliot, who still looks confused. He starts backing away, fumbling with the lock on the stall and wrenching it open.  “I—I need to go. Sorry.”

Well, fuck. This didn’t fix his problem at all.

***

They were kissing, and now they’re not.

Sveta pulls away from Ilya so quickly that he feels dizzy, wrenching herself from his grip and turning to look at him. The red and blue strobe lights alternate between highlighting the anger and frustration in her eyes, and it makes him feel like he’s six again and he’s just drawn all over her prized action figures with markers. 

She looks over her shoulder, and it’s only then that he realises she’s looking at the space Hollander’s body carved out in the crowd—it’s quickly dissipating now that Hollander is gone, but Ilya can still see it as clear as day. He’s pretty sure it’s permanently imprinted on the backs of his eyelids. He can still see that look in Hollander’s eyes, the mixture of confusion and poorly-masked hurt that makes Ilya’s heart twist, but it’s for the best.

It is. 

Better Hollander figures out that he’s no good now rather than later. 

But Sveta is looking at him like she knows exactly what he’s thinking, and it’s obvious that she thinks Ilya is being really fucking stupid.

“I’m okay being a distraction, Ilya,” she tells him in a tight voice in Russian, raising her voice and leaning into his ear so she can be heard. “Whatever. But making me a—a pawn in whatever you’ve got going on with him? That’s not cool.”

Ilya shakes his head, already turning away. He knows he’s being childish, but he doesn’t want to listen to this. Actually, no, he doesn’t want to be here anymore.

Sveta grabs his arm, and Ilya knows his eyes are pleading when he turns to her. “I know,” he says quickly. “I just—”

He has no idea what he was going to say.

It occurs to him as he’s leaving that he might come across Hollander and whatever that loser’s name is somewhere in this massive place, and his heart wrenches at the thought of what he might find. He has the stupid urge to screw his eyes shut when he exits the dance floor just in case.

But it doesn’t matter now, anyway. This is exactly what Ilya wanted… right?

He makes a beeline for the double doors that lead outside, suddenly feeling suffocated by the stuffy rooms filled with stuffy people and shitty music. Everything is shitty. He fumbles in his pocket for his cigarettes, realises he smoked his last one on the balcony at the bar earlier tonight, and just barely resists the urge to scream in frustration. 

He hears footsteps behind him and sighs, closing his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly, hanging his head. He’d thought it was a great idea when he pulled Sveta close to him and she went with it, that he’d finally found the solution to the Hollander-shaped problem that’s been plaguing him for weeks, but looking at her face when she pulled away makes him not so sure.

It was a little immature, yes, but it was also what Ilya felt like he needed. 

“You should be,” Sveta replies simply, coming to stand beside him. That’s one thing Ilya has always respected about Sveta: it might not always be what you want to hear, but she’ll always tell it like it is. 

“I’m being stupid,” Ilya relents, because she already knows it’s true. She just nods. 

“Did it help?” she asks, but she already knows the answer to this too.

God, Ilya would kill for a cigarette right now. 

“Not in the slightest.”

Ilya is practically vibrating with nerves by the time he gets to the airport. 

Hollander isn’t there when they gather in the hotel lobby to get in the taxi, but Wyatt tells him that he just overslept and will be down in a moment. This is the first sign that Ilya didn’t make up their entire night at the club, that something did happen—he has never known Hollander to oversleep, not even the time he insisted on staying up late at a tournament last year to help their bus driver unload all their hockey bags and didn’t go to bed until five in the morning. He was still the one to wake everyone up at six thirty. 

Ilya, meanwhile, woke up this morning (late, as usual) feeling like he got hit over the head with a rock, and not just because of the hangover. Or Sveta yelling at him. Or the pitying look on her face as she poured him into a taxi. He has a promise of more of that to look forward to when he goes to hers for Christmas, he knows, because she said last night she wants to ‘look right in his stupid face while I tell you why you’re stupid’.

He gets it, he does, and he deserves it, but also… he already knows. He’s well fucking aware.

They go through security and check in, and the whole time Wyatt is getting text updates from Hollander. In taxi now, he reports that one reads. 5 minutes away. In security. Walking to gate.

He’s unreasonably annoyed that Hollander is texting Wyatt and not him, even though he knows there’s far more potential for issues if he reads out the same texts coming from ‘Jane’. Still.

Ilya waits and waits, and then he waits some more. He has no idea what he’s waiting for—or rather, what he’ll do when the person he’s waiting for actually gets there, but he just knows he needs to see Hollander. 

If he can see him, he thinks, he’ll be able to categorize the events of last night in his head. What actually happened.

Will he have some kind of post sex glow, like the one he gets after Ilya fucks him? Will it be obvious that this guy had him in any of the ways that only Ilya has before?

And that sends him down a whole other spiral, thinking about the sated and clingy Hollander that often appears at the end of a lesson. He remembers wondering on that first night whether Hollander would’ve acted the way he was with anyone else, and he’d decided firmly that no, he wouldn’t have. 

But why wouldn’t he? It’s not like Ilya has any claim over him. Sure, he’d always be Hollander’s first (man, at least), and that makes him a lot more smug than he’d like to admit, but being his first something doesn’t make him anything now.

Hollander is free to do whatever he wants, of course. Obviously.

And maybe Hollander is just like that during sex in general. That’s okay, of course, it’s just that—well, if that’s the case, then is a club hookup the best option? There were so many ways that could go wrong. Surely Hollander had other people who he could pursue these things with…

Ilya. He has Ilya.

Had. Ilya is trying hard to remind himself of that fact even as his stomach swoops at the sight of Hollander walking towards the gate in the distance, trying to remember that last night after the balcony he’d been sure that it was time to end it.

But he never did. He never does. He’s not even sure he knows how to, anymore.

And isn’t that a fucking treat? Hollander is stuck with him, and he doesn’t even want Ilya back.

Not that they could ever actually be—

Ilya groans out loud, burying his face in his hands. He’s just going around in circles by now, coming to the same empty conclusions over and over again. 

This is stupid. This has to end. We should be finished. 

I think I’m in love with you. 

“You good, man?” Troy asks beside him, his voice tinged with genuine concern.

“Yeah, what’s your deal? You’ve been bouncing your knee so hair you might break the chair,” Wyatt adds. 

“Um.” Ilya swallows, racking his brain desperately as he sees Hollander growing closer and closer. Fuck, he looks so kissable in that stupid blue hoodie. He needs to think of an excuse quickly. His eyes stray to a figure sitting a few rows in front of them at the gate and he internally thanks God that Dallas Kent is an evil person. “Just, uh, thinking about Kent. Don’t know what it will be like when we are back.”

Troy and Wyatt both nod in understanding, turning to look at Kent along with him. Coach Wiebe called Troy this morning and told him that he wanted to talk when he was back in Montreal, but he didn’t sound pissed. He sounded almost proud, actually, that Troy had called Kent out. 

In another great turn of events, they were also informed that Kent had been moved to a seat on the plane towards the back, far away from them, and that because Kent is so rich and therefore a ‘flight risk’ he’ll be accompanied by an undercover police officer. Ilya can see the hulking man in a bomber jacket beside Kent glancing over at him with an obvious scowl on his face, and it makes him happier than he should to see it. 

Troy seems okay about everything this morning. He’s obviously tired, of course, and keeps glancing up at Kent as if he’s worried the other player will turn and pounce on him, but Kent hasn’t looked back once since they arrived and Troy seems more than happy with the distance. 

Troy and Ilya have always gotten along pretty well. After their first game together, Ilya had the displeasure of meeting Troy’s father, Curtis Barrett—booming voice and back slaps and backhanded compliments galore. Watching them interact, Ilya immediately got the feeling that Troy had a similar relationship with his father that Ilya has with his, in that both fathers have sons they don’t seem to particularly like very much despite putting so much pressure on to be great.

And Troy is great. He works hard, and he deserves to be on this team. Ilya wouldn’t be surprised at all if he goes straight to the draft after this just like Ilya and Hollander and probably Luca Haas when he graduates, too much of an obvious talent for any NHL team to pass by.

Ilya is proud of him, is the point. Despite everything going on, he actually seems to be pretty… okay. Whoever he’s been texting almost constantly all weekend seems to be helping, at least, because Ilya watches Troy take out his phone now to check messages and grin wider than he’s ever seen him. 

“Why are you so happy?” Ilya teases, narrowing his eyes. “Everything sucks. Be sad.”

“I’m not climbing in that hole with you, man,” Troy says with a shake of his head. “Stuff sucks, yeah, but not everything.”

“What doesn’t suck, then?” Ilya asks, and he goes to lean over Troy’s screen to see who he’s texting. 

It’s a stupid move, more of a joking intent that Ilya doesn’t actually intend to act on, but Troy practically flings his phone back into his lap and looks at Ilya, who is still frozen halfway between their seats, with wide eyes. 

They stay there, frozen, for several long moments.

“I, uh—” Troy stutters, looking panicked. His usually calm blue eyes are tinged with fear, and Ilya realises with a sickening twist that he’s afraid of him. Of what he might’ve seen.

“Sorry,” Ilya says as he sits back down. “I was kidding, I didn’t—”

“It’s okay, just—yeah, don’t worry about it,” Troy replies quickly. “Really. Um…”

Ilya takes the opportunity to steer the conversation back to last night and everything that happened—Troy’s version, at least—and it’s the perfect distraction, because he’s still engrossed in the story Troy is telling about Scott Hunter randomly talking about poppers for some reason when Hollander finally reaches them.

“Sorry, guys,” he says as he squeezes himself into a seat between Wyatt and a woman with about thirteen suitcases piled in front of her, rather than taking the totally empty seat beside Ilya. 

“Cap needed a little extra beauty sleep?” Wyatt teases, but his smile wanes a little when Hollander doesn’t smile back. “Sorry, uh—”

“No, I’m sorry,” Hollander replies quickly, shaking his head. He sighs. “Yeah, I, uh—” he cuts himself off, shooting Ilya a sideways glance that makes Ilya’s stomach swoop again. “Got back late last night.”

Ilya freezes.

“I know,” Wyatt says with a little smirk on his face. “You just, like, disappeared at the club. I didn’t hear you come in until after 3. Where did you even go?”

Ilya bites his lip. He watches as Hollander leans back in his seat, and despite the obvious blush on his cheeks he adopts a confident smirk that Ilya thinks for a delusional moment might be an attempt at emulating him.

“I don’t kiss and tell,” Shane reminds Wyatt, who mock gasps along with Troy.

“Look at you, Cap,” Troy says approvingly. “Hell yeah. Get some.”

Ilya would, quite honestly, rather die than think about Hollander ‘getting some’ in any capacity from anyone other than him, but it’s too late. The images are already there. 

Did his moans get high-pitched the way they do right before he comes? Did the guy find that spot underneath his jaw that makes him squirm? Did Hollander blink up at him with wet eyes as he stretched his mouth to take more of his cock?

Ilya shudders before he can stop himself. He actually feels sick to his stomach just thinking about it. 

The plane starts boarding a few minutes later, and Hollander finally spots Kent sitting ahead of them. Wyatt updates him in a hushed voice about Coach Wiebe’s phone call with Troy this morning, and Ilya watches his shoulders relax as it becomes clear that he won’t have to lobby Coach to get Kent off the team. If it hasn’t been done already, it will be soon. 

He’s still tense and distracted, though. And he’s not looking over. 

When they get in line to board, Wyatt tries to bring them all into a conversation together. “So, what do you think Coach is gonna do with Kent’s line for the UBC game on Friday?” he asks the whole group.

Troy shrugs. “No idea. Haas is great, but we need someone aggressive to take Kent’s lane.” His eyes slide over to Ilya. “Would… you want to?”

For the past few weeks since their game against Toronto, Ilya has been taking most shifts on the same line as Hollander and Zane Boodram—he’s versatile (in more ways than one) and he knows it, but there’s no denying the power of the combination of that trio.

Now, though, he’s not so keen. He needs to not have his world revolve around Hollander, even just for a second. “Fuck yes,” he replies with a grin. “Would be an honour for you to shove guys out of my way so I can score.”

Troy rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling a little too. As much as Barrett can smile, anyway. “Whatever you say, Roz.”

Wyatt is still going for this whole camaraderie thing. It seems like he’s trying to get them back to the easy back-and-forth the four of them had last night at the bar, before Ilya fucked everything up. Like always. 

“Not sure how Hollzy’s gonna feel with you gone, Roz,” Wyatt says. “You two are dynamite on the ice.”

It’s this that finally, finally gets Hollander to look at him. It’s a passing glance, but one filled with anxiety and something like anger that makes Ilya’s stomach stop swooping and start twisting itself into knots. 

It’s sort of funny, how much Ilya knows this is for the best but wants it to be different anyway. He kissed Sveta in front of Hollander for a reason, and it had the desired effect—mostly—and now he just needs to live with it. Move on. 

And yet. 

“I won’t notice the difference,” Hollander says breezily with a shrug, then turns and begins rummaging through his bag for his passport.

Oooookay then. Ilya would be lying if he said that didn’t hurt. 

Wyatt frowns. “I thought you guys were, like, good now,” he whispers, but it’s still loud enough for Hollander to hear. 

He glances over his shoulder, and the look he gives Ilya is ice cold. 

“We were never good.”

***

This flight is even worse than the last one. 

There’s a ton of turbulence that makes the stupid plane feel like it’s going to drop out of the stupid sky, Wyatt won’t stop humming to himself, and the woman in front of Shane immediately reclined her seat and now it’s crushing his knees. 

He looks across the aisle and sees Rozanov crammed into a middle seat between Troy and a large man who looks about three seconds from falling asleep onto his shoulder, his knees practically pushed to his chest by the seat in front of him. He looks uncomfortable as fuck.

Good, the sharp, vindictive voice that’s been ruling his brain for the past twelve hours hisses. He should be uncomfortable.

He’s been glaring at the back of Shane’s head since he arrived, though, and Shane’s not entirely sure what he did wrong. Sure, he was a little petty with that comment to Wyatt, but he was right. They were never friends, they were never ‘good’. Not really.

Still. He wishes Rozanov was next to him, interlocking their pinkies.

The plane dips dramatically before righting itself again, and Shane screws his eyes shut. 

He hates flying so much. He hates everything.

***

As soon as they have their bags, Hollander is making a beeline for the taxi rank. 

“Coach sent Dave with the bus,” Troy reminds him, clearly confused. “He’s gonna take us back to campus.”

“Have to go home first,” Hollander replies without turning around. “I’ll see you guys at practice later.”

The three remaining Marauders watch his retreating back in silence for several long beats. “He’s being weird, right?” Wyatt says eventually.

Ilya just watches him leave. “I don’t know,” he says after a beat too long, faking a nonchalant shrug. “I don’t know him well enough to tell.”

But he can, and he knows that it’s because of him. He almost feels bad for Wyatt and Troy, knowing Hollander’s sour behaviour is on his part and not theirs, but he can’t bring himself to explain. What would he even say? Sorry, Hollander’s just being pissy because I said last night that I’d fuck him today then immediately got with someone else. In front of him. My bad. 

So instead he just watches Hollander leave and begins to come up with a plan.

***

Practice later that afternoon is eventful, to say the least. Shane is dragged into a meeting with Coach Wiebe barely an hour after he arrives in Montreal, giving him only enough time to dump his bags at home before he’s sat in Wiebe’s office listening to him talk about procedure and protocol. 

All he’s saying, essentially, is that technically there’s not a lot the university can do until he’s officially charged with something.

Shane resists the urge to sigh. Of course.

“—but I don’t care about that.”

Shane’s head jerks up. “Sorry, uh… what?”

Coach Wiebe shrugs. “Protocol is protocol. Rules are rules. But this is my team—excuse me, our team—and I’m not letting someone rotten like Kent stay on it if his teammates are convinced that he’s rotten. So… are you?”

“Am I—do I think he did it?” Shane frowns. “Isn’t it, like, unethical to rely on hearsay like that?”

With a chuckle, Coach Wiebe folds his hands on the desk. “Maybe. But then again, maybe I’m relying on a much more unbiased and uncorrupted opinion rather than waiting for the police to make their determinations.”

Coach Wiebe is still looking at Shane expectantly. He’s the captain, and this is one of his duties: being honest. Coach Wiebe clearly trusts his opinion, so he takes a breath. 

“Yeah, I think he did it,” Shane says confidently, and then pauses. “No. I know he did. Troy told me about the messages, and anyway, I trust him—if he says Kent did it, then he did it. Simple.”

Coach Wiebe nods. “Simple.”

Unfortunately, practice isn’t so simple. 

Shane can still feel himself simmering with anger towards Rozanov when they step onto the ice. He’s aware that it’s not entirely fair, sure, but he can’t deny that he feels it anyway. He just wishes he knew what to do with this anger, because he knows it’s no good for him here. It feels like something dark and rancid coiled low in his stomach, seeping into his every thought. 

Shane’s never been an angry person. Usually he doesn’t even notice when people insult him or do something wrong, has to be reminded by his parents or teammates that he shouldn’t stand for it, but rarely does he do something about it unless it’s affecting the team. He’s dealt with enough bigoted hockey players in his life to be able to put up with some vitriol now and then, but he won’t accept that affecting the team dynamic.

That’s why he does his best to quash his anger as he leads the warmups, studiously ignoring Rozanov in case he has the urge to do something stupid like punch him—or kiss him. Maybe both?

It helps that the team is abuzz with talk about the combine and everything that went down. Hayden practically tackled him as soon as he came into the locker room with congratulations for being named MVP before launching into an interrogation about drinks with the Admirals and Kent and everything else that happened, and several more players join in the conversation wanting to say well done to Shane or gossip about Kent.

He’s grateful for the distraction, he is, but his team struggles to stop talking for long enough to actually skate at the beginning. Only Rozanov is silent, completing the drills with a mechanical efficiency and ignoring Carmichael and Marly’s attempts at conversation. Everyone else is too busy gossiping to participate. 

When they’ve finished stretches, Shane claps his hands. He’s tired of playing nice. 

“Listen up, everyone!” he calls, and the authority in his voice must take some of the team aback because they fall silent almost immediately and turn to look at him. “I know it was an eventful weekend, and with Kent and everything there’s a lot to talk about. We’re gonna find out what’s happening with him as soon as it unfolds, right, Coach?” He looks to Coach Wiebe, who nods, clearly surprised at being brought into the conversation.

“That’s right,” Coach says. “I promise all of you that I’ll keep you up to date. And with that, I think I should share that as of this afternoon Dallas Kent is no longer a McGill Marauder.”

The team erupts into murmurs, and Shane blinks in surprise. That was fast. He realises only then that Coach had been planning to kick him off the team even before their conversation, and that Shane was the final sway in his decision.

“If anyone has any concerns about that, you can come talk to myself or Hollander or Rozanov, alright?” He looks at each of them in turn, which unfortunately gives Shane the perfect excuse for his eyes to flicker over to Rozanov. His face is completely impassive, but he nods once in response to Coach Wiebe and doesn’t spare a glance in Shane’s direction. 

“Right. So, we have a game against UBC to get ready for. I don’t know about you, boys, but I don’t want to spend any more time thinking about that lame-ass loser than I have to.” This earns a few laughs from the team, clearly surprised with the obvious hatred in his voice. “We’ve got a job to do, okay? And that’s to fucking win. I for one will feel like shit if we lose against an awful team because we were too busy gossiping to do our jobs. We can win this, okay, and we have to if we want a chance at making the playoffs. So, who’s with me?”

Shane’s lame little speech is met with complete and utter silence, and for a moment Shane thinks Rozanov is going to stage a dramatic coup to oust him as captain because he’s so awful at it. But then Hayden cheers, “HELL YEAH, CAP!” and the sentiment is echoed in a ripple across the team. 

Only Rozanov is silent for a long beat, until he skates forward several paces. It’s the closest they’ve been since the rooftop patio, and the proximity makes Shane’s skin feel like it’s burning beneath his practice jersey. Their eyes meet properly for the first time since last night on the dance floor, and Shane is surprised to find little of the anger that he’d seen in his gaze when they’d drifted past each other at the airport earlier today. Instead, he’s grinning. 

“Let’s fucking fuck UBC!” he yells, and the team erupts into cheers. 

Rozanov gathers everyone on the goal line for the sprints. Today’s game is, admittedly, not as creative as he usually comes up with—it’s called ‘truth or lie’, he explains, and they soon discover it entails describing a fun fact about someone on the team, and they have to skate if they think it’s true or stay still if they think it’s a lie. 

There are some that are obvious—Carmichael’s mom waxes his ass, Dykstra has never been to his birthplace of Sweden, Pike can’t count above ten with his shoes still on—but many more are obvious proof that Rozanov knows his team extremely well. These are the sorts of tidbits that would become obvious through small talk, Shane supposes, but the possible improved relationship with his teammates is not worth putting himself through that. He’ll leave that to Rozanov.

He knows that Luca has older sisters that are triplets, and the question is whether or not one of them has a different birthday because she was born at 12:01am. It’s true. He also, apparently, knows that Bood’s family has two dogs called Jenga and Steve, and that Marly’s mom’s astrological sign is Cancer. Like, how?

Rozanov’s mood seems to have lifted somewhat since this morning, at least, but he’s still not looking at Shane. He isn’t sure if Rozanov skating over to him was an olive branch or simply him doing his job as assistant captain, but he’s okay either way—Rozanov isn’t into him like that anymore, so it’s fine. It’s all fine. 

Shane will just—find more guys to take into bathrooms at the club, or something. Whatever. He’ll figure it out. It’ll be fine.

When the sprints are done, the team skates over to the boards to help the coaches finish setting up the drills. Everyone grabs cones and begins laying them out on the lines, and Shane can’t help but notice the difference in mood today versus last week. It’s not just that the team is excited to have the guys from the combine back, it’s something else; Shane thinks it has to do with Kent. Sometimes he’d convince himself that it was just him, that he was just being dramatic, but he knows the truth now: Kent put a dampener on everyone’s fun, and Shane wasn’t the only one he was putting down constantly.

More than once he overhears Luca say to Bood that he’s relieved Kent is gone because he was constantly making fun of his hand-me-down gear. It makes Shane’s blood boil, and he resolves to give Luca the gloves his family got him this week. That’ll help lift his spirits, he decides.

Shane skates over to the goal line to move the net, and he hears someone else right behind him. He doesn’t know what it says about him that he knows it’s Rozanov based only on the sound his blades make against the ice, but he doesn’t really want to think about that. 

“Is very different with Kent gone, yes?” Rozanov says, taking the other side of the net and beginning to pull it across the ice while Shane pushes. It’s not really a two person job, but Shane… appreciates it anyway.

“Yeah,” Shane replies tersely, because he might appreciate Rozanov’s help but he still thinks he’s a dick. Mostly. 

Rozanov’s voice is low when he speaks again even though the rest of the team is on the other side of the ice still setting up cones. “Are we…” he trails off. 

Was he—was he about to ask if the two of them are okay? Shane just barely resists the urge to scoff aloud. All at once, the anger he’s been trying to repress boils up in him again. He’s exhausted and strung-out and still a little jumpy from the flight this morning, but he can’t find it in himself to tamp it down. 

“We are not anything,” he snaps, ashamed to find tears stinging the corners of his eyes. That hurt more to say than he expected it to. “Go back to Sveta.”

Rozanov’s eyes widen and then go hard. “That is what this is about?” He sounds incredulous. “Is very hypocritical, Hollander. Go back to that weirdo you ran off with.”

Shane can’t believe his ears. “Weirdo? I-I—you mean El-Elliot?” He cuts himself off to look up at the rafters and take a deep breath. Not now, stutter, he silently begs. He can feel his cheeks growing red. He just needs this one thing. “He and I didn’t—”

But Shane doesn’t get a chance to finish, because the whistle blows and Coach Wiebe begins the next drill. 

***

Elliot and Hollander didn’t… what?

Ilya so wants to punch Coach Wiebe in the face right now. He has the unbearable urge to throttle him and then grab Hollander and hold him until he finishes his stupid sentence.

Instead, he just lines up at the goal line and sprints when Coach Wiebe blows the whistle again. 

***

For the rest of practice, Shane can feel Rozanov’s eyes on him. 

More than once a few of the guys ask if the pair of them are okay—they weren’t at the combine to see how well they got on then, of course, but there’s no denying that something has shifted in their dynamic since the lessons started. Now, though, it’s not like it was before… it’s something else. Rozanov looks like he wants to say something every time Shane looks at him, and he’s going a little bit insane about it. 

When they head back to the locker room, Shane lingers on the ice. It’s not because he wants to practice by himself again—though he does think doing sprints until he can’t feel his legs anymore sounds like a great idea right now—rather, he just needs a moment to himself in the one place he can actually think.

Slowly, he begins tracing the face-off circles in the end zone that are painted in the ice. He needs to get a hold of himself. All of these snipes and comments towards Rozanov are not helping, and to make things worse, he almost exposed himself by telling him that he ran out on Elliot. The thought of telling him that, quite frankly, makes Shane want to die a little bit. 

He can imagine his expression so clearly. Smug bastard.

Clearly, Shane’s thoughts have summoned the Russian in question. When he turns towards the boards he sees Rozanov leaning against the plexiglass, watching him and still looking like he wants to say something.

Shane skids to a halt at center ice, squinting through the bright lights at Rozanov, still partially shadowed by darkness. His ears are pricked—he can hear Bood and Dykstra loudly asking everyone as they head to the locker room to come with them to the Foundry tonight, apparently to celebrate Kent being gone, but Rozanov still doesn’t say a word even when their voices fade into the distance.

“Can I help you with something?” Shane asks, shifting from foot to foot. It comes out a little more biting than he intended, but that pretty much sums up his day so far.

Rozanov looks… nervous. It’s an expression that Shane is distinctly uncomfortable with, because it’s one he’s never seen on him before. 

“Do you want to—” he starts, and then stops himself, looking down at the ground. He’s looking at the border between the thick rubber and the ice, Shane realises, and he wonders if Rozanov is planning on skating over to him. He doesn’t, though.

“I’m tired, Rozanov,” Shane tells him with a sigh. He skates a few paces closer so that now he can see the muscle in Rozanov’s jaw tick. “Just say it, whatever it is.”

Maybe Shane can take a nap when he gets back home. The sun has already long since set, and even though he hasn’t had anything to eat since the croissant he grabbed at the hotel this morning he thinks he could easily sleep until midday tomorrow.

“Can I come over?” Rozanov says, tilting his chin up to look Shane in the eye. He looks both desperate and like someone is holding him at gunpoint. Both sides are warring, and Shane’s not sure who’s winning. “I’m—I’m sorry about last night, okay? It wasn’t what you think. Sveta, she—I was being stupid. Maybe we should… talk.”

Shane considers it. Just the mention of Sveta’s name sends another wave of embarrassment crashing over him, but… he admitted to being stupid. After everything, after—Shane could stand to hear him out, right?

He never has been very good at saying no to Rozanov. Especially when the offer includes going to his room.

Not that tonight will be like that, of course. They have things to talk about. Things and stuff. But—there’s something flickering just behind the battling emotions in Rozanov’s eyes, something like want. And Shane knows he has the same look, too. It’s like a knee jerk reaction for him whenever he looks at Rozanov—the guy has spent the last several weeks practicaly Pavlov-ing him into getting hard every time they make eye contact. 

It’s only natural.

And that reminds him that, before everything that happened last night at the club, back when they were on that rooftop patio with the wind howling around them, Shane had realised he had something he wanted to tell Rozanov.

He never got the chance. It feels dumb to say now, yeah, but also… he still wants to talk to Rozanov about it. He wants to talk to Rozanov about a lot of things.

“Okay,” Shane says with a nod. “What time?”

“Ten?” Rozanov suggests. “Then you have enough time here—” he gestures to the ice, making a looping pattern with his gloved hand that makes it obvious he was watching Shane trace the face-off circles. “And you can unpack.”

Because he knows Shane didn’t have time earlier. Because he knows that, even all through practice and despite being distracted with thoughts of last night and Rozanov and hockey and all of it, Shane was thinking about it, hating the idea of his bag just lying abandoned on his kitchen floor.

“Um.” Shane has to swallow twice to get rid of the voice crack threatening to ruin his life. “Yeah. Ten.”

***

Ilya is pacing. It’s 9:46, and he’s been restless ever since he got back from the arena. He still has no idea what he’s going to say to Hollander, but he thinks some form of honesty might be a good place to start. 

Not, like… totally honest. But something close to it, maybe.

He allows himself a moment of regretting all of the tiny decisions that led him to this exact spot before he sighs and knocks twice. The door swings open instantly. 

Hollander looks nervous, stuffing his hands in his pockets quickly as the door swings open and blinking hard once as if adjusting to the harsh light of the hallway. It’s an expression Ilya is used to seeing on his face, but he’s enjoyed how it’s slowly faded away where he’s concerned the more time they spend together. It’s back now, though. 

He also looks soft, wearing that blue hoodie that Ilya loves so much with the longer part of his hair at the back still damp and brushing the hood, and a pair of sweatpants that Ilya really hopes he manages to take off of him.

(Watching Hollander walk off with that Elliot guy had been all the confirmation he needed of that, if he’d needed any more evidence. He can’t believe he spent part of last night genuinely convinced that they were done. That he could ever be done.)

Neither of them speak as Ilya steps inside, toeing his shoes off and throwing his jacket on the counter before he turns to Hollander. He still doesn’t make eye contact, glancing up surreptitiously before staring down at the floor with flaming cheeks as he heads for the couch.

Ilya watches him move with an arched eyebrow that he hopes looks casual, trying to ignore his heart hammering in his chest. “This looks serious,” he deadpans, because duh. 

“It’s not,” Hollander says quickly, then shakes his head. “I mean. Uh—can you just…sit?”

Ilya hesitates. Unless he sits on the stool of the kitchenette on the opposite side of the room to Hollander, the only other option is the couch. The couch only reminds him of Hollander now, is the problem—he’s pretty sure he’ll get turned on sitting down just by association.

Still, he decides it’s weirder to take the stool. He perches on the edge of the couch, as far away from Hollander as possible, and looks at him expectantly. “Well?”

Hollander takes a slow, shaky breath. When he finally meets Ilya’s gaze, his eyes are unreadable. He looks down again, clearly needing something to do with his hands, and begins fiddling with the strings of his hoodie while Ilya tries not to look too panicked as he waits. 

“What is it?” he finally manages.

“Last night…” He shakes his head, his voice small. “I don’t know, I felt like—like you were trying to make me jealous or something. With Sveta.”

It’s actually impressive how fast Ilya’s heart leaps into his throat. “Sveta and I kiss at the club often. Is normal for us.”

“Okay, but—you saw me, right? You saw me watching you?”

Ilya saw him, alright. He saw what happened next, too. Maybe it’s that fact that makes him mean. “Was hard not to see you, Hollander. You were pretty obvious.”

Hollander winces, and Ilya fights the urge to take it back. It’s clear that he’s been worried someone saw, even though Ilya is certain that they were all too drunk to notice even if they had been looking in their direction—still, he says nothing about it.

“I saw you watching me watch you. It felt, like—I don’t know, pointed?” Hollander flushes.

Fuck it. “Sveta said the same thing,” he admits, and Hollander’s eyes widen.

“Does she know?”

Ilya seriously considers lying, but he’s never been very good at that where it counts (where Hollander is concerned). “She… suspects,” he says. Hollander looks about five seconds from leaping off the couch and sprinting through the door. “She would never tell anyone, okay? Never. She doesn’t go to McGill anyway.”

“It’s not—it’s not about that,” Hollander stammers. “It’s—you two aren’t—”

“No,” Ilya says bluntly. “We’re not.”

“Why?” he asks suddenly, blinking up at Ilya. “I mean, you two are, like, close. You’re very—uh, compatible.”

Ilya scrunches his nose. “Compatible?” The word feels clunky and foreign on his tongue. 

“Yeah, like… you go well together. You’re well-matched.”

Ilya hums. “I guess,” he says, and Hollander scowls before trying to smooth it out. Ilya’s heart does a little thing that he doesn’t want to think about. Instead, he just shrugs. “But no. We are friends. Is nothing more than that for either of us.”

A look crosses Hollander’s face, but it disappears before Ilya can name it. “So last night, you and her, was—”

“Stupid. I was being stupid,” Ilya replies, waving a hand, but he doesn’t want to elaborate. He doesn’t know how to explain why he was being stupid—that he saw that guy talking to Hollander and was convinced of the worst, that everything would end. But now he thinks that maybe, maybe, things could be okay. It’s because of this that he adds, “we stopped right after you left.”

Hollander’s lip twitches at the corner, and Ilya wonders for a moment if he’s pleased at that. The expression fades when Ilya speaks again. “So, you and… Elijah?”

Hollander raises a brow even as he flushes. “You mean Elliot?” He shifts on the couch, folding his arms, but still doesn’t back down. “What about him?”

“Exactly, what about him?” Ilya echoes, folding his arms too. “What happened there?”

He has to admit that a not insignificant part of him feels some type of way about Elliot because he’s a man. Thinking of Hollander making out with Rose at the Foundry makes him simmer, sure, but this guy makes his blood boil. Maybe it’s because he knows, even if Hollander has never said it, that it’s different for him with men. 

More importantly, Ilya is the only man who’s had the pleasure of having him like that. Was the only man. Is? Was? Ilya really needs Hollander to answer the fucking question.

“We…” Hollander shifts again. He’s clearly uncomfortable, but Ilya isn’t budging. He needs to know. He’s not sure he wants to know, but he needs to. “We found a bathroom.”

“Ah. Fun. Exciting.”

Hollander cuts him a look, but Ilya isn’t done being petty yet, apparently. “Fuck off,” he says, but it doesn’t have much heat behind it. “It was—he was nice.”

And this just pisses Ilya off. “Oh, wonderful,” he says dryly. “Did he say thank you after sucking your cock?”

Hollander growls. Raking a hand through his hair, he huffs in frustration. “We didn’t—I—we—-”

“You didn’t what?” Ilya presses, impatient. 

“No dicks were sucked, okay?” Hollander exclaims, throwing his hands in the air. “Are you happy?”

Yes. No. Probably.

“Did you… want to?” When Hollander just stares at him, mouth agape—probably at the disgust tinging the edges of his voice that he hadn’t intended—Ilya pushes on. “Am just saying, given your… tastes. Can be dangerous, doing these things with strangers.”

Hollander’s head snaps over to look at him, cheeks flaming. He points a shaky finger right at Ilya, and this somehow hits Ilya like a horse kick to the chest. 

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

Ilya shrugs again. “Is what I said. You like being told what to do, teased, things like this. How do you know this Ethan—”

“Elliot.”

Ilya knows it was a cheap shot, but whatever. “How do you know Elliot knows how to take care of you properly?”

“Oh, because you did? Properly?” Hollander spits, and his pointed finger drifts unbidden to his hip.

Ilya flinches back. The reminder of the bruises he left there, the awful job he did at aftercare that day Hollander ran out of his apartment, feel like a slap to the face. He’s well aware of how badly he messed up back then, has thought about it every day since, but it’s another thing to hear the man in question reminding him of it—just another reminder that he remembers, too.

Hollander seems to realise this, because he deflates a bit. “I didn’t—sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”

“No, is fair,” Ilya says quietly, staring down at his hands. “I fucked up. But this is my point.”

Hollander is back to scowling again. This feels like more familiar territory for them than apologies, at least. “I don’t need to be, like, choked just to have a good time, you know.”

“I know that,” Ilya replies defensively. He’s pretty confident that he understands more about Hollander’s proclivities than Hollander does, but it doesn’t feel like a good time to bring that up. “Am just saying, it can be harder with strangers.”

“What fucking choice do I have?” Hollander’s voice is rising again, and when Ilya looks up at him he finds his eyes are glassy.

“What does that mean?” He feels like a petulant child. “You had a choice to go with Evan.”

“That’s all I’ll ever get, do you get that?” Hollander looks like he wants to tear out his hair as he stands up, turning to look at Ilya with so much anger in his eyes that Ilya almost can’t stand to look at him. “You can—you can make out with your friends on the dance floor, fuck them, no one bats a fucking eye. All I’ll ever have is a fucking secret, because I’m—”

He doesn’t continue. “What?” Ilya presses.

Hollander exhales shakily, his hands twitching at his sides like he wants to rake his fingers through his hair again. “I think I’m gay.”

Ilya stares at him. Is he serious? He can’t help but scoff, and he quickly tries to smother it even though he sees Hollander’s scowl. “Oh, really?” he drawls, laughter obvious in his voice. “What makes you think that?”

“Fuck you, you’re not gay.”

“No,” Ilya admits. “Not completely.”

“Well I am. Completely.” The tears in Hollander’s eyes are threatening to spill, and Ilya doesn’t know what he’ll do if that happens. Kiss them away, probably, and then he’d really be fucked.

“Okay, so you’re gay? So what?”

“Well, it’s kind of a big deal! To me, at least.”

Ilya can’t help the tiny groan that slips out as he slumps back into his couch. Why are they spending time talking about Hollander realising something Ilya has been pretty aware of this whole time when they could be—Ilya doesn’t know. Fucking, probably. That would be much more fun. 

“Oh, sorry,” Hollander spits, clearly taking in Ilya’s exasperated form. “Sorry if I’m being boring again.”

Ilya takes a long breath, collecting himself. He sits back up again, looking over at Hollander. He looks so dejected.

It’s—okay. Ilya knows realising your sexuality is a big deal for some people. It makes sense that it would be for Hollander, of course. It’s just that he’s known he was bisexual pretty much since he hit puberty and noticed he was looking at women and men in equal measure, and besides the obvious worry about keeping it a secret in Russia, he didn’t care. He knew that the views of his family and many others in his home country were bigoted, and that they weren’t shared nearly as universally in other countries. Canada, for example. So he figured if he got there (here) one day, he would be free. 

And he is. He can play as much hockey as he wants, doesn’t really feel the pressure mounting the way he knows it does for Hollander besides from his father, and—even better—he gets to fuck who he wants. Like Hollander. 

But Hollander never had that aha! moment when he was younger. In fact, if Ilya is tooting his own horn, it could be argued that he was that moment for Hollander. So it makes sense that this realisation is a big deal for him, he supposes. And he gets what Hollander is saying. Ilya could marry a woman and it wouldn’t be a lie, but for him…

There’s still something he doesn’t get, though.

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Who else am I gonna tell?”

Ilya’s heart hurts. He really wishes Hollander had a Sveta in his life. Not, like, actual Sveta, she’s Ilya’s, but someone. He hates that Hollander has clearly been struggling so much with this epiphany. Maybe this is what he wanted to tell Ilya last night, before Ilya wrecked everything.

“If the league found out, if—if the NHL found out, if the team found out… it’s all over for me. Everything.”

“Not everything,” Ilya replies. He’s being insolent, but it’s true. Hollander has parents that would probably mount a rainbow flag outside their house within minutes of him coming out, and he knows the hockey world can be bigoted but it’s… it could happen, right? Things changing?

“Yes,” Hollander says fiercely. “My life would change. It would be ruined. And I’m—I can’t handle that. I just don’t know what to do with all of it.”

“Don’t know what to do with all of what?”

Hollander gestures vaguely to the two of them. “It’s not just—being gay,” Hollander continues. He whispers the word gay like it’s an atomic bomb. “It’s… it’s the whole fucking your teammate thing. How do you think the team would feel knowing I’ve been looking at you in the locker room, knowing they were all there too? It’s this. All of it. I don’t know where I go from here.”

Ilya considers his words. He thinks he understands. “I know,” he murmurs with a sigh, shuffling half an inch closer. He doesn’t dare move any further, knowing he wouldn’t be able to resist the urge to gather Hollander in his arms. He feels like they’re beginning to tread on very dangerous territory here, and he needs to steer them back to solid ground. “Is scary for you. Sorry I ignored that.”

“No, you just—” Hollander sucks in a breath. “You scare me.”

Ilya furrows his brow. “I scare you?”

“This,” Hollander says, gesturing again to the slightly smaller gap between them. “It’s… big.”

God, the urge to make a joke about what else is big is so strong, but Ilya manages to resist because he needs Hollander to not say things like that anymore. Instead, he ignores the way his heart flips and shrugs. “Does not have to be. It can be simple.” Hollander begins to sigh, clearly exasperated with Ilya repeating himself, but Ilya shakes his head. “No, I’m serious. I know the team—everything with this and hockey, is a lot. But we have done good job of keeping it secret, so there is no reason why we can’t keep doing this, yes?”

“I mean… yeah, but—”

“No buts,” Ilya says firmly. “You are overthinking again.”

“Am not.”

“Are too. I can see your brain working from here.”

Hollander scowls, but this time there’s the twitch of a smile at his lips. Ilya seizes on the expression with all the desperation of a starving man seeing a five course feast set in front of him. 

“You always think too much,” Ilya explains casually, trying to adopt the air of someone who doesn’t care what happens next.

“Almost always.”

Yes. Ilya doesn’t look over. He might hate himself for it, but he’d been right when he was considering the couch versus the stool—just the simple fact of his proximity to Hollander is enough to make his skin itch. All he needs to do is not be so obvious about it.

“Want to… stop thinking for a while?”

Well, that was about as subtle as a car crash, but he sees heat flickering behind Hollander’s eyes so he’ll count it as a win.

“What did you have in mind?” Hollander sounds tired, worn out by the conversation, but now his voice is tinged with something else. Anticipation, maybe.

He really has been thinking too much. Ilya likes to think he knows Hollander pretty well by now, and he’d been able to recognize the stress on his shoulders at the combine this weekend—he can also see it all bearing down on him throughout this conversation, straining under the weight of his new secret on top of the one he and Ilya already share. All Ilya wants, all he’s ever wanted where Hollander’s concerned, really, is to take some of that weight off.

For Ilya, sex and attraction has always been easy. Fun. Simple. For Hollander, it’s been the exact opposite. And tonight, Ilya just wants to remind Hollander that it can be different for him, too.

“How about a lesson?” He waits, heart in his throat, as Hollander’s cheeks flush and he considers the offer. He would understand if Hollander didn’t want him anymore, or at least not tonight after he was so stupid at the club, but he did apologize—

“Yes.”

Ilya’s eyes snap up to meet Hollander’s, and he finds want etched all over his face. Fuck, he’s perfect, Ilya thinks angrily. It’s so annoying. He can’t help but push it a little bit further. “Say please.”

Hollander glares, and then bites his lip. “Please,” he whispers. 

“Ah, ah,” Ilya tuts, tucking his legs beneath him so he can rise to his knees and shuffle over another step, closing the gap. He leans down until their faces are mere inches apart, enjoying watching Hollander’s pupils dilate to adjust to the proximity. “If you knew what I have planned, how you will feel in the next thirty seconds, you would ask nicer than that. Say pretty please.”

Hollander looks like he wants to die a little bit, but Ilya doesn’t have to look down to know that Hollander’s cock is currently betraying how he really feels. “Pretty please, Rozanov,” he murmurs, and well. How is Ilya supposed to say no to that?

The crash of their lips together feels like coming up for fresh air. They kissed only yesterday, but after weeks of very regular orgasms followed by a six-day dry spell, that wasn’t nearly enough to satiate the bottomless pit that is Ilya’s appetite. 

He thinks Hollander feels the same way, too, because he clutches at Ilya like he’s afraid he’s going to disappear if he lets go for even a second. When Hollander’s tongue slides into his mouth Ilya groans, pushing him back into the couch and revelling in the way Hollander’s grip tightens on his biceps. 

“What’s—unh—what’s the lesson?” Hollander asks breathlessly while Ilya ducks down to kiss his neck. It’s such a shame that he can’t leave marks. If he could, he’d give Hollander a necklace of bruises so everyone knew he was his. 

But he’s not, obviously, so he swallows it down and focuses on his task.

“First,” Ilya murmurs into his throat, and then braces himself. This is the part that he won’t enjoy as much, but it’ll be worth it in the end. 

The look on Hollander’s face when Ilya pulls away and sits up is priceless—glazed eyes sharpening in confusion, mouth parting into a perfect ‘o’ that makes Ilya want to give up on his plan and kiss him stupid all over again. 

“First,” Ilya repeats, “we go to your room.”

Hollander is clearly impatient, but he stands and follows Ilya—perhaps a little closer than necessary—all the way into his room. Ilya surveys the space once they’re in there. Perfect. 

“Take off your clothes.”

Hollander flushes, but after only a moment’s hesitation his fingers are drifting to the hem of his hoodie and pulling it off in one smooth motion. The sweatpants come off next, leaving him in just his boxers and socks. He shifts from foot to foot, tugging on the hem of his boxers which stretch obscenely over his muscled thighs and already hard cock, and Ilya allows himself a second to look before he remembers that that’s the whole point of this part of his plan.

When Hollander is done, he gestures to Ilya. “Are—aren’t you gonna—”

“No. Not yet. Now get on the bed.”

Hollander shudders, biting his lip as he complies. Ilya thoroughly enjoys the view of his ass flexing as he crawls onto the bed and then lies back against the pillows, looking back at Ilya expectantly. 

He frowns when he sees Ilya dragging his desk chair over to the foot of the bed and sitting down. “What are you…?”

“Do you trust me?”

It’s a question Ilya has asked of Hollander before, weeks ago now, but just like last time he still has no reason to expect him to say yes. It’s not like the past twenty-four hours have done much to prove what a good person Ilya is, after all. 

To his surprise, though, this time Hollander doesn’t hesitate. “I do,” he says with a nod. He bites his lip again. God, does he have any idea what he does to Ilya when he does that? “Just—will I… will I get to come?”

Ilya barely holds in his smirk. “Do you remember what we talked about before you went to Ottawa?”

He can see the wheels turning in Hollander’s head, and he sees the exact moment Hollander remembers their conversation. 

“You mean…” he says faintly. “How many times can I…?”

“Come? Yes.” Ilya settles back against the back of the chair. He really wishes he had some vodka right now, something to hold to stop him from gripping the armrests, but there’s no stopping this train once it starts. He doesn’t want it to stop. “This is okay?”

Hollander sucks in a breath, nodding. “Yeah."

Ilya can't help it. He needs some extra confirmation today, after the whiplash of their conversation to this. He knows what they're doing, knows they're trying to finish the conversation they couldn't have with something more familiar to them than words, but he needs to know that Hollander wants it too. "You are sure?

"Yes, yeah, more than okay.”

“Good. Touch yourself.”

“What?”

“Show off for me. I want to watch you make yourself come first.”

“But—I’ve never—”

“What? Made yourself come?” Ilya teases.

Hollander glowers. “No, I mean…” he gestures to Ilya’s position in the chair. 

“Obviously. Come on, Hollander. Is my reward for not showing you up at the combine.”

“Shouldn’t I get a reward for getting MVP?”

“The rest of it is your reward.”

“Oh, and it’s such a chore for you,” Hollander drawls, rolling his eyes as he uncrosses his legs, and Ilya loves seeing him in this rare moment of confidence. Hollander deserves to know exactly what he does to practically every person he comes across, and yet somehow he seems completely unaware of it. 

“I’m waiting,” Ilya says expectantly after a beat where neither of them move, and Hollander huffs out a sigh.

He’s bright red and fiddling with his fingers, but also… he’s not saying no. 

Score.

After another moment’s hesitation, Hollander shuffles down the bed a little and puts a tentative hand on his chest, trailing it over his pec and then rolls his head to one side to stroke over his neck. He lets out a soft sigh when he brushes his own thumb across his lower lip, his eyes flying open to blink at Ilya once before he quickly returns to his task.

Ilya can already see Hollander’s cock straining against his boxers, and he lets out a sound that is only barely masked by Hollander’s moan when his hand finally trails down to grip himself over the fabric. He gives himself one leisurely stroke, and then his eyes flicker up to Ilya’s again.

There’s a quirk to the corner of his lip that Ilya doesn’t like. 

“Do you want to know how it feels?” he asks.

“How what feels?”

“Being the star player and MVP,” Hollander replies with a grin, and Ilya’s eyes widen. 

“I think you are asshole here, Hollander,” Ilya tells him before shaking his head and looking down at his lap to hide his own grin. He feels much happier than he should about the fact that Hollander can finally easily admit that he’s the best player on the team—maybe ever. Ilya thinks ever. 

Unfortunately, he’s so distracted by his pride that he misses the shuffling coming from across the room until a pair of boxers smack him in the chest. 

He looks up, incredulous, but is left speechless by what he sees: Hollander, smirking as he grips the base of his cock and twists his wrist. The movement produces another bead of precome from his already leaking tip, and Ilya watches in stunned silence as Hollander swipes his thumb over the head to spread the moisture around and moans. 

Slowly, Ilya pinches the discarded boxers between his thumb and index finger and lifts them from his chest. He doesn’t put them down, though, because he’s depraved. Instead, he brings them up to his face and inhales sharply. Within half a second his brain is flooded with the sharp scent of Hollander in his most intimate spot, and he shortcircuits all over again when he finally notices the wet spot at the crotch that meant Hollander was steadily leaking for a while before Ilya ever got his clothes off. 

“Fuck,” he mutters. He can’t help it. 

Hollander looks triumphant as he continues stroking himself, but his face quickly contorts into one of desperation. “Rozanov…” he doesn’t continue. Ilya isn’t sure he can, given how his breath begins to stutter as he picks up the pace. 

“We have all night,” Ilya promises. “Show me how you make yourself come, Hollander.”

With a hiss, Hollander dutifully strokes faster, his other hand trailing down to cup his balls. “Fuck, ah, fuck,” he murmurs as he gently rolls the sac between his fingers. 

Noted.

“This is how you do it usually?” Ilya asks, now genuinely curious. He imagines it: Hollander, spread out in his sheets in the darkness, his hand slipping beneath his waistband to pump himself. 

“Yeah,” Hollander replies, breathless. “Sometimes I—ah, sometimes I…”

“You what?” Ilya presses.

“I finger myself too,” Hollander admits, and Ilya has to take a deep breath to control himself. 

“Is still time for that,” Ilya says, trying to act nonchalant, but he smirks when he sees the flush on Hollander’s cheeks beginning to creep down his neck the way it does when he’s close. “Or maybe not.”

“Fuck you, it’s been a while, okay?” Hollander groans, his head tipping back and eyes slipping shut as he presses down on the spot just under the head that Ilya discovered is ultra sensitive. 

“Look at me,” Ilya demands, and he has to fight not to crawl onto the bed when Hollander immediately opens his eyes and lifts his head to meet his gaze. “You are so good.”

“Fuck off.” Hollander is glowering even as his breathing quickens, which Ilya finds way hotter than he should.

“You are,” Ilya insists. “So good. You take orders so well. Would do anything I told you to, like a good boy.”

It says a lot that it’s at this exact moment that Hollander shudders and groans, spilling all over his hand even as he bites out another garbled fuck you that mostly just sounds like fuuuuuuuck—

He’s still panting when he looks at Ilya through heavy-lidded eyes, his gaze raking over the obvious tent in Ilya’s sweatpants and up to meet his gaze.

“I need…”

Ilya swallows hard. “What?”

“You know.” Hollander’s voice is so quiet Ilya can barely hear him, but it still feels like he’s got a megaphone pressed to his ear.

“Tell me,” Ilya demands. 

“You.” Ilya watches Hollander’s throat bob as he swallows. “I need you.”

Ilya can’t stop himself now, but it’s fine because the hard part is over. He stands, moving to the edge of the bed in a moment, and while Hollander sits up like he wants to put his hands on him, Ilya doesn’t waste any time climbing onto the mattress and pinning him beneath his bent body. This isn’t about him right now.

“That’s one,” he whispers into Hollander’s mouth, nipping at his bottom lip. He looks down and finds Hollander’s cock covered in come but still hard, and he bats away Hollander’s motionless hand and resumes stroking.

Hollander shudders and arches into the touch, gasping. “Fuuuuuuck,” he groans, and he reaches down for Ilya too.

Ilya pulls back, letting go of his cock and straightening. He waits. Hollander blinks, brow furrowing in confusion as he clearly wonders why Ilya is now so far from him, and when he realises he looks very annoyed. And then he lowers his hands, putting them palm down on the sheets. 

“You give me one more, and then I take my shirt off,” Ilya promises, and Hollander pouts until Ilya crawls back over him and resumes stroking once more. 

“This is the—fuck—worst game of strip poker ever,” Hollander pants with a whine when Ilya presses his thumbnail into his slit. 

Ilya kisses him again. “You can be patient, yes, Hollander?” He leans down to suck Hollander’s tongue into his mouth in another filthy kiss before pulling away. Hollander is shaking his head. 

“I want to see you,” he complains.

“And you will,” Ilya promises. “One more.”

Hollander is beginning to drift a little, floating away into the hazy land of arousal. It’s always the most obvious in his eyes, the way they go soft and a little distant even as he peers up at Ilya above him. His brow furrows. “Then I’m done?”

Ilya chuckles darkly. “Not even close.”

Hollander whines again, and Ilya picks up the pace. Not for the first time, Ilya thinks about ducking to take him into his mouth but doesn’t want to deny himself the opportunity to see his face while Ilya makes him feel like this. 

Less than five minutes after coming the first time Hollander is coming once more, this time crying out and digging his blunt nails into Ilya’s biceps as he spills all over Ilya’s fist. 

Ilya doesn’t let go.

“Fuck—Rozy—” Hollander gasps when Ilya barely even gives him time to breathe, not letting go so he doesn’t have the chance to go soft. 

Ilya lowers his head to kiss a trail down his chest. “Ohhhh God,” Hollander says when he realises where Ilya is going.

“Still okay?” Ilya whispers into his mouth, because he’s dominant but not evil, needs to know that Hollander is actually enjoying this as much as he’d thought he would. 

He was thinking about it nearly constantly while Hollander was in Ottawa, wondering what sort of sounds he would make and all the different ways he could make him come. When he’d first come up with it, it had mostly been a curious fascination—Hollander has a short refractory period even for a man, and seems to want Ilya specifically almost as much as Ilya wants him. He wanted to see Hollander come apart again, too, especially now that he knows how to put him back together properly.

But now, since this weekend—it’s different. He wants to be the one to see Hollander like this, to show him that he knows his body well enough to do this and guide him safely through it all. He knows what makes him whine, what makes him shudder, what makes him arch into Ilya’s touch—and he’s going to prove that tonight. 

Hollander nods emphatically, and so Ilya keeps going with his trail of kisses until finally he reaches where Hollander needs him. He swirls his head around the tip, savouring the salty mixture of precome and two rounds of come, and then sinks down.

He may not get as physically into it as Hollander does—he’s not one hundred percent sure he could come just from thrusting against the bed while doing this, which Hollander has done, ahem, multiple times, though Hollander gets him pretty close—but he still loves sucking cock. He especially loves listening to someone as vocal as Hollander, learning quickly about all the spots that make him writhe and squirm and quiver under his mouth.

He enjoys the silky texture of the skin beneath his tongue and the groan Hollander lets out, letting his hands wander up to Hollander’s chest before hollowing his cheeks. This earns him a gasped fuck, Rozanov— as he increases the pressure with his mouth and bends to take even more.

The first jerk of Hollander’s hips into his waiting mouth isn’t a surprise, and he’s ready for it. He just blinks lazily up at Hollander, watching his eyes widen as he realises what Ilya wants, and then relaxes his throat to accept Hollander’s tentative thrust.

He has to keep looking up, though, ready to see Hollander shudder and sink his teeth into his bottom lip before gasping and thrusting again. It’s a dizzying sight, and one that makes Ilya want to roll his hips against the mattress, but he forces himself to stay still and let Hollander take what he wants. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck—” Hollander gasps, arching off the bed when Ilya takes enough of him that his nose is pressing against the soft hairs at the base of his cock. He relaxes his throat, swallows around him just to hear Hollander whine, and then hitches one thigh over his shoulder so he can get a new angle.

Hollander’s thrusts into Ilya’s waiting mouth are polite at first, but they quickly become desperate as he chases his high. He’s still making noise, mostly just a variety of ah and fuck and please that makes Ilya feel drunk with power, but eventually he’s reduced to shudders and gasps.

“I’m—fuck, ‘mclose,” Hollander slurs in warning, tangling his fingers in Ilya’s curls, and Ilya just swallows around him pointedly and uses the opportunity presented by his raised leg to trail his fingers across the sensitive skin of his balls and down to his hole. Hollander whines, bearing down against the pressure and up into the heat of Ilya’s mouth like he doesn’t know which one he wants more. 

Lucky for him, he can have both.

Hollander comes only moments later when Ilya’s finger presses in the slightest bit, his grip on Ilya’s hair tightening as his hips stutter and then still as he empties himself into Ilya’s mouth. Ilya swallows greedily, savouring the taste of him, and he keeps sucking gently until Hollander hisses at the tongue on his oversensitive skin and he finally pulls off. 

He doesn’t swallow all of Hollander’s spend, though. Instead, he holds some in his mouth and rises until his face is level with Hollander’s, allowing himself a moment to revel in the glazed eyes and flushed cheeks until finally his lips part and he shows Hollander the white substance coating his tongue.

“Oh,” Hollander breathes, his flush darkening even more, and even as he squirms he opens his mouth and slowly, almost shyly sticks out his tongue.

God, Ilya might actually die from arousal before he even gets his cock inside of him.

Ilya kisses him, pressing their lips together and forcing himself to stay still as Hollander licks inside his mouth with abandon. They both moan as Hollander tastes himself, their tongues battling for a long moment before Ilya pulls away and now it’s Hollander’s turn to show him how he holds the come in his mouth. 

Ilya smiles. “Stay like that,” he says, and when Hollander realises what he wants to do he moans again and nods frantically, sticking his tongue out further. 

Fuck. He’s so perfect it hurts. 

Ilya spits in his mouth, and Hollander quakes. 

His entire body trembles as soon as Ilya’s saliva hits his tongue, and his flush impossibly deepens but still he doesn’t swallow. He just holds out his tongue, showing Ilya the mixture of come and spit proudly, and waits for further direction.

“Swallow,” Ilya instructs, and Hollander does. He can’t help but breathe out a little fuck at the sight, at the way Hollander smiles when he’s done, and he closes the gap until their foreheads are pressed together. “So perfect. Such a perfect slut for me.”

Hollander moans again despite squirming with embarrassment, and uses the hand still tangled in Ilya’s hair to pull him down for another kiss. “Please, Rozy, I want—” Hollander mumbles into his mouth.

“Shh,” Ilya soothes, petting his side with one hand before trailing it back down to his hole. “You will get what you need, okay?”

“Okay,” Hollander murmurs, and then Ilya lowers his head once more. 

It’s a travesty, being parted from Hollander’s mouth, but it’s a necessary evil. 

He doesn’t return to Hollander’s cock which is somehow still mostly hard, instead ducking his head even further to mouth at the delicate skin of his balls. Hollander makes a guttural whining sound, stretching his legs further to accommodate Ilya, and he nods frantically when Ilya’s finger presses back inside him gently. 

He pulls away only long enough to grab the lube from Hollander’s bedside table, slicking up one finger and getting to work while he suckles on his sack. Who said he can’t multitask?

Neglecting Hollander’s cock isn’t a problem, since Ilya discovers two things at once—Hollander really likes having his balls played with, and it unlocks a whole new cascade of sounds from his mouth. One of these days, Ilya is going to make him come just from this, over and over again. He wants to see how many times he can do it. 

But today’s lesson is just seeing how many times Hollander can come in general, so for now he contents himself with bookmarking the thought for later and focusing on opening Hollander up on his fingers. 

“Rozanov, please,” Hollander whines a minute later when Ilya has worked him up to two fingers.

Ilya knows what he’s asking, of course. He wants him to stroke his prostate, to angle his fingers just a little deeper to find the spot where Hollander needs him, but no—he’s saving that. This is a focussed mission, one dedicated only to stretching him out while he works.

He pulls off Hollander’s balls with a gentle pop and smirks. “Yes?” he asks mildly, arching a brow as he brushes the very tips of his fingers against his prostate and then withdraws. 

Hollander writhes, shifting down to fuck himself on Ilya’s fingers, and Ilya pins him to the bed with an arm bracketed across his hips. 

“Fuck—please, just—”

“Who makes the rules?”

It’s a funny question, because he’s not sure Hollander truly understands just how much he’s the one in control of all of this, but it’s true that Ilya is leading—albeit based on what he knows Hollander needs. 

“Y-you do,” Hollander gasps, and Ilya nods, satisfied.

“New rule: if you move before I say, lesson is over. Okay?”

Hollander’s teeth sink into his lip hard enough that for a moment Ilya is sure he’ll draw blood, then nods shakily. “Okay,” he whispers. 

“Good,” Ilya says with a nod, and Hollander flushes. “You’re being so good for me.”

Hollander whines again, but he doesn’t move when Ilya takes his balls back into his mouth and continues scissoring him open.

It doesn’t take long after that. Ilya feels the sack tightening beneath his lips but even then he’s surprised when Hollander wails brokenly and shoots white ropes across his stomach completely untouched, an amount that’s impressive given he’s already come twice.

Ilya wonders wildly if Hollander jacked off at all for the last week, barring the time he called Ilya in Ottawa. It doesn’t seem like it, and that—the thought that Hollander didn’t get off once in the entire time they were apart, either because he didn’t want to or couldn’t—makes Ilya feel abuzz with possessive satisfaction that he doesn’t want to think too much about. 

When Hollander finishes coming, he collapses against the mattress, spent and gasping. He whines at the loss when Ilya pulls his fingers away, but he can’t help himself—in an instant, he’s rolling a condom onto his aching cock, slicking himself up, and positioning himself at his entrance.

“That’s four,” he tells Hollander. “Think you can give me one more?”

It takes a second for Hollander to form words, but then he’s nodding and shifting his hips against Ilya’s cock. “I—I don’t know,” Hollander admits. “Want—I want your cock anyway.” His words are so slurred that Ilya needs a second to understand them, but when he does he growls.

Before he can slide home, though, Hollander puts out a hand and says, “wait—”

Ilya stills, waiting with his brows furrowed, and he watches as Hollander looks down at his hard cock and bites his lip. And then he realises. “You want…?”

“Want to feel it,” Hollander says, nodding. His eyes are glazed with arousal even as the flush on his cheeks deepens with embarrassment, and Ilya can’t have that. 

Even if the feeling of Hollander’s ass with nothing around his cock might kill him, he removes the condom and drizzles more lube over his cock. He grits his teeth as he spreads it around, the thought of what he’s about to feel already bringing him closer to the edge than he’d like. He grips the base of his cock tightly in a silent reminder to himself that it’s not about him, and then pauses one more time.

“Are you sure?”

“Want to feel—” Hollander repeats, shaking his head as if to clear a daze. “Want to feel you.”

And so Ilya slides home. 

With Hollander loose-limbed and sated like this, he’s able to get almost halfway in before he meets any resistance, and it seems to take Hollander a second to process what’s happened. His eyes are so wide that for a moment Ilya thinks he’s done something wrong, that Hollander will push him away and tell him that he’s ruined everything all over again, but then Hollander’s hands are scrabbling for purchase on his shoulders and his ankles are interlocking at the small of his back. 

It’s so much more like this, and judging from Hollander’s perfect ‘o’ shaped mouth and the way his back arches, he feels the same way. It feels impossibly tighter, impossibly hotter, and Ilya doesn’t know how he’s ever supposed to think of anything else except the feeling of Hollander without a barrier between them. 

“Fuuuuuuck,” Hollander whines. “Fuck, itssomuch—”

“Yes,” Ilya grits out, because he’s pretty sure if he says anything else it’ll be ‘I’m coming’. He has a job to do first. 

The first stroke against Hollander’s prostate has him crying out loud enough that Ilya has to clap a hand over his mouth to keep him quiet, speeding up his thrusts as Hollander rakes blunt nails down his shoulder blades and pulls him impossibly closer. 

Ilya forces himself to still just to see what Hollander will do, and is rewarded by him fucking himself down on Ilya’s cock with a noise of impatience. He’s flushed all the way down to his chest, sweat beading at his forehead and sticking to the long dark hairs flopping in front of his eyes, and Ilya brushes them away in an act of tenderness completely incongruous with the way Hollander is is moving his hips beneath him. 

“Look so pretty like this,” Ilya says breathlessly, the compliment torn out of him by the simple act of looking down. “So fucked out and still wanting my cock.”

“Yeah—mmph—fuck, want it,” Hollander pants. He digs his nails into Ilya’s shoulders hard enough to make him hiss and juts his chin out. “Please, please, Rozy—”

And how can Ilya resist that? He shifts, lifting Hollander’s legs and bending him in half so he can bury his face in Hollander’s neck as he snaps his hips. He doesn’t want Hollander to see him like this, to see the want and desperation he knows is etched into every line of his face.

It’s been like this since the lessons started: Ilya, knowing without a doubt that he shouldn’t want Hollander like this. He shouldn’t need it. 

And yet.

He wants nothing more than to stay like this for minutes, hours, days—buried in the impossibly tight heat of Hollander’s body, riding a wave that never slows down even as it crests and crashes over him. He’s pretty insatiable at the best of times, has always had a decently high libido, but Hollander makes him want this all the time. 

“Want to keep you on my cock always,” Ilya growls into his throat, because he’s pretty sure Hollander’s body is his own personal Lasso of Truth just like Wonder Woman’s, tugging honesty out of him with every zing of pleasure that courses through his body. “Warming me up, fucking your pretty hole whenever I want.”

It’s a relief when Hollander moans, his eyes rolling back in his head before he tugs Ilya up for a messy kiss, all tongue and teeth and desperation. Ilya grits his teeth even as he keeps moving, trying desperately to think of something other than the orgasm quickly building low in his stomach because he doesn’t want this to end.

He hitches Hollander’s thighs higher around him, bending him back, and for a half-hysterical moment he thinks he needs to thank the team’s trainers for getting Hollander into yoga and making him so bendy. The shift in angle takes Ilya even deeper with every thrust and he knows he’s hitting Hollander’s prostate every time, based on the way he’s crying out.

He’s not just crying out, he’s actually crying. His tears make wet tracks down his face as he writhes against Ilya, but when Ilya pauses, convinced he’s hurting him, Hollander’s eyes fly open. “No, please—” he hiccups, tilting his face up for another wet kiss. “Keepgoingsogood—”

It’s clear that he means it, at least if his cock leaking steadily all over his stomach is anything to go by. He looks a mess, fucked out and half-delirious as he’s speared on Ilya’s cock repeatedly, but he also looks like he’d start sobbing if Ilya even considered pulling away. 

Ilya isn’t sure he could now, anyway. He needs it too much. 

He’s also ridiculously close, so he clenches his jaw and straightens up a little, keeping an iron grip on Hollander’s thighs as he snaps his hips. The room is filled with nothing but the sound of skin slapping against skin and the cries that come from Hollander with every thrust, and Ilya’s vision is narrowed down to nothing but HollanderHollanderHollander.

He feels like their bodies have been completely synced up, Ilya perfectly in tune to every shuddered breath and moan and hitch of Hollander’s hips. There’s something, though—Hollander’s eyes keep clearing in the midst of the delirium before he screws them shut again as if thinking better of it, but then only moments later they open once more. 

“What is it?” Ilya demands, gritting his teeth when Hollander’s hole flutters around him at the sound of his voice. 

Hollander doesn’t respond at first, clearly just on the wrong delirium that keeps him from saying what he truly wants. But Ilya wants to give him anything, everything he wants all the time. So he snaps his hips until he’s buried to the hilt and then grinds in a dirty figure-eight that makes Hollander groan, then stills. 

“Tell me.”

Hollander still doesn’t reply, but after another moment’s hesitation, he grabs Ilya’s hand still clutching at his thigh and pulls it up, guiding him to wrap his fingers around his throat. 

Fuck. 

“Want me to choke you, Hollander?” Ilya growls, tightening his grip just slightly and feeling Hollander’s throat bob beneath his fingers. 

Hollander nods frantically, shutting his eyes again, and Ilya snaps his hips pointedly, demanding that he answer verbally. “Yes, yeah, please.”

“Good boy,” Ilya praises, delighting in the way Hollander’s eyes darken, and then he sets a brutal pace as he squeezes the sides of Hollander’s neck. 

Ilya has been asked to choke people in bed before, so he’s careful not to constrict the airway too much. Instead he focuses on squeezing where he estimates the carotid is, knowing the restriction of blood flow will give Hollander the feeling he’s craving. 

Hollander smiles like the cat that got the cream when the sensation begins to overtake him, his cheeks darkening to a deep scarlett as Ilya fucks him exactly how he needs it. 

It doesn’t take long after that. A few more pumps of Ilya’s hips have Hollander gasping out ah, ah, ah noises that get increasingly higher pitched, and Ilya counts to three before letting go.

It’s the perfect timing. As soon as the blood rushes back to Hollander’s head and he sucks in a ragged breath, all it takes is one fumbled stroke to his cock before his eyes are rolling back and he’s quaking, coming once more. 

“Oh, God, I—”

“Yes, just like that,” Ilya growls, gritting his teeth so he can focus as he fucks Hollander over the edge and all the way through it. 

He comes almost completely dry, only a few feeble ropes of white splattering to join the absolute mess they’ve created on his stomach and chest, and his hole clenches down on Ilya like a vice.

“Fuck, fuck—” Ilya chants, and when another thrust makes Hollander wince with oversensitivity he goes to pull out. He’s trying to make Hollander experience overstimulation, not kill him. 

“No, please, want it—” Hollander babbles, hooking trembling hands around Ilya’s ass to keep him there.

“So perfect for me, so good, good boy. Gonna fill you up so good, give you all of my come.” Ilya has no idea what’s coming out of his mouth now, just knows it’s filth and things he shouldn’t be saying. His vision blackens at the edges until all he can see is Hollander blinking up at him through wet lashes, still moving his hips to work with Ilya.

One, two, three more thrusts, and then he’s done. He shouts as the orgasm rips through him suddenly despite building for what feels like hours now, and the feeling of Hollander’s hole fluttering around him as he spills inside his body is… indescribable. It’s so much more, it’s everything, and he’s shocked when he feels Hollander arch against him and looks down to see that Hollander is coming again—or maybe never truly stopped—with come bubbling from his tip in one last desperate release.

“Fuck,” Ilya murmurs, breathless and wide-eyed as he watches beautiful Hollander ride out the last waves of his pleasure, and then he collapses on top of him to kiss him. 

The come is sticky against their stomachs, and Ilya knows Hollander will complain about it soon enough, but for now they lie here, kissing filthily as they come down from their respective highs. Ilya is more than content to stay here forever, his cock softening inside Hollander’s body and his tongue in Hollander’s mouth.

“You were so perfect for me,” Ilya whispers against his lips. He knows Hollander won’t be able to find the words to reply yet, but from his dazed smile he knows he understands. “Incredible. You did so well.”

They stay like that for longer than they should, kissing as Ilya whispers praise into his lips and revels in each little shudder he elicits from Hollander as he shifts or pets at his side. Hollander is still trembling, but slowly he begins to unwind, no longer clutching at Ilya like he’ll disappear if he pulls away.

He still makes a noise of discontentment when Ilya pulls back, and Ilya has to give him another peck for that. He rubs their noses together gently, a silent apology. “I need to clean you up,” he whispers into his mouth. “You made a mess.”

Hollander flushes, but he doesn’t seem embarrassed anymore. He just nods reluctantly, and Ilya waits one more beat before slowly withdrawing. Their stomachs make an obscene sucking sound as they come unstuck from one another, and Hollander winces as he looks down—there he is. 

He still doesn’t say anything, though, just whines at the loss when Ilya’s cock finally slips out of his body. Ilya can’t help but look down to watch Hollander’s hole clench around nothing, and a moment later a bit of Ilya’s come dribbles out. Ilya catches it with his thumb, gently pushes it back inside and stroking Hollander’s thigh when he trembles at the touch at his oversensitive entrance. 

“I will be right back, okay?” Ilya promises, then stands on shaky legs and practically sprints to the bathroom. He collects a clean washcloth, fills up a glass of water, and thinks for a moment before darting to the kitchen to grab a banana before returning.

The smile Hollander gives him when he climbs back into bed could outshine the fucking sun. 

Ilya takes his time slowly and methodically cleaning Hollander up, taking extra care around his reddened hole before he discards the washcloth and offers him the banana. Hollander wrinkles his nose at this, but Ilya is able to coax him to drink some water before Hollander is making grabby hands for him and he finally relents. 

Carefully rolling Hollander onto his side, he settles himself behind him and wraps a tight arm around his middle to pull him close. He can’t help but place a gentle kiss on the back of his neck, nuzzling into the dark hair there that is still damp with sweat and curling at the nape, and shuts his eyes. 

Hollander still hasn’t spoken yet, but that’s okay. Ilya is patient. 

“Rest,” Ilya whispers. “I’ll be here.”

***

Shane isn’t sure how long he dozes for. 

It might only be a few minutes, it might be a few hours—all he knows is that the room is completely dark when he finally becomes aware of where he is and what’s happening.

Rozanov just made him come five times. Then fucked him. Raw.

Shane smiles dopily to himself, nuzzling into the arm cradling his head, and he feels Rozanov stir behind him.

“You’re back,” he says, voice raspy, and this time Shane doesn’t deny it.

“I’m back,” he confirms. “That was…”

“Yeah.” Lips brush against his neck, so soft that Shane thinks for a moment he hallucinated it until it happens again, another kiss to the junction of his neck and shoulder. “How do you feel?”

“Fucking fantastic,” Shane replies, and he does. He feels perfectly taken care of, perfectly anchored to the here and now. The floaty feeling he sometimes gets during sex is gone, burned down to embers with the last of his orgasms and snuffed out by the steady presence of Rozanov's solidifying touch. He stretches out with a grin, satisfied, and it’s this movement that alerts him to something hard pressed against his lower back.

He arches shamelessly into it, feeling Rozanov’s hand tighten on his hip. “Hollander,” he says in warning, but Shane doesn’t listen. 

“I came. A lot,” Shane argues, turning his head to catch a glimpse of blond curls and bright eyes in the darkness. He makes sure Rozanov can see the desire burning in his eyes. “I want you to. Please?”

“Hollander,” he whispers again, but this time it sounds pleading. Shane isn’t quite sure what to do with that, so he just shifts his hips again and huffs. 

“Please, Rozanov,” Shane murmurs, and he feels another kiss placed against his neck. 

He wants to give Rozanov just a tiny piece of what he was just given, which did—quite frankly—feel like he was taken apart and put back together again. He feels right, satiated and fucked out and glowing, and he wants Rozanov to know that. 

“Want you to,” he repeats.

It’s easy for Rozanov to hitch one of Shane’s legs a little higher and slide inside him with only a little added lube, the combined slick of the lube from before and Rozanov’s come providing more than enough lubrication. He’s loose and open, and ready. 

They fuck just like that, slow grinds of Rozanov’s hips against him. Shane twists, contorting himself to hook an arm over Rozanov’s shoulder, who wastes no time in leaning down in response and using the new angle to suck Shane’s nipple into his mouth. 

“I feel you everywhere,” Shane mumbles nonsensically, but Rozanov nods into his chest like he understands. 

Shane isn’t sure how long they stay like this for, drifting along a never-ending river of slow, syrupy pleasure as they move together in search of more pleasure. Shane is certain he can’t come again, but that’s so far from his list of concerns that it’s almost funny—all he wants is to get drunk on that feeling of Rozanov coming inside him again.

It’s this thought and the comfort of the darkness that makes it easy for him to whisper, “wish you could fill me up all the time.”

He can’t even find it in himself to flush with embarrassment at the admission, especially when Rozanov groans against his skin and grazes his teeth over Shane’s nipple to make him shudder. “I could get you a plug,” he murmurs, his voice rough and exposing his desire. “Keep you open and ready for me, keep my come inside you.”

Shane shudders. He feels thoroughly debauched and filthy, and so, so alive. 

Sometime later—minutes? Hours?—Rozanov’s grip on his hip tightens and then disappears as he pulls out. In the span of a heartbeat Rozanov is pushing him onto his back, climbing back over him and sliding inside. Shane’s legs wrap around his hips on instinct, and Rozanov hums his approval.

“Want to see you,” Rozanov explains, still moving his hips so slowly that Shane feels like every slow drag along his prostate bleeds directly into the next. 

Shane just nods, tugging him down for a kiss. They stay like that for a while, breathing against each other’s mouths and staring into each other’s eyes. Shane feels like he can’t blink, doesn’t dare to look away in case this turns out to be a dream. 

When Rozanov’s hand wraps around his cock, Shane isn’t surprised but only slightly embarrassed to find himself hard again. He’s wrung out and oversensitive, but each stroke of Rozanov’s hand combined with his dirty thrusts feel too good to even consider asking him to stop. 

“Please,” Shane whispers, not even sure what he’s asking for, and Rozanov complies with his request and leans down to kiss him again. 

He feels the wave beginning to crest, knows Rozanov is close too, and cants his hips down in a silent plea to keep going. He wants to feel Rozanov spilling inside of him again more than he’d ever admit, but the desperate look on Rozanov’s face tells him that he feels the exact same way.

Maybe that’s what makes him do it, the quiet reminder that Rozanov wants this, wants him almost as badly as Shane wants him. He’ll never be sure. 

All he knows is they’re gasping into each other’s mouths and coming simultaneously the next, perfect synchronicity that makes Shane dizzy with desire, and he’s moaning at the feeling of Rozanov’s come once again, and then he’s saying that one little word. 

“Ilya.”

It comes out before he can stop it, slipping through the barrier of his teeth and ringing out clear enough into the air that there’s no chance he can deny he said it. 

Rozanov—Ilya—groans, rolling his hips one more time, and then—

“Shane.”

The sound of his first name on Ilya’s lips makes Shane feel like he’s losing his mind, because how is it that he never noticed how intimate that name could be? It’s like hearing his name for the first time, like coming up for air, like… everything.

He kisses Ilya’s cheeks, the tip of his nose, his lips, trying to tell him everything he can’t say as they come down from their highs, and Ilya is kissing him back just as hard.

And then he’s not.

He’s pulling out of Shane and sitting up before Shane can even process the loss, his face shuttered and impassive as he turns and slides off the bed. Shane can feel his come sliding out of him but doesn’t dare to move, frozen to the spot as he watches Ilya move. 

Shane’s brow furrows, his brain sluggishly trying to figure out what just happened, but his stomach begins to sink with fear when he realises that Ilya is bending to gather his clothes from the floor.

“What are you—”

“I’m sorry,” Ilya says quickly, shaking his head. The movement should be barely perceptible in the darkness, but Shane’s eyes are laser sharp and he can see every line of Ilya’s face smooth into apathy as he takes one large step back.

The bond between them that had formed tonight stretches like an elastic band, gives one last desperate tremble of life, and then snaps. 

Shane feels it like a slap to the face as he realises. 

Ilya is leaving. 

“I, uh, I forgot—I have meeting with Coach Wiebe early tomorrow,” Ilya explains, such an obvious lie that Shane would laugh if he wasn’t so close to tears.

“Sure. You forgot a meeting.”

With anything else the lie would be believable, but Ilya respects their coach too much not to remember when they’re supposed to meet. The blatant lie hits Shane like a punch to the chest. 

“Yeah, I…” Shane watches Ilya’s throat bob in the darkness, watches the muscle in his jaw tick the way it does when he’s trying to control his emotions. It makes him feel sick.

There’s a moment where they stay exactly where they are—Shane, lying on the bed with his legs only now straightening as his body finally realises there is nothing on top of him to accommodate, and Ilya, stood by the door and poised to run—and Shane thinks Ilya will shake his head, admit he’s being stupid and scared just like he was only twenty-four hours ago.

Come back, Shane begs in his head. Please, come back, we can be normal. I can be normal.

“Rozanov?”

“I’m sorry. Just, this—I can’t.”

“Rozanov.” Shane says it like a plea. He says it like a promise. 

It’s still not enough.

“I’m sorry.”

And then he’s gone.

Chapter End Notes

um

hi!

i'm sorry? sort of? mostly? okay no i'm not.

okay, lots of things to break down this chapter. are you ready? are you emotionally recovered? nope? okay let's go!

the back and forth of this chapter was sooooo hard to write like actually banging my head against a wall but i hope i captured the conflicting emotions they're feeling rn............... everyone is so sure of how they're feeling except for them i love to hate them so much

also would like to say for the record that anyone that has a problem with shane actually getting with elliot can get fucked because we got sooo many comments asking for it so blame your fellow readers!!!!! and he left anyway so it's fine!!!!!!!!!

i also hope you guys liked the lil talk they have before the absolutely filthy despicable marathon sex that made me need to bathe in holy water.............. once again adapting canon is so fun :) but srs that convo was so rough to write lol

with that, ilya sniffing the boxers. THAT'S RECTIFYING CANON BABY IT WAS NECESSARY

the most important thing i have to say is that many chapters ago i complained about foreskin and i'd like to say now that i feel the same way about balls like what the hell even are they ??? it's necessary to put here i felt because #canon but also like they need to stop looking at me they're FREKAING ME OUT and making me MORE GAY THAN I ALREADY AM..... if that was possible

and the name drop. guys i gotta admit the relief i feel now i don't need to write 'hollander' and 'rozanov' constantly in their respective opposite povs is actually unreal like it was actually killing me off and it only took 120k :(((((

i also need you all to know that in my notes for this chapter i wrote 'and then ilya leaves bc he's like fuck my stupid fucking chungus life' and i hope that really came through at the end there xxx

okay, i think that's it from me. i really hope you enjoyed the chapter!! i'm sorta nervous to post this one not only because of your reactions but also because i wrote the ending before wizard could beta it but i love to tease ;) anyways guys isn't it crazy you're getting two love stories in one (shane + ilya and wizard + me)

anyways my dissertation chapter is STILL in the works but i got too many messages not to grind this out today, so i will be directing my supervisor to all of you if she complains about the quality so be prepared everyone!!!! gather the pitchforks!!!!!!

alright i'll leave you all to wallow in your emotions and prepare yourselves for the next chapter. ha. hahahahahhaahhahahaha. MWAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAH love you all so much and see you soon!! <3<3<3

Chapter 13: the best thing that you had has gone away

Chapter Summary

basically just a love letter to hollanov's female friendships for bashing their heads together and screaming

warning: also a lot of angst in between so be warned

Chapter Notes

oof y'all i hope these weekly updates are paining me as much as they're paining you but homestretch homeslices!!!

response to the last chapter was absolutely overwhelming thank you for all the love <3 even if it's accompanied by a lot of swearing at me for flipping canon and leaving it there.... #noragrets and hope this chapter helps hehe

“Roz? Rooooooz?”

“Jesus, the guy’s in space.”

“Roz.”

Ilya’s head jerks up, the bell of his hat jingling far too cheerfully with the movement, and meets the waiting gazes of his team. Marly, Dykstra and Bood all stare back at him with varying degrees of concern and amusement that directly correlates to how much alcohol they’ve had tonight. They also wear matching elf costumes.

This Christmas party sucks. Even seeing Pike in the stupid green jumpsuit, striped socks and curved shoes with bells on the end doesn’t make him feel better.

“Sorry, boys,” Ilya manages, reaching for his beer on the table just so he has something to do with his hands. “Tired. Long game today.”

It’s been three days since Ilya ran out of Shane’s apartment, and he hasn’t seen the captain since—he doesn't know what he would say if they saw each other, still, but it doesn't matter. He just wants to see him. He found himself showing up early to the arena for practice and staying late, even going as far as to inconspicuously walk by his apartment twice to see if he was home before he realised he was acting insane, but nothing. Shane was just… gone.

He’d sat on the bench in the locker room for what felt like hours, fully dressed with one skate unlaced so he could quickly pretend to be busy as soon as Shane entered, but when the rest of the guys arrived Hayden informed Ilya that Shane was sick. He’d gone home early, he said, and this was confirmed by Coach Wiebe when they got on the ice. 

“It’s the day you’ve been waiting for,” Coach Wiebe had said cheerfully, frowning when Ilya just stared at him blankly. “Leading practice? In Hollander’s absence, you're the captain.”

There was a time where hearing those words would’ve made Ilya jump for joy. Hell, chances were if he’d heard those words mere months ago it wouldn’t have been a surprise because he’d have been the one to give Hollander food poisoning or something—now, though, Ilya felt only the crushing weight of his own idiocy. 

He was shit at practice that day, and he knew it. He mumbled his instructions, refused to do anything fun for the sprints—too much of a reminder of Shane, since the games he came up with were almost always just to make him smile or even just roll his eyes—and when it came time to play he was useless. He was slow and listless, missing shots and almost snapping his stick in frustration when he fumbled an easy pass from Luca. He ignored the worried glances of his teammates, too focused on his own self-pity, and Coach didn’t even complain when he benched himself for the last twenty minutes.

Coach also cancelled practice the next day, and yesterday they were in the weight room so Ilya was mercifully free from having to act like a functional human being. Thank God. He just tucked himself in the corner with a few dumbbells and tried to look busy every time his teammates shot him a curious glance. 

The UBC game didn’t improve things. He was sullen and uncommunicative in the locker room until he finally realized that the silence was because, as interim captain, it was his job to do the pregame speech. He had sucked in a breath, steeling himself. He might be incapable of doing anything right when it came to Hollander, but he couldn’t let his team down, too.

So he’d rolled his shoulders and stood up, managing to deliver a mostly convincing pep talk about how UBC sucks (true) and how he had the utmost confidence in every single one of them (less true, mostly because he didn’t trust himself). It seemed to get the team riled up enough, at least. 

Still, the game was tough. UBC was relentless, the Thunderbirds hammering against their defense so much that for the first two periods they barely managed to get the puck over the centre line. Ilya was trying, he was, but without Hollander on the line beside him he felt like he was missing a limb. How was it that only a few weeks in the new position had made it so hard to switch back? Barrett and Bood seemed equally confused, sharing glances when Ilya had the puck stolen from him for the third time and just watched the guy go, and Ilya knew something had to give. 

He disappeared into the locker room as soon as he got the chance, mumbling something about needing the bathroom, and stared at himself in the mirror until his face blurred into an unrecognizable jumble of harsh lines and hard eyes and dark circles. He glared until his face wasn’t even a face anymore, just a thing. He only barely resisted the urge to spit on his own reflection.

“Fuck this shit,” he’d hissed to himself, shaking his head. The only thing worse than seeing Hollander at World Juniors would be if he had to see him knowing that he was the reason their team had lost.

So he’d gone out there and worked, and after several shifts of thigh-burning, lung-screaming plays, he managed to stack a goal on top of Troy’s from the first period to bring them up to 2-2. And then he made the colossal mistake of passing to Carmichael in overtime, who had the puck swept away from him in seconds. He watched UBC circle the net, cursing himself as the massive forward snapped his wrist and fired the puck into the back corner, and only barely resisted the urge to scream.

“Those UBC guys are fucking brutal,” Marly comments, bringing Ilya screeching back to the present. He adjusts his elf hat to sit more jauntily on the side of his head, still perched as precariously as possible the way hockey guys in North America love to do with their beanies, and grins. “Is there any chance we see them in the playoffs? I’d love to get that Bennett asshole back for that bullshit slash in the third period.”

“Eric Bennett’s gonna be drafted this year, no doubt,” Pike interjects, shaking his head. “And the ref was right, Marls. That slash was totally your fault.”

“Was not!” Marly cries, indignant, and the team quickly devolves into a heated argument about who was at fault for Marly and Bennett’s match-up. 

Ilya is so glad his building’s floor is almost entirely dominated by hockey players, otherwise he’d feel really bad for all the noise - and for commandeering the common room for their team party.

“Hey.” It’s Barrett, sitting quietly beside him and giving him a curious look. “You sure you’re good, Roz? You’ve been kinda… I don’t know. Off since the combine.”

Technically, it was the day after the combine that I fucked everything up, he almost says, but he bites his tongue and just shrugs instead, focusing on yanking up his socks for the hundredth time. 

“Looking forward to holiday?” he asks, changing the subject.

Troy winces. “Yeah, no. Four days without hockey is four days too many, if you ask me. Especially when I have to spend it with my father instead.”

Ilya nods knowingly, relieved for the hundredth time that he wasn’t summoned back to Russia for the holiday season this year. He’ll still hear from his father, he’s sure, but he won’t have to look at that expression of disgust and disappointment in person, at least. 

Ilya learned a new phrase in English last night. He’d been surfing through the ‘Canadian Originals’ category on Netflix—no particular reason—and came across Anne of Green Gables. It was a good enough movie, even if the freckles on the main character were distractingly similar to.... someone.

But anyway, he’d learned something. Kindred spirits. That’s what he and Troy are in many ways, he thinks. Troy understands more than his other friends on the team do, more than Cliff and Evan and Zane, what it is to be playing this sport as an escape. Something they’re using to run from more than they’re running to.

“Good goal tonight,” Ilya tells him. “We almost had them.”

A few of the other guys are drawn into the conversation by the mention of the game, and they all nod in agreement. Ilya is glad they agree - and glad he wasn't the one that caused the loss. Marly collapses on the seat beside Ilya, wrapping a jovial, beefy arm around his shoulder.

“Just proof we don’t need Hollander, right, Cap?” he says with a shark-toothed grin, and Ilya frowns. That wasn’t what he’d meant.

He supposes it’s a nice enough reminder that he still remembers how to play the sport, that Hollander wasn’t the only thing making him competent, but still. He doesn’t like the way some of the other players are nodding.

“It’ll be even better when he’s back,” Pike chimes in, clearly wanting to defend his friend without directly disagreeing with his teammates. It’s a deft move, and one Ilya wishes he had an excuse to perform. “Maybe we’ll actually win.”

“I don’t know about that,” Carmichael interjects just a little too loud, and Ilya stills. He’s never liked Carmichael much, especially the way he followed Kent around like a sick puppy, and judging by the way Troy stiffens beside him he knows they’re preparing themselves for a similar blow. 

“What do you mean?” Pike asks, because he’s an idiot that can’t read the room.

“Hollander’s good, sure, whatever.” Carmichael waves a dismissive hand. “But Kent would’ve had the game cinched by the second period.”

The entire team falls silent. There’s been a pointed blackout on any mention of the disgraced player’s name since Monday, and the violation hits Ilya like a slap to the face. Of course Carmichael would have the fucking nerve to say that, to say something that’s not even true just because he’s a fucking asshole. 

“We would have won game,” Ilya says sweetly, the undercurrent of ice in his voice making Carmichael turn to look at him with apprehension written all over his face. Good, a voice in his head seethes. “But someone missed pass. I do not think this is because of Dallas Cunt.” He stands, downing the rest of his beer in one. “Hollander would have won game with hat-trick, and you fucking know it.”

“Roz?” The voice comes from behind him, confused and questioning. Marly, he thinks, or maybe Barrett. He doesn’t care. He just needs to not be here anymore.

“I need another drink.”

The world is blissfully, viciously silent. Snow is falling in fat clumps outside the window, settling in a soundless blanket that shrouds the world in a white void of nothingness.

Sort of how Ilya feels right now. 

He looks up and watches Sveta pacing in front of her fireplace, looking more frustrated than he’s seen her since Tradov got zero minutes of ice time in the Stanley Cup final. She hasn’t stopped moving since he started talking, which he supposes is fair—if it was his first time hearing what a colossal idiot he’s been (this time, at least), he’d need to exercise some frustration, too. 

Ilya arrived at Sveta’s house in Toronto yesterday. She took one look at him in the doorway late last night—dark circles permanently imprinted under his eyes, hair dishevelled, probably smelling not the best since his tiny shower only reminds him of the times Shane crammed himself in there alongside him and got to his knees—and sighed. She didn’t press, though, just gave him a hug and promised they’d talk tomorrow before she went to bed. 

Ilya really should’ve expected to be woken up at seven in the morning and interrogated, as he’s being right now. 

“Wait, tell me again what you said when you left,” Sveta demands, pausing in front of the mantel to fold her arms and look over at Ilya expectantly.

Ilya lets out a suffering sigh. “Something along the lines of ‘I can’t do this’. I, uh, said I forgot a meeting with Coach.”

“And he knew that was bullshit, obviously,” Sveta adds, and Ilya nods miserably. 

“I fucked up, S,” he whispers, and to his mortification he feels suddenly on the verge of crying. It's the first time he's actually talked to someone else about it, having spent the last several days walking around having to pretend he was fine, and while it took some coaxing at first he now feels a dam break.

Sveta’s expression softens then, and she sits down gently beside him and takes his trembling hand. He feels like everything is coming apart, knows it’s his fault, and he’s more grateful than ever for the steadying presence of his best friend. 

“You did fuck up,” she acknowledges. “I just don’t understand why.”

“He—he said my name,” Ilya explains weakly, knowing it won’t make much sense to Sveta. He doesn’t know how to explain that their use of each other’s last names has always signified a barrier to him, some essential thing that he shouldn’t—couldn’t—cross. It was too intimate, too… real. 

And then Shane waltzed right over that line, and something in Ilya broke in two.

He still remembers what his name sounded like on Shane’s lips. He remembers what it tasted like, too, like gunmetal and citrus, thunder and rain, everything bitter and sweet all at once. I-ly-a. 

Shane. 

“Oh, honey,” Sveta says softly, reaching out, and Ilya realizes he’s failed at his one goal when she brushes an errant tear from his cheek.

He hasn’t cried since his mother died. Not since he stood at her grave and watched Alexei walk away without looking back, already resigned to hating her just like their father did—and then he saw his father at the other end of the cemetery, stood with a woman that looked just like his mother did but twenty years younger, and knew. 

He’d sobbed, then, no longer the tough man he’d been pretending to be—just the twelve-year-old boy he was, realising for the first time that he was truly alone in the world. He let himself cry, falling to his knees as his tears mingled with the rain that fell on the soft earth of Irina Rozanova’s fresh grave until he was sure the sky was weeping for them both.

And then he stood, wiped his eyes, and walked away.

His father never visited the grave again. Neither did Alexei. Ilya had to go in secret, changing out the wilted bouquets he’d saved up to buy or the roses chopped in secret from their neighbour’s garden and wiping the dirt and lichen from the gravestone as the earth tried to claim that, too. He went as often as he could, though it was never as much as he’d liked, and he told her about his day at school or a funny thing Sveta had said to him the day before.

And then four years later he moved to Canada to play hockey. He’s only been back to Russia a handful of times since, and though he visits her every time he still feels like he’s failed her. He can never bring himself to visit on her birthday.

The holiday might be on a different day in Russia, but Ilya still feels like it’s too much to visit a grave while the rest of the world celebrates Christmas.

That’s why he’s thinking of his mother so much now, he decides. It’s her birth—it would have been her birthday in a few days. Definitely not because he feels like he’s twelve again, alone but for the only person left who truly loves him. 

Sveta kisses the top of his forehead, featherlight and much softer than he deserves, and he buries his head in her shoulder and lets himself cry. 

***

“Are you sure you’re okay, sweetheart?”

Shane doesn’t look up from his salmon. Yuna Hollander always has been far too good at reading her son, and he’s convinced that one look at him and she’ll know all of his secrets—and this is something that he really, really doesn’t want to tell her.

He forces himself to nod, keeping his eyes down, and manages a one-shouldered shrug. “Yeah, sorry. Just, um… thinking about the Juniors.”

Mom seems to accept this, launching immediately into a ramble about what a disgrace it is that they didn’t pick Troy Barrett for the Canadian team after he was ‘so brave’, and Shane gracelessly slides into the background of the conversation.

It’s been like this since he arrived home a few days ago, unable to spend a second longer in Montreal knowing that Ilya was there. He’d been certain that he’d seen the blond Russian lingering outside his window more than once, which was just further proof that he was losing his mind. 

Ilya left. He ran away.

Just like Shane did only weeks ago. And just like Ilya did back then, Shane let him go. 

At least this time Shane doesn’t feel like he’s been hit by a truck—physically, at least. Instead, it feels more like his head is being held underwater, like every ragged breath he takes only lets more liquid into his lungs. He’s drowning from the inside out, unable to come up for air because he can’t tell anyone that he’s submerged.

What would he even say? I broke my one rule with my teammate-turned-fuckbuddy and said his name so now he knows I’m in love with him and never wants to see me again?

He imagines saying the words out loud to his parents and cringes internally. Yeah, no thanks. 

Besides a few brief texts to Hayden, JJ and Wyatt, he’s completely detached himself from the McGill bubble. Every couple of hours his phone will vibrate with a flurry of messages from the Mrs Dykstra Fan Club <3 chat, the team excitedly announcing one last hurrah before they go home for the break or lamenting how sad many of them will be to crush Luca’s team at Juniors, but Shane doesn’t reply to any of it.

Only one text caught his eye two days ago. It was Barrett, saying hope you feel better soon roz!

Shane stared at the text for a lot longer than he should have, his vision blurring at the edges until all he could see was the tiny heart Ilya had put on the message. He hadn’t been replying, either.

So Rozanov was sick, apparently. Or something. Maybe he just didn’t feel like it. Maybe he couldn’t be bothered to do his job, even despite promising he’d never leave—

Never mind. 

Ilya didn’t promise anything to Shane. Instead, Shane just… let himself believe. Just for a second.

And he ruined it all.

Shane swallows the last bite of salmon with some effort, the fish sticking like glue to his throat. He suddenly feels like he might be sick.

“Not feeling great,” Shane mumbles to his dad, a cheap move given he’s the hypochondriac of the pair and knows he’ll be allowed to leave. “Do you guys mind if I—”

“No, of course,” Dad says quickly. “Do you have a fever?” Shane shakes his head, not looking up. “Okay. Do you want some Pepto? I think we have some tablets in the cupboard, or—”

“Let the boy go to bed, David,” Mom tells him with a little laugh.

She goes to give Shane a gentle pat on the cheek, but Shane is so frantic with desperation to leave and wired after getting little sleep for the last few days that he reels back as if dodging a slap. He freezes as soon as he realises, he and Mom staring at each other with wide eyes while Dad looks between them, confused, until the moment snaps and Shane shakes his head. 

“Sorry, I—” He manages a little laugh, but it comes out flat and pained. His throat feels tight. “I’m exhausted. I just need some sleep, and then I’ll—I’ll be okay, alright?”

“Okay,” Mom agrees, but she’s giving him the look she used to give him when he was six and lying that he’d brushed his teeth already. She knows he’s not telling the whole truth, and while she looks for a second like she’s preparing for a good old Yuna Hollander interrogation, she lets it slide with a nod. “Get some rest, honey.”

“Goodnight, buddy,” Dad adds, and Shane offers a weak smile before he darts up the stairs.

He collapses onto his bed as soon as the door is shut and just barely resists the urge to scream into his pillow. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. It was childish to leave Montreal early, running away from his problems rather than dealing with them, but wasn’t that what Ilya had been doing when he ran out of Shane’s apartment, too?

Still, he feels guilty about leaving his team in the lurch. He hates missing the time to train, too, since the World Juniors are in a matter of days and he’s determined to take back the win for Canada after losing on home ice last year, but—

He’ll have to see Ilya again. He’ll have to play against him. How the fuck is he supposed to stay focused enough to do that?

He needs to get a hold of himself before then, and he will, just… not now. 

Now, he curls onto his side, hugs his knees to his chest, and lets himself cry into his empty room.

***

Ilya can’t escape the rest of his conversation with Sveta for long, but at least she takes him skating this time. 

He’s not a big fan of figure skates, can never quite get the hang of keeping most of his weight in his heels so the toe pick doesn’t catch on the ice, but it’s worth the annoyance to be out in the frigid air and moving. Nathan Phillips Square is uncharacteristically quiet this time in the morning, and they’re the first ones on the ice as soon as the temporary rink opens up—Ilya knows that this was a strategic move on Sveta’s part, giving them the best chance to have some time to themselves on the smooth ice before it gets clogged up with elderly couples gingerly picking their way along the boards and children whizzing past with flailing limbs.

Also, it gives Sveta more space to watch Ilya make a fool of himself.

“I thought you were a hockey player,” she teases when he falls for the fourth time, her laughter pluming grey vapour into the morning air.

He scowls at her with as much dignity as he can muster from his spot sprawled out on the ground. “My blade got caught on a rock!” he protests, and she rolls her eyes.

“Oh, like last time when you skated over a gouge in the ice, or the time before that when you said the ice is somehow uneven over there,” she replies, pointing to the back corner where Ilya had taken his most dramatic tumble. His tailbone still kind of hurts from that one.

“You know, there is probably something in my contract that says I can’t do anything to injure myself before a game,” Ilya points out. “Like, uh, when they don’t let actors do the really dangerous stunts.”

“Yes, your university hockey contract has a protective non-injury clause,” Sveta deadpans, and Ilya scoops snow off the boards and chucks it in her direction. Unfortunately, karma hits him immediately when the wind changes, and a minute later Ilya is coughing through a mouthful of fine powder. Sveta grins, but at least she’s kind enough not to laugh at him. “You totally deserved that.”

Ilya… has no comment on that one. “So, did you bring me out here just to watch me embarrass myself?” he asks, because he knows where this is going and he’s tired of skirting around the topic. He executes a clumsy pirouette but manages to stay on his feet, and Sveta claps. 

To Ilya’s surprise, she doesn’t immediately take the bait. Instead she skates a few strides, gathering speed, and launches herself into the air. She does a perfect spin, her arms tight to her chest, and lands easily on one leg. Ilya glares at her. 

“Oh, so you really did just come here to embarrass me,” he says. “Why’d you ever quit figure skating, again?”

“Because dads suck when they’re pressuring you to do sports, and unlike you I have the balls to tell him when I don’t like something.”

“That’s not fair. It’s not just because of my dad. I—I like hockey.”

“You sound super sure of that.”

He does like hockey, truly, he just… doesn’t love it. Not like he knows he’s supposed to. He’s just always been good at it, it’s always come easily to him—as he grew older it became an escape from the oppressive loneliness of his house, and then after his mother died it was an escape altogether. It was a plan, a solution, a chance at freedom. So he took it. 

But he hears other guys on the team talk about it and thinks, I don’t feel that. Hollander, for example. He eats, sleeps, and breathes hockey. Ilya isn’t sure Shane has ever gone more than a sentence or two without mentioning hockey, and the worst part is that it’s obvious he doesn’t even realise he’s doing it—it’s just a knee jerk reaction for him, an instinct to align himself with the thing he loves. 

Ilya has never seen anyone light up the way Shane does when he’s on the ice. The bright eyes, the flushed cheeks, the twitch of a smile coming to his lips more freely than Ilya ever sees when they’re on solid ground. For Shane, hockey is like breathing. He probably has an indoor rink at his house or something, one that his parents had built especially for him when it became clear he was a prodigy. He’s probably there right now, pumping his legs furiously as he darts up and down the ice with a puck in front of him—

“You have that look on your face again.”

Ilya’s head snaps up to meet Sveta’s gaze, finding that knowing glance waiting for him that automatically makes him defensive. 

“What face? I don’t have a face. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Sveta’s look deepens. “It’s your Shane face.”

“I don’t—I don’t have a Shane face.”

“Babe, you have the Shanest of Shane faces right now. C’mon, what were you just thinking about?”

Ilya huffs. “Shane,” he admits, and at least Sveta has the grace not to look too triumphant. “I was thinking about hockey, and how much he loves it.”

“More than you?”

Sveta already knows the answer, but Ilya knows why she’s asking. “Yeah. Yeah, more than me. More than anyone I know.”

“Is he a better player than you?”

Sveta knows the answer to this too. She’s seen enough of his games to know. Yes, Ilya thinks immediately. He’s the best in the league, probably half the NHL. “He’s very, very good,” Ilya acknowledges, and then sighs. Who is he kidding? “The best in the world, probably.”

“Does he want to go pro after university?”

“Doesn’t everyone?”

“Do you think he will?”

“Yes.” Ilya doesn’t have to think about it this time. “He’ll probably go to the Voyageurs. They need a center. He’ll be happy to stay in Montreal, I think. Close to his parents.”

Sveta hums. “Do they visit a lot?”

“They come to most home games,” Ilya says with a nod, thinking of the couple he sees in the stands most weeks. Every time he sees them he’s struck by how much Hollander is an uncannily even split of his parents’ looks—his father’s straight nose and arched brows, making him look permanently surprised, his mother’s dark eyes and round cupid’s bow. He can always hear them, too, screaming their heads off after every goal so loud that Shane will often look to the stands and glare at them with flaming cheeks even as he smiles.

With a sigh, Sveta tucks her hand in the crook of Ilya’s elbow and they begin to skate lazily around the rink. She’s silent as they move, nothing but the sound of their blades carving the ice and cars in the distance filling the air. Ilya knows she’s waiting, but for once he’s content in the silence. He knows what she’s been silently asking the whole time. It’s been on Ilya’s mind on a constant loop over the last few days, after all. Once they’ve made two laps, Ilya finally gives in and answers the question. 

“It is because of hockey,” he relents. “It—being… how we are, being something with a teammate—that’s a surefire way to start your career without a contract. It’s drama that teams don’t want. It doesn’t matter how good you are, it’ll always be a little nagging thing in the back of every team’s minds, and even—even if they don’t realise it, even if they tell themselves it’s because you’re slow, or have a weak backhand, they’ll miss you out of their lineup every time. And it’ll always be this, I don’t know, this thing that should be good turned into something dark because it’s what stops you from achieving your dream.”

“Ilya, I don’t think—”

“And then that’s just a splinter that can’t be fixed. Because what do I even—how do I even live with that? What do I do, knowing it’s my fault? Knowing that every team knows in their hearts that he’s the best, and I’m the one stopping him from getting it?”

“Ilya.”

It’s that one simple word that stops him dead in his tracks, has his knees buckling enough that he has to grab onto the boards for support. He feels just as bowled over by the weight of what he’s said, struggling to grapple with the solid truth of it all. Sveta’s grip tightens on his bicep, steadying him, and for a long beat they just stare at each other.

“I can never let that happen,” he says fiercely, with more strength than he knew he had left in his whole body. With that, all his energy leaves him, and when he speaks again his voice is quiet. Hoarse. “He would—he would hate me.”

Sveta’s hand is soft on his cheek, swiping her thumb across his face before carding a hand through the few strands of hair curling out from under his beanie. Her touch is gentle and forgiving, far more tender than he deserves, but he’s already proven enough times over the last several weeks that he’s a selfish, selfish person.

He was selfish enough stealing glances last year, finding every opportunity to beat him just to see him flush, and he was even worse when he found himself going for assistant captain not just because of the title but for the opportunity to see him just a little bit more… and yet he still hadn’t had his fill. 

Shane offered himself up on a platter, putting that stupid ad out, and Ilya devoured him without even being kind enough to chew before he spit him back up.

Ilya already knows he’s selfish. He allows himself a brief moment of leaning into Sveta’s touch before he blinks and straightens, pulling off his beanie to rake a hand through his curls before tugging it back on and sighing.

“This isn’t the only reason,” Sveta says finally, as if he hasn’t just bared his fucking soul to her. 

“Are you serious?”

She narrows her eyes. “Yes. It’s risky, one hundred percent, but you’re acting like the only choices are to stay together and ruin your—both of your—careers, or end it and be miserable. There are ways for you to be together, it just… might not be how you envisioned it for yourself. But you know that, so—that’s not all. What is it?”

“It’s the hockey,” Ilya repeats. He finds himself nervously glancing over his shoulder just to make sure no early shoppers have suddenly appeared behind them. “That feels like a pretty big fucking reason. And it’s not like—it’s not like I haven’t thought about it. Other solutions. But they all feel way too dangerous to fuck with, y’know? I don’t want to fuck everything up, for both of us, when we don’t even know what this is.”

Sveta points at him. “There it is.”

Ilya is suddenly very wary. “There… what is?”

“The problem.”

It takes a second for Ilya to repeat his words in his head to figure out what she’s talking about. “What, me worried that we won’t work out and it will all be for nothing?”

“Yes. Exactly. You’re just assuming that. You’re quitting before it even starts. So, I’ll ask again: why’d you do it? Why’d you run away?”

There are so many ways he could reply, Ilya thinks, short answers and long answers and answers that require days of explanation along with it. Most of them would even be the truth. Those aren’t the answers Sveta is looking for, though.

“Becuase I was scared,” Ilya admits. “Because… it hurts. I don’t think—I don’t think love is supposed to hurt this much.”

Sveta is quiet for so long that Ilya begins to wonder if she didn’t hear him, and then, finally: “Is it love making you hurt? Or is it fear?”

The simplicity of the question hits Ilya like a gut punch. “Both,” he says hoarsely. “Fear of how much I feel, maybe.”

Sveta hums. “You don’t like to feel things,” she acknowledges, then chuckles. “Or to deal with those feelings. You prefer to drink about it instead.” Ilya peeks over at her hopefully, but she just rolls her eyes. “No, Ilya. Alcohol and me is what got you here in the first place, remember?”

“I’m still sorry for doing that,” Ilya whispers, thinking of the club where he’d taken her for granted just because he saw red when he saw Shane dancing with that guy.

“I know, honey,” Sveta replies, not unkindly. “But I’m not the one you should be apologizing to, am I?”

Ilya is shaking his head before they’ve even finished talking. “No, but—it’s better this way. I feel bad about how I did it, but… he’s better off without me.”

“Why? Because you’re a no-good scoundrel man-whore?” She pokes his cheek. “I hate to break it to you, but you’ve been kind of slacking in the whole man-whore department. When was the last time you hooked up with someone?”

“I made out with you, like, four days ago—”

“I said hooked up, Ilya. Who was the last person you fucked?”

Ilya has to think about it. He hasn’t had to think hard about the answer to that question pretty much since he was fifteen. “Also you,” he relents finally. “When you were visiting Montreal.”

“That was weeks ago. You usually don’t go more than a day or two without getting your dick wet.”

Ilya cringes at the choice of words, but she isn’t wrong. “I haven’t needed to. I have—had—him.” Even changing to past tense makes him want to reach into his own chest to tear out his still thumping heart and hurl it away from him as fast as he can. It’s a traitorous thing, beating for the one person he can’t have.

“So… you’re scared, okay. I get that. This is the first time you’ve ever loved someone else like this.”

“That’s not true,” Ilya points out. “I love you.”

Sveta smiles a little sadly, giving his bicep a soft squeeze. “I love you too, silly. You’re my favourite person in the world. But… you don’t love me like that. Not like you love Shane.”

Even hearing his name makes him shudder, his eyes slipping shut in a desperate attempt to regain control before they open again and find Sveta giving him a knowing look.

“Maybe,” he says weakly, and Sveta allows it. 

“So what’s stopping you? Not just the hockey.”

Ilya swallows the lump in his throat and tries to be honest with himself and Sveta. He thinks back to the conversation he had with Shane right before everything went wrong, when Shane talked about how big it all is. “It’s just so… much, y’know? It’s big, and scary, and I don’t know how to hold it all. I don’t think I should. It would never work, not given—him.”

“Is his family homophobic or something?”

“No,” Ilya says immediately, though he’s not actually sure. He knows Shane isn’t out to his family, that much is obvious, but he also knows just from seeing them at their games every week that his parents love him unconditionally. “No, they would be okay. They love him a lot. But he—he’s only just realised himself who he is. That…”

Sveta picks up Ilya’s trail easily. “That can be scary for a lot of people,” she acknowledges. “But also even harder to go through by yourself.”

For the millionth time, Ilya really wishes that Shane had himself a Sveta. Who can he talk to? Pike? The two of them are friends, which Ilya can never really understand because Pike is boring in all the wrong ways, but he can’t see Shane opening up to the guy about this stuff. He’s on the team, of course. Shane would never. So… who?

“He will be okay,” Ilya says hoarsely. “He has, um, people he can talk to. I think. And anyway, it—it won’t be a problem for him anymore.”

“Oh, Ilya,” Sveta says, sounding sorrier for him than she has this whole time. “Don’t you think that’s for him to decide?”

Ilya doesn’t answer. She’s trying, and she’s helping, but she doesn’t get it. She doesn’t understand Shane, how hockey is his whole life and losing it because of Ilya would tear them both apart. Ilya doesn’t think he could handle that.

Instead he just takes off across the ice and lets the wind bite at his cheeks until he can’t think anymore. 

It doesn’t help. 

***

Shane is interrupted from his current spiral by a knock on the door. 

He’s pretty sure there was another one a few hours ago, but he hadn’t answered because he was busy cocooning himself in his bed and pretending that this was normal, that he always stayed in his room until ten. He was busy, doing… stuff. Important things. 

Wallowing, mostly. 

But now this knock is a little more pointed, and Shane knows that he can’t avoid his parents forever—not in their house—so he groans as quietly as he can manage before flinging the covers off and standing. 

He makes no effort to make himself presentable before he opens the door, and Dad’s reaction when he sees him tips him off that he looks worse than he thought. He can feel his hair sticking up in every direction, he’s still wearing his hoodie from yesterday, and his teeth feel fuzzy—he’s not sure he’s brushed his teeth more than once or twice in the last few days, and he also skipped dinner last night. He feels wrung out and haggard, and he knows he looks it too. 

As if on cue, his stomach lets out a dramatic gurgle. Dad’s eyes flicker from his face to his torso and back again, helplessly, and then he thrusts a plate of unevenly chopped fruit into Shane’s chest. 

“Delivery,” he says awkwardly when Shane doesn’t take the plate. “I know, uh, strawberries are a little high in sugar for your diet right now, but your mom is still out grocery shopping and I couldn’t find much else—”

“This is great, Dad,” Shane says quickly, because he’s a fucking asshole. “Really. Thank you. I’m gonna—um, what are we having for dinner?”

Shane feels another pang of guilt when Dad visibly brightens when Shane says he’ll be there for dinner. He really needs to get a hold of himself. 

“Mom’s cooking this new miso tofu recipe she found, and I was gonna make some chicken and veg to go with it?”

“That sounds perfect,” Shane replies, and he means it. 

“Good, good,” Dad says with a nod. “Okay, well… I guess I’ll leave you to it. Try and get some fresh air later, will you?”

To his surprise, Shane finds himself smiling. “Are you saying I smell?”

Dad wrinkles his nose in mock disgust, then shrugs. “I’m not saying you smell. I’m saying I can smell your room from down the hall.”

Shane gasps, poking his head back behind his door to give it a surreptitious sniff. He knows his dad is joking, obviously, but it’s a worthwhile reminder that he really should clean some things up. 

“I’ll clean up in a bit,” Shane tells Dad, who nods in satisfaction.

“Alright, son. I’ll be downstairs if you need me,” Dad says, as if Shane is about to embark on a dramatic quest rather than simply pick up the clothes he hadn’t been bothered to collect yesterday and change his bedsheets.

Shane shuts the door with a sigh, turning back to his cave. Okay. Time to act like a normal human being. 

It only takes a few minutes to retrieve and fold everything and then make his bed, but when he’s done he feels a small curl of satisfaction. The shower helps, too, washing off the slough of grime and shame that’s been collecting for the last several days, but he still feels the dark cloud hovering above him. It’s a feeling he can’t shake, and he finds himself huffing in frustration as he tucks his duffel bag into his cupboard. 

“You’re fine,” he mutters to himself, just barely resisting the urge to whack himself on the head. “Stop it. You’re fine.”

But he’s not fine, and he knows it. He still feels like someone is sitting on his chest. 

It’s for the best, he tells himself. Ilya brings nothing but trouble.

He stops himself. That isn’t technically true. Shane is all too aware of the facade Ilya likes to present, the no-good troublemaker with quick hands and a quicker mouth, all crooked smirks and glittering eyes that made Shane feel like he’s tripped and missed the last step on the staircase every time. He remembers the few things he’s gleaned from the Russian about his father, that he thinks his son is nothing but a troubled disappointment wreaking destruction wherever he goes.

But Shane likes to think he’s seen the real Ilya. The Ilya that laughs with his eyes screwed shut, the Ilya that lights up whenever he sees a dog on the street, the Ilya that can convince Scott fucking Hunter to play Flip Cup in a crowded bar. 

The same Ilya that waited in the cold for an hour to put Shane back together again with enough soft touches and tuna melts and praise to settle the itch under his skin, the one that gave him stick tape and talked him through his panic about his future—more than once—and held him like he never wanted to let go. 

The one that kissed the back of his neck like a promise.

That’s the real Ilya. Not the version he showed everyone else, but the one he’d allowed only select people to peel back the layers and find. Ilya is trouble, just not in the way that he believes. 

Shane swallows hard, wincing as he yanks the curtains open and is confronted with a wall of snow. Usually, the sight of the white powder covering the world would make him happy—he doesn’t make snowmen anymore, he’s not a child, but he would think about it. Usually.

Now, though, he wishes that his mind felt as blank as the white void outside. 

He’s so distracted watching the flakes float gently from the sky that he jumps out of his skin when his phone begins blaring from his bed, and he scrambles to silence the nasal sound with his heart in his throat. Is it—him? Is he calling to apologise and beg for his forgiveness, or to say it was a big mistake in the first place and it’s for the best?

Shane honestly isn’t sure which would be better. 

It’s not Ilya, though. It’s Rose. He’s so surprised that he answers before he knows what he’s doing, putting the phone to his ear.

“H-hey, Rose,” Shane stammers. “Um. How are you?”

“I’m freaking pissed, dude,” Rose announces without any preamble, her voice somehow managing to hit the tone of disappointment even as it comes through the tinny speaker. 

Shane freezes. Has she suddenly remembered the awful head he gave her and wants to put him on trial for it or something? He probably deserves it. “Uh…”

“You didn’t tell me you left Montreal!” she exclaims. “I was waiting for your text to hang out, and then I ran into your friend Hayden and he told me you weren’t even in the city anymore. You didn't even reply to my messages. What the hell?”

Shane recognizes the mild teasing tone of her voice, and he’s relieved that she doesn’t actually seem mad. He’s not sure he could handle that right now. “I’m sorry, Rose,” he tells her honestly. “It was, um. Kind of a sudden decision? But I’m sorry I didn’t let you know before I left. I did want to see you, really.”

“Okay, good,” she says, and she seems satisfied. “But next time, if you don't text me back I'm totally driving to your house."

"Deal."

"Well, I’m here now. Let’s catch up!”

“Um. Yeah, sure.”

“Wait, should we FaceTime? Would that be easier?”

“No.” It comes out before he can stop himself, a knee-jerk reaction because the last person he FaceTimed was him. That’s… theirs. And since he doesn’t plan on desperately fucking himself on a dildo over video for Rose to see, it’s not necessary anyway. “I mean—sorry, I look awful right now. I think I’m getting sick.”

“Aw, honey,” Rose coos. “Are you home with your parents? Get some chicken noodle soup or something.”

“Yeah, definitely,” Shane replies absently. 

“Do you—we can call later if you’re not feeling good—”

Well, now Shane feels bad. “No, no, really,” he’s quick to reassure her. “I want to talk. What’s been going on with you? Did you finish the reshoots on that short film?”

“Yes, thank God,” Rose replies with a laugh. “I’m home in Michigan, finally. Hey, does your house seem smaller every time you come back? Because I swear it’s not just the fact that there’s, like, thirty people here between my brothers and all their wives and kids—it feels like my room shrunk, honestly.”

“Maybe you had a growth spurt,” Shane suggests. “Y’know, from four feet tall to four foot one.”

Rose snorts, and it’s annoying that she still sounds attractive when she does it. “Shane Hollander has jokes, who knew?”

“Tell people, please,” Shane deadpans. “Everyone needs to know.”

“I’ll make a billboard,” Rose promises. “It’ll say: Shane Hollander is a comedian that loves to bully his friends by calling them short.”

Shane manages a soft smile as he takes a seat on the edge of his bed. “Sounds perfect.”

“Maybe I should report you for a crime, actually,” Rose muses. “The billboard will say, Shane Hollander is a criminal that lies.”

Fuck. Now Shane is rocketed back to the night Ilya first came over to discuss the rules of their arrangement, when he’d said I think I must report crime. Shane Hollander rubbed butter all over me and now—

Ilya had pulled him close when he protested by whacking him on the arm, and Shane lay like that for a while, sprawled half on top of Ilya as they grinned at each other like idiots. 

Back then, Shane didn’t really know Ilya. He was just the annoying assistant captain that loved to rib Shane during practice, on the verge of exploring more together with nothing but possibilities on the horizon for them. They were strangers in all of the ways that counted, until suddenly they weren’t. And now they’re here.

Shane doesn’t realise he hasn’t spoken until he hears Rose’s voice, soft and uncertain, drifting through the speaker. “Shane? You there?”

“Yeah, I—fuck, sorry.”

“What’s wrong? You sound a little… off.”

“Sorry,” he says again, autopilot taking over.

“Don’t apologise. It’s okay.”

“I’m s—” he stops, swallowing hard. “My apologies.”

“That’s cheating,” she teases, then there’s another pause. “We really can talk another time if you’re not feeling good—”

“No,” Shane says again, just as quickly. He surprises himself with the force of it, but he’s only now realising how much he’s missed talking to someone other than his parents. “No, it’s okay, seriously. I’m… I’m not really sick.”

Rose is silent for a beat. “So… what’s up?” When Shane doesn’t immediately reply, she seems to sense that the quiet is thick with unspoken words. There’s another long pause before she speaks again. “Y’know, Miles and I were talking the other day,” she starts, and Shane is grateful for the change of subject. 

“Oh yeah?”

“He reminded me of that first night at the Foundry, where you and I met,” Rose continues. “We came together. Do you remember him?”

“I know what he looks like,” Shane says, frowning as he strains to remember. “I saw him on your Facebook. But no, I don’t think I remember seeing him that night.”

“Well, he remembers seeing you,” she says with a laugh. “He was so jealous when he saw us together.”

“Of—of me?”

“No, of me,” Rose replies, clearly surprised. “Did you… not know Miles is gay?”

Shane freezes even though Rose can’t see him, has to force his muscles to relax. “No, I—I don’t know. Never, uh, never thought about it, I guess.”

“Well, he is. And he thought you were super hot.”

“Oh. Um.”

“Tons of actors are gay, obviously,” Rose continues, talking a little faster now. She almost seems… nervous. “But it can be tough, y’know, breaking into the industry. He doesn’t want to be typecast as the gay best friend, of course.”

Shane hums noncommittally, but he can’t get his heart out of his throat enough to answer. 

“Are there… are there any gay players in the NHL?” She pauses, then corrects herself. “I mean, openly?”

Is this… going where Shane thinks it is? “Uh… Like, there probably are—y’know, gay players, but—none that are. Um. Out.”

Rose is silent for a minute, and Shane feels the quiet stretching out between them like an elastic band. Can he hang up on her? He’d really like to hang up on her. 

“I’m sorry, I’m going about this all the wrong way,” Rose says finally, and she sounds genuinely apologetic. 

“Going about—going about what?”

“Shane, I… think I noticed some things, when we were—together.”

“I’m sorry,” Shane says, back on autopilot again, and he winces. “I mean—”

“No, it’s not your fault,” she says quickly. “We’re just… not right for each other. Really, it’s fine. We’re just, like—a square peg and a round hole.”

Shane is so stunned by the analogy that it takes a moment for him to unfreeze, and then he can’t help but let out an incredulous laugh.

“I mean—fuck, sorry. That was an awful way to put it. But, I don’t know, I could be totally off base here, but…” Rose lets her words peter off, apparently knowing that Shane will get what she means without her having to elaborate. 

And he does, obviously. He’s wondered before if Rose suspected he was gay, and here it is. It shouldn’t be a surprise, if he’s being honest—it’s not like he projected the image of a super straight guy that loves women when they went back to Rose’s apartment, after all—but it still hits him like a punch to the chest.

He’s never had anyone actually ask him before. He’s not sure anyone else has ever suspected, though he’s wondered over the last few weeks if his few high school girlfriends had ever had an inkling, too. Still, the honesty is… refreshing.

And Shane is so lonely. 

He’s stranded himself on this island, dug himself a hole only big enough for himself and climbed in, and now Rose is here—a rescue boat, a ladder. And Shane kind of wants to climb.

“You’re not, um. Off base.” Shane’s voice sounds ragged to his own ears, and he cringes at the desperation so apparent in it. Still, he’s here now, damn it, and he’s not afraid. He also trusts Rose, knowing she has plenty of experience with the gossip mill at McGill and wouldn’t say anything. “Do you remember—I said once, uh… things and stuff are kind of difficult for me.”

“I see.” Rose’s voice is barely above a whisper, and Shane fights to not let his eyes slip shut at the simple intimacy of her understanding. “Have you ever—have you ever told anyone that before?”

Shane shakes his head before he realises she can’t see him and forces out a no. 

“Can I ask… have you ever been with another man?”

Blonde curls, blue-green eyes, and a crooked smile instantly fill his head. “Yeah.”

“Was it—different?”

Tuna melts. Stick tape. Every lesson Ilya has ever taught him. They all flash through his mind in quick succession. “Of course.”

Shane doesn’t realise he’s sniffling until he hears Rose say, “oh, sweetheart,” and he scrambles to get back on even ground as he wipes at his face to stop the tears threatening to fall.

“The thing is, I…” Shane trails off, chuckling to himself. “I kind of prefer being the hole rather than the peg?”

There’s a beat of silence, and then Rose’s laughter comes through the speaker, musical and lilting and free. “Wow,” she says. “That’s the best thing I’ve ever heard a gay hookup say.”

“You’ve had other—”

“Dude,” Rose drawls. “I went to theatre camp. Like, seventy percent of the guys I’ve kissed have turned out to be gay.”

“Seventy?”

“No, eighty. But anyway. So, is this… whatever’s going on with you—does it have to do with a guy?”

Shane hesitates. This really is the point of no return. Rose follows hockey, he knows if he says he’s been hooking up with a player it won’t take her long to figure it out. He could just say no, make something up about his parents or some other lie, and he’d be free. 

But it wouldn’t be true, and Shane… kind of wants to tell her. 

So he does.

It takes another beat for him to gather the courage, and then: “yeah. I’ve been… I’ve, um, been - seeing someone. Or, not - I don't know. I had a thing with, uh. Another player.”

“On the Marauders?” Rose asks, sounding surprised, but she recovers quickly. “Okay. Wow. How long has it been going on?”

What feels like forever. No time at all. “Not long,” Shane says instead. “But it—it started off casual, and now it’s…”

“Serious?” Rose suggests.

“No, it’s—over,” Shane replies, and he can’t even find it in himself to be ashamed of the way his voice breaks on the word over. “It’s—it’s complicated. Long story.”

“You could tell me about it all, if you want,” Rose says quietly. “I have the time.”

Shane takes a breath. The words no, it’s fine, are right on the edge of his tongue, but instead what comes out is, “okay. It’s, um, kind of a lot.”

“I love a lot,” Rose says immediately. “A lot is my jam. Okay—wait, I’m getting comfortable.” There’s some rustling, and when Rose speaks again she sounds much closer to the phone. “Alright, I’m ready. You can tell me anything, okay? Hit me.”

Is he really doing this?

Fuck it.

“Well, uh, it starts with you, actually…”

And, God help him, he tells her. It’s a little mortifying to tell her about the Craigslist ad, but while she gasps when he first says it she quickly recovers and tells him she gets it, encouraging him to continue. He explains their agreement, tells her about how they both pretended it was nothing at first. He even tells her about the disastrous night and following day when he’d run out after hearing their teammates in the hall, only just managing to omit their names in case Rose somehow figures out he’s talking about Ilya from the mention of his neighbours. 

She hums in sympathy and coos when he tells her about Ilya coming to look after him, making other noises of approval as Shane haltingly tries to explain how it was only through having sex with a man that he finally realised he was gay. He still stutters over the word, those three letters feeling unfamiliar and clunky in his mouth, but she’s patient and understanding even as he struggles to explain himself. He's so glad that she's kind enough to stay silent as he struggles through describing the sex in the briefest terms possible, searching for a way to explain that it was transformative.

“And it’s—tough, I think, for him as well. He’s good with his sexuality, but his home country—”

Shane freezes when he hears Rose gasp, certain she’s finally figured out who he’s talking about. “Shane,” she hisses, sounding shocked. “Is it Luca Haas? He’s, like, a baby—”

“No, no, no!” Shane rushes to refute her, just as nauseated by the idea as she clearly is. “No, not Haas.”

He lets the pregnant pause fill in her blanks, hearing the exact moment that the pieces finally click together. “Oh."

"Um. Yeah."

"Wow. I thought… I thought you two hated each other.”

“We did. But, um, also…”

“Wow,” Rose breathes again, still sounding stunned. “Okay, sorry. Didn’t expect that. Please, continue.”

The struggle to find words intensifies when he gets to the combine, but she waits every time as he haltingly makes it through the bar and the balcony and the club. She’s clearly surprised that Shane went off with Elliot, but seems to understand why he did it—and she growls in anger that warms his heart when he tells her about seeing Ilya and Sveta.

Recapping their final conversation is the hardest part. He doesn’t know how to summarise everything they talked about, how everything they didn’t say was just as much as what they did, and he certainly doesn’t know how to explain how he ruined everything from the simple fact of saying Ilya’s first name.

He manages, though, and he thinks she understands. 

“Jesus,” Rose says when he’s done. “That’s… you weren't kidding when you said it's a lot. I’m sorry you’ve been going through all of this alone.”

Shane feels his eyes stinging unexpectedly with tears again, and he wipes furiously at them as he swallows hard. “It’s fine,” he says weakly. 

“No, it’s not,” she replies, and her voice is fierce and firm. “It’s not cool of him to just run off like that, even given why he did. It's really fucked up, actually.”

“Why he… huh?” Does she think she gets why Ilya ran off? He reclined back against the pillows while he told his story, but now he sits up fully and presses his phone close to his ear as if he can will the words out of her. “What are you talking about?”

“I mean,” Rose says slowly, a little like she's talking to a child, “it sounds like he got scared when he was confronted by it. Y’know, how much he feels for you. It sounds like he loves you back, and maybe… maybe that terrifies him.”

Shane is shaking his head as he speaks, already certain she’s wrong. She’s sweet, and a great listener, and she’s helping, but she doesn’t get it. She doesn’t understand Ilya, she didn’t see the look on his face as he’d stumbled out of Shane’s bedroom with his clothes clutched in his hands like he couldn’t get out of there fast enough.

“No, I mean—I really don’t think that’s it,” Shane stutters finally. “I get it, but… no. I scared him off. I was too much.”

“Oh, honey,” Rose whispers, sounding so sorry for him that Shane’s heart hurts. “You’re not too much.”

“I was for him,” he insists, his voice breaking again. “Rose, I know him. He doesn’t want commitment, this was never—this was never supposed to be anything serious. Just letting off steam.”

“Are you sure—”

“I’m sure,” he replies firmly, because arguing this point is just making everything worse.

Rose is silent for so long that for a moment Shane is certain that she’s hung up, that he’s managed to scare her off as well. Instead, though, she just sighs. “It sounds like you guys need to talk.”

“He’s the one that ran away.”

“And then you ran out of the city,” she points out.

“Not helping.”

“Sorry.”

“Look, if he wants to talk to me, he knows where to find me. But he won’t. I ruined it.”

It feels like Rose wants to fight him on this point, but she has enough grace to let it go. “There’s a lot I could say here,” she says finally. “Advice I could give, but… I don’t feel like it would help right now, would it?”

Rose is a very, very smart woman.

“All I’ll say is this,” she continues, not waiting for an answer. “I really hope you guys get the opportunity to talk this out. I won’t argue with you on the running point, but… it still sounds like a conversation would be really helpful. For you both. And I hope you guys get the chance.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” Shane replies.

They hang up a few minutes later with the promise that they’ll call again before Shane goes to the Juniors, but he knows she’ll try and change his mind about why Ilya left again. He’s appreciative of the advice, he really is, but… she doesn’t know Ilya.

Shane isn’t sure he knows Ilya either.

On Christmas Eve, Shane dutifully trails after his parents into Aunt Carol’s house with the glass dishes of stuffing and maple-glazed parsnips and carrots already burning his fingers. It’s much like any other family gathering: Shane tries talking to his cousins, remembers they’re all siblings and don’t have much interest in talking to the weird ass only child that has no hobbies or topics of conversation available other than hockey, then heads back into the living room where he drifts between groups until dinner is served. He politely tells his grandmother all about how their season is going when she asks at the dinner table and remembers to ask his cousin Josie what medical school is like, but he leaps at the chance to be excused as soon as dessert is finished and sequesters himself in the bathroom to play Sudoku on his phone for a good half an hour before Mom finally knocks on the door and tells him it’s time to go. 

Christmas Day is much better. They always have the entire day to themselves, and Shane can admit it—he likes the ritual and routine of the day, knowing he’ll wake up to his stocking so full of various knickknacks that it’s relegated to the floor, too heavy for the mantelpiece. They always have french toast and pancakes for breakfast, Mom finding increasingly outlandish substitutes for pretty much all of the ingredients as Shane gets more and more strict with his diet, and then they sit by the fire and open the rest of the presents. 

It’s the usual fare for him—fancy hockey socks, new skate guards, a certificate for a monthly sports massage at the place Shane likes downtown, a yoga mat and foam roller. New glasses, too.

Glasses back on.

Anyway.

He always gets a little awkward opening presents, unsure how much enthusiasm he’s supposed to fake since he gets the same sort of thing pretty much every year, but he makes sure his parents know he’s grateful for them regardless.

Watching his parents is more fun, at least, though he’s always nervous about their reactions. He got a few new puzzles for them both, some biographies on the Voyageurs for Mom and a carpentry workshop for his dad since he knows he’s just picked up the hobby. They both seem genuinely touched, and Dad even kisses the top of his head on the way to the kitchen for some more mulled wine. Shane loves how much they love it, but he feels a little guilty for the relief that’s obvious on their faces when he participates in the day in all the same ways he used to.

You’re fine, he reminds himself every time he catches his mind drifting to thoughts of bronze hair and wicked smiles. You’re fine. Everything is fine.

***

You’re fine, Ilya chants to himself in the mirror, staring down his reflection like he’s willing the glass to shatter. You’re fine. Everything is fine.

He takes a deep breath, adjusts his collar, and heads back into the living room.

“Thank you again for letting me join you, sir,” Ilya says again to Mr Vetrov as he reclaims his seat beside Sveta on the massive couch. Their gifts lie strewn over the coffee table—a nice wine decanter Ilya found for Mr vetrov and two tickets to Sveta’s favourite band playing in Montreal, a double gift for himself that Sveta hadn’t hesitated to point out. Mr Vetrov gave Ilya new hockey gloves, saying they were from his father, but one glance at the way he avoids eye contact tells Ilya everything he needs to know. His father hadn’t sent anything for Christmas.

Maybe he forgot.

Sveta got Ilya a piano keychain that actually plays. It’s a gimmick gift since Ilya had refused to let her get him anything else, but he’s genuinely grateful for it since he was talking just days ago about how fidgety he gets on long road trips. He also has a strong suspicion that the new NHL: All Stars game and headset on her desk are for him, too. He really doesn’t deserve her.

Mr Vetrov waves a hand. “Nonsense, Ilya,” he replies with a booming laugh that makes both he and Sveta wince a little. The man isn’t much of a drinker, which means cracking out the Christmas vodka has had some unfortunate side effects. 

Like making him as loud as a fucking subwoofer, for example. 

“Even if it isn’t our Christmas, it is always nice to celebrate with the rest of the Canadians. Two Christmases. You two are very lucky. But anyway, I think your father would have had my head if we let you spend Christmas alone,” he continues, completely missing the wince at his volume and the mention of Ilya’s father. 

“And I would have died of boredom,” Sveta adds quickly, redirecting her father with ease, and Ilya flashes her a grateful look. “Dad always ends up watching old KHL games on the projector and ranting about the good old days.”

“Back when players had real discipline,” Mr Vetrov says with a firm nod, apparently perfectly content with his yearly decision. “Of course, you know all about that, Ilya. What do you think? These Canadians are nowhere near as talented as the old Soviet team, no?”

C’mon, Dad, you can’t compare the two.” Sveta swoops in to save the day, like always. “They have completely different playing styles. The leagues are completely different now.”

Mr Vetrov wrinkles his nose. “Yes. All this talk of wellbeing and mental health. It’s all crap, if you ask me.”

“Dad.”

Apparently, only then does Sveta’s father realise that Ilya is completely still, eyes fixed on the shag rug beneath them. Mr Vetrov at least has the grace to wince, shaking his head. 

"I'm sorry, Ilya," he says softly. "You know I didn't mean-"

"It's fine." Ilya stands so fast he almost knocks the table over. "More wine, sir?"

***

Shane can feel Dad watching as he takes a seat on the edge of the dock and finishes lacing up his skates, but he doesn’t mind. He knows it’s a surprise—he hasn’t skated on this lake since he was little, hating the brittle feeling of ice that hasn’t been smoothed over with a Zamboni, and it’s been days since he left his room at all.

He stands and takes a few tentative strides. His suspicions were right—it’s cold enough that the entire surface is frozen, appearing to be several feet deep, and while he’s careful not to skate too far into the centre of the lake just in case, it all feels stable beneath him. He takes a long breath, steadying himself, and begins to move.

It’s quiet out here. Peaceful. He’s spent long summer days here, kayaking or simply floating on his back in the middle of the water, and he’s reminded now that he never feels as calm as when he’s out in an open space; it’s like the expanse is the only place where his mind has the room to really think, all of his senses narrowing just to the few feet around him and his own thoughts.

His hockey stick is still on its rack in the garage, pucks abandoned on the shelf. He’s not here to play. He’s here to feel. 

He’s reminded of a time only mere weeks ago, when he stayed late on the ice in an attempt to reclaim the balance he felt before he’d run out on Ilya without a second glance. Back then, his skates were finding every groove in the ice to snag on, inventing problems to trip over until he tumbled to the floor in a heap of frustration. He’d been able to gather himself enough to skate eventually, but it was an obvious symptom of his misalignment that he was falling so much.

Now, on this rough ice pocked with protruding sticks and rough patches every third stride, he experiences the opposite. It takes a minute for him to adjust to the texture, spoiled by the smooth ice he skates every day at the arena, but once he does he’s off.

Despite the disagreement at the end of the conversation, he feels so much lighter after his call with Rose. He hadn’t known what a relief it would be just to get to talk, to tell someone the story from beginning to end and knowing somehow that he wasn’t being judged, that she understood even if she couldn’t relate. It’s a sensation of levity that he can’t quite quantify, something buoyant that settles behind his ribs and makes him feel like he’s floating.

He drifts along the ice as if he’s made of clouds, weightless on the glassy surface that the sun has just begun to reflect against. His skates don’t catch, the air feels crisp and refreshing in his lungs, and each long stride that takes him further across the lake has him feeling further away from his problems.

He doesn’t need his stick to remember how he feels about this. This part is easy. It always has been for him, the escape he never knows he needs until he steps onto the ice and something in him gives. When he was younger, his parents could hardly ever get him off this lake—he’s convinced they had the indoor rink built just so he didn’t give himself frostbite on a daily basis. His love for hockey is simple and uncomplicated. It’s everything around it that twists him up in knots. 

Inexplicably, he thinks of one practice about two weeks ago. He’d arrived early to practice some drills, texting as much to Ilya to explain why their lesson would have to be afterwards—they’d started meeting beforehand sometimes as well as after, and when Ilya replied with a sad face he’d thought that was it. Instead, though, he stepped onto the ice to find Ilya already dressed and waiting with a line of pucks.

“It was shooting drill you wanted to run, yes?” he’d asked when Shane reached him, his brows furrowed in confusion. When Shane didn’t reply, Ilya suddenly looked unsure. “Did you want to be alone? I can—”

“Stay,” Shane had said before he knew what he was doing.

And so Ilya did. 

They spent the next half an hour running the drill over and over again, whizzing up and down the ice to scoop up the puck and fire it into one corner of the net at a time. Ilya decided at some point that they should practice corrections—Shane is still not sure if Ilya had seen him rehearsing that exact thing before, or if he’d just naturally come to the same conclusion—and proceeded to perform a series of flailing executions of the exercise.

“Is so you can help Pike!” Ilya had explained after throwing himself to the floor for the third time, and Shane couldn’t help it. 

He collapsed into laughter, and the two had still been giggling when the first players—including Hayden, because of course—stepped onto the ice. Marly and Hayden had shared a look.

“What’s happening here?” Marly asked, taking in the sight of the captain standing over the assistant captain still sprawled on the ice, both of them cackling.

Ilya and Shane had shared a look. “Hollander has killed me,” Ilya announced. “I am dead.”

And the two of them started laughing all over again. 

Shane always feels a sense of magic on the ice, but with Ilya it’s even more. Ilya’s enjoyment of the game is completely uncomplicated, or at least he plays like it is—Shane never gets the sense that his father is weighing on him when he takes to the ice, but rather that it’s the opposite. Ilya plays to forget everything else. Shane plays to remember, to hold it close and turn it into something good.

They balance each other out that way, Shane thinks. 

Balanced. Whatever.

The memories are coming thick and fast now, but Shane doesn’t stop them. They don’t feel acrid and bitter on his tongue the way that so many of his memories have for the past few days—instead, he remembers the good parts. Video games and cuddles and easy, quick laughter that rings out into the air with no one ashamed and reaching out to pull it back. It was in those moments, Shane thinks, that he’d let himself believe—even for a second, albeit fleeting—in something more. 

But they couldn’t. They couldn’t, and they can’t, and it’s… fine.

Still. Those moments were good. Simple. 

Shane is distracted when he finishes skating an hour later, his head still filled with thoughts of IlyaIlyaIlya. He doesn’t mind these so much, though. They remind him that happiness still exists somewhere in the world, and he can go out and get it. 

Moments like the time he just spent on the lake, gliding about without a purpose - not training, not working towards some loft ambition, just... here.

He can find find these flashes of happiness here, too. There are little moments everywhere, and he’s just been too selfish and lost in his own head to see it. He should do a puzzle tonight with his parents, maybe. Ask them about their work. Just… be. 

He can do that. 

The reminder of his parents has him freezing just as he reaches the edge of the lake, tripping over his feet and landing on knees that instantly ache with cold as the snow seeps through them. He doesn’t notice.

He’s just remembered what day it is. Not Christmas, but—Ilya mentioned it once. The thought has been curling around his mind all day, the nagging feeling he's forgetting something.

Ilya's mother. It would have been her birthday. 

Should he text him? No. Ilya was the one that ran away. He doesn’t deserve a message. 

Shane winces as he rises to his feet. That isn’t fair of him at all—no one deserves to sit in silence on a day like today must be for Ilya, not even after everything that has happened.

But still…. Ilya has Sveta. He doesn’t need Shane, he’s made that perfectly clear. He’s with Sveta, he’s at her house, she must know what day it is too, he’s probably fine. 

Probably.

It’s the uncertainty that propels him back into the house, skates clutched by their laces as he makes a beeline for his phone lying abandoned on the kitchen counter. What could he even say? What words are there to bridge the chasm between them, the void between Ilya and his mother, wherever she is? 

Shane doesn’t know. He isn’t even certain he’s going to send anything when he picks his phone up, wondering absently whether Sveta had held Ilya as he cried, whether they were doing other stuff as a distraction right now. Ilya doesn’t need him. 

Does he?

Shane freezes. There are several notifications already waiting for him. 

Hi.

Merry Christmas

I’m sorry. Can we talk?

***

Ilya is pretty sure he’s wearing a track into the rug, but he doesn’t care.

His nails feel raw and achey where he’s been gnawing at them, picking up his phone at least once a minute to see a blank screen before he goes back to pacing. Sveta abandoned him an hour ago, quietly putting down the vase of fresh orchids—his mother’s favourite—with enough reverence to make Ilya want to weep. She teased him about his obvious nerves, then left him alone.

His phone vibrates. He practically leaps for it on the couch, stumbling over his own feet and landing on his knees in front of the cushion. His hand might be shaking as he swipes to open the message. Whatever. 

Yes.

Merry Christmas, even though I know you don’t technically celebrate until January.

And happy birthday to your mother. I hope you’re doing okay today.

Ilya closes his eyes, cradling his phone to his chest. 

The simple, devastating fact he’s been trying to ignore since he ran out of that damned apartment comes screeching back to the surface: He loves Shane Hollander. He wants him more than he’s wanted anything in his life. 

And maybe, maybe...

He could have him.

Chapter End Notes

hi :)

a little bit shorter than the last one and maybe more of an interlude but some veeeeery important things going on here... ilya and shane will see each other in the next chapter don't worry!

some thoughts:

me getting to write ilya and shane's first names in their alternate povs now :))))) me having to write mom with an o :(((((

also on that note, i still hate the word toque and will not yield to this canadianness... i might live in canada but i am british at heart guys

i loved getting to write ilya in his elf costume while he's crashing out

i hope the big convo between ilya and sveta especially makes sense!! i tried in this fic to make a really clear difference between their reasons for not wanting to be together like hockey vs vulnerability........... they are both so silly

with that i have to say i love sveta and rose so much. yes you best believe when they meet they will be comparing notes on their idiots because jesus christ those two are SOLDIERS

i kinda hate the way i decided to write russian in this fic by the way but i assume you all know whenever ilya and sveta are speaking to each other alone it's in russian i just am too lazy to write it every time and i made this bed so goddammit i will lie in it

@wizardhotbox and i were very torn about where to end this chapter and she had some very nasty ideas but i decided to be nastier (or kinder depending on how you take the next chapter lol) and end it here . you best believe we have some things cooking next time though my prince and i are hard at work

ilya is beginning to have hope. shane is also beginning to have hope. isn't that a wonderful beautiful magical thing :)

on a personal note y'all, DISSERTATION DRAFT CHAPTER IS IN THE BIRDS ARE CHIRPING THE SUN IS SHINING LIFE IF BEAUTIFUL!!!!!!! only 8,000 more words to go :')

i think that's it from me... i'm gonna be so sad when this is over y'all i've had a blast and i hope you enjoyed this chapter!!!

feel free to sub if you haven't already so you don't miss these updates ;) so close to the end guys it's comingggggg

Chapter 14: they're the ones

Chapter Summary

up next: the tournament brings more than a few surprises for our resident idiots. also, english is hard.

Chapter Notes

i'm SO NERVOUS to post this chapter and i think my nerves caught up to me because i blinked and this was 22k............ anyone remember when i said this was gonna be a one shot lol i'm so funny because the chapter count went up again. what can i say i'm a dirty dirty liar that lies .......... but *ilya voice* i think maybe you like it

i'm sorry that my updates are weekly-ish now but i'm fighting for my life trying to stick to it and also i'm writing an average of 10.2k words per day which technically means i've now written the equivalent of more than 13 dissertations since i started this fic and that's TERRIFYING haha anyways

also 5k kudos and almost 1000 comments?!?!?!?! y'all are INSANEEEE i love you

enjoy :))))))

A funny thing happens when you’re transplanted from one country to another. 

People ask Ilya if he misses Russia all the time, and he never knows how to explain that while the answer is yes, he never wants to go back.

He misses the food. He misses blini and syrnikki, sure, but mostly he longs for pelmeni the way his mother used to make it—with beef or turkey rather than lamb ever since Ilya took a school trip to a farm and cried when he realized that those tiny fluff balls were what he was eating. They used to make the dough together, his mother watching him knead and roll it out with kind eyes and gentle corrections that always made him feel proud of the work he did. 

But he doesn’t miss borscht, the acrid bitterness of the beetroot loaded with too much dill and the ominous crimson colour, how his father used to sit at the dinner table and glare until Ilya choked down every bite.

He misses the music. Both the sweeping symphonies of the ballets at the Bolshoi that his mother took him to when he was little and the grimy rap that he and his friends would blast through speakers when they hung out on the weekends. 

But he doesn’t miss the droning, Soviet-era songs that his father used to insist the driver put on during the car rides to and from hockey, how he’d hurl vitriol at Ilya whenever he sat sullenly in the backseat instead of dutifully singing along.

He misses the holidays. He misses Maslenitsa, a traditional week of festivities in February where it was expected for kids to spend every waking minute sledding or skating or building snowmen, ending with the infamous burning of the straw effigy that Ilya always found so funny when he was little. He used to love watching the painted face of the Butter Lady crumple under the flames. 

But he doesn’t miss New Year, perhaps the biggest holiday in Russia besides Orthodox Christmas. When he was a kid, he used to adore going to watch the fireworks with his mother and brother, watching sparks rain down on the world and drown the stars his mother taught him the names of in swirling black smoke. He loved New Year’s. But then she was… gone, and after that every year he got invited to some incredible party or event by his friends that he inevitably had to turn down. Instead he’d spend the evening stuffed into a suit and nodding beside Alexei while his father and his colleagues droned on about how the Russia of their own youths was disappearing. 

Making pelmeni, going to the ballet, watching the effigy burn. Most of his favourite things had to do with his mother. Borscht, the songs, the parties. Most of his least favourite things had to do with his father. He doesn’t need a therapist to figure that one out.

When people ask what exactly he misses about his home country, he always smiles and just says, “Mother Russia.” It’s too difficult to explain how literally he means it—that Irina Rozanova is inexplicably interwoven in every good memory he has of his home country, that Irina Rozanova’s death also killed everything light and pure about it, that everything he sees there is tinged with the bitterness of her absence but it only makes him want to hold onto those tangible things—the food, the music—with an even tighter grip. 

The one thing he does truly miss, in a whole and uncomplicated way, is the language. It’s not just the fact that he still sounds like a Bond villain in English, or that so many words remain illusive and unfamiliar to him even after more than four years speaking it 24/7, though both things are true. It’s Russian itself. 

It’s the language he grew up speaking, the one his mother taught him with picture books of cats and balls, the one he fell in love with. He can’t think of a better language. It has so many words that don’t even exist in English, uncomplicated words that perfectly encapsulate complex meanings in a matter of syllables. He likes how harsh it sounds to non-speakers, how all the lilts and rolls of a lullaby can come out sounding like ice and scraping metal to foreigners. He even likes how Russian always loses a sense of something when transmuted into English, how a direct translation can somehow manage to blunt the edges of nuance but still remain some of the most powerful and well-known passages in the world. 

It’s why he decided to major in Russian Lit. He loves getting to read in the original language, then going to lectures performed in the same tongue. It’s like coming in from the cold to sit by a roaring fire. Sometimes he’ll stay late with his Russian professors just to talk, and he loves when they’re clearly almost as excited as he is—to have a real conversation, one where he doesn’t have to stop to translate the words to Russian in his head and then back to English again to push them from his throat.

His English is very good even if his accent is strong, and it should be. He’s worked hard at it. He doesn’t even have to think about it much most days, that extra moment of translation happening automatically like his own internal supercomputer, but every time he trips over a word he feels like he’s tumbling into a void—a box, a stereotype, one where he’s stuck forever being seen as dumb just because he’s not loquacious or whatever. It scares him more than he’d like to admit. 

Russian is different.

It’s automatic, like a sneeze. And, best of all, it’s constant—never failing him when he reaches for a word or turn of phrase, the old reliable that he’s known his whole life. 

It means that, as one of only a handful of Russian students, studying the language for his degree and getting to talk to his peers and professors feels like the best way he can keep from severing that connection to his country entirely. He’s grateful for the decision seventeen-year-old Ilya made to major in Lit every day. 

So he loves Russia. And he hates it. He loves the comfort foods but not the traditional dishes, the music but not the political messages, the harsh, unforgiving weather but not the harsh, unforgiving people.

It’s a complicated relationship, and one Ilya still struggles to detangle now. 

The funny thing about being a transplant is that, when given the opportunity, Ilya sometimes still struggles switching to Russian when he does have the chance. He’s stiffened by it, especially in hockey, not wanting to sound like the brain-dead Russian only trained to knock people over. 

(He knows he’s better than that, he knows that, but… sometimes his heart needs the reminder, not his head.)

The problem is that he’s so locked in to the language, his brain trained to obey the clunky rules of English grammar and occupied with trying not to drop articles or roll his ‘r’s or forget the word for kangaroo or lightbulb or tuna, that it’s hard to shake when he’s this version of himself. Hockey Ilya.

That’s why, even after almost a week at the Vetrov home speaking Russian all the time, he greets his Russian teammates at the World Juniors in English.

They blink in confusion when he does, clearly just as surprised as he is, but he’s able to quickly recover. “Too long in this stupid country,” Ilya explains, switching to Russian with flushed cheeks.

Many of his teammates already play in the KHL or at universities across Russia, and only one or two have come to North America or elsewhere in Europe to play. They all speak varying degrees of English, but none of them have been slipping on a disguise every day for four years. 

He remembers having this issue from last year, he does, but his head is a little extra scrambled now. He wonders why that is. 

Maybe the fact that he hasn’t seen Hollander yet, and he’s kind of going insane. 

He knows that Team Canada arrived in Saskatchewan the day before, settling in to the hotel across the street from Ilya’s to prepare for their first game against Sweden tomorrow. And Ilya must be losing his mind, he must be, because when they head up to their rooms—Ilya is sharing with a surly farm boy from up north who barely gives him more than a nod, what a joy—he could swear he sees Shane through the window, standing on the street below and peering up at his building. 

Then the guy—Dmitriev—asks if Ilya wants any snacks from the machine, and by the time Ilya turns back Shane is gone. If he was ever even there in the first place.

As assistant captain, Ilya has grown used to the closeness and camaraderie of the Marauders. They know each other, they get each other, and they’re more than likely to spend any given evening in each other’s company because of the simple fact that they’re friends, not just teammates. 

They have Christmas parties and go to bars and do escape rooms together. On Sunday nights they watch Game of Thrones on the tiny TV in Marly’s room, Ilya pretending he can understand the thick accents and follow along with the made-up words by reading the expressions and body language of the characters. On nights like those, Shane always sits cross-legged on the floor in front of Hayden, confused with an openness Ilya doesn’t dare to replicate and asking questions every five minutes about what’s going on because he doesn’t care enough to watch any episodes by himself. The team teases him relentlessly for the massive gaps in his pop culture knowledge, but on any given Sunday you can find Hayden or Wyatt or Troy leaning over to patiently explain a plot twist in a hushed whisper.

Ilya already knows this is a friendship he can’t hope to replicate with his teammates here, they’re only playing together for eleven days, anyway, but he wants it. Less than a week with Sveta, as incredible as she is, isn’t enough to settle the itch of loneliness under his skin, and he’d hoped he could find some solace with his teammates.

But when he suggests they go out for dinner as a team, get to know each other a bit more, most of the guys just frown at him and mumble various excuses about needing to go to bed early or food allergies. It actually makes him appreciate Dmitriev even more, if nothing else, because he simply shakes his head no and says he doesn’t feel like it.

At least he’s honest. 

So Ilya spends several hours in his room staring at the ceiling until he gives up on the concept of sleep and tiptoes out of bed. If he gets caught he’s fucked, even if he isn’t technically breaking any rules, so he tucks himself out of sight around the corner of the hotel and lights his cigarette in the darkness.

He tells himself it’s just to avoid any Team Russia staff catching him, but that’s not the whole truth. He’s also hoping he’ll catch a glimpse of Shane and finally get the chance to try out any of the myriad of lines he’s been rehearsing both on his own and with Sveta.

Most of them come down to a lot of pleading eyes and begging. It’s a work in progress.

He can feel his phone burning a hole in his pocket. He knows he could text Hollander, ask to meet up somewhere to talk and just, like, do it, but… it’s not that simple, is it? He can’t just… ask.

Hey, sorry I’m an evil dick, want to come hang out in my room and maybe just never leave again? And we can cuddle and fuck and I can make you food and we can pretend the world doesn’t exist for a while?

Yeah, no.

Mostly he’s just apprehensive about what Shane’s going to be like with him. He doesn’t really know what to expect. He’s seen Angry Hollander, he’s seen Frustrated Hollander, but Hurt Hollander… that’s new. He’d seen the new facet of Shane just for a moment on that fateful night and had to turn away from it immediately. It felt like staring into the sun, too bright and glaring for him to look directly at. He still felt the burn behind his retinas afterwards, and still feels it now. 

He doesn’t want to see that again, but he has to. He knows that. Sveta was right—he needs to take it, to accept Hollander’s emotions with open arms and stuff. Et cetera. 

Because he deserves whatever Shane will say to him, whatever vitriol he wants to hurl Ilya’s way. He deserves it all.

He’s still not sure he deserves Shane in the first place, is pretty sure Shane agrees on that front, but still. He has to try.

Ilya takes another long drag of his cigarette and tilts his head back to look at the sky. This is going to be a long eleven days.

It’s a long first day.

Ilya is woken up by his alarm blaring at quarter to five in the morning, dragging himself out of bed and throwing on clothes to head down to the hotel gym. The IHF have booked slots for all the teams sharing hotels to use the facilities, wanting to avoid any unnecessary clashes like the infamous fight over the exercise bikes that Latvia and Poland had last year, and Russia got stuck with the earliest time possible. Of course.

Not that Ilya minds that much. Shane always insists on 6am team workouts most days anyway—and he tends to get there a little early besides, so he’s used to getting up early—but it’s clear when he notices the bleary eyes and constant yawning that some of his teammates are struggling to adjust to the wake-up. He was named Team Captain this year, so he makes a point of corralling everyone into the gym and offering words of encouragement whenever he catches the coach making disapproving eyes at any of the players not working hard enough.

It works well enough, but Ilya doesn’t have time to bask in the glory of his success. They’re herded off to a video review session, spending two hours crammed into a stuffy room watching game tapes as Coach Kharlamova drones on and on about stretching the defence and agility and other tactics that Ilya dutifully tries to copy down into his notebook.

They have ice time later today before their first game against Finland this evening, but they have several hours before they’re expected to be lining up for the shuttle that will take them to the arena. They’re sent back up to their rooms, and Ilya wanders around aimlessly for half an hour before he begins to think he’ll die of boredom before they even make it to the ice.

The part of tournaments no one expects is how much waiting around there is in between games and practices. It’s not like they can leave, either—something about liability, whatever—so most of the downtime is spent lying in bed scrolling on their phones. 

It’s fucking boring, and Ilya should really be used to it by now but today he feels even more antsy than he usually does. 

Finally, he chucks a pillow at Dmitriev on the bed across from him, smothering a laugh when the massive guy jerks awake from his nap with a curse and looks over at Ilya like he just shot his dog.

“Get up,” he orders. “We are going to find someone that brought Mario Kart, and then we’re going to have a tournament.”

It takes some convincing to get Dmitriev out of their room and knocking on doors, and a while longer after that to convince the team back into their shared room with the promise that Ilya will buy them food from the machine and not tell Coach Kharlamova they’re eating candy, but eventually they’re all scattered on the beds and the floor and watching the NHL: All Stars loading screen.

He’d really been hoping for Mario Kart. Whatever.

It’s nice, anyway. The team seems to loosen up a little under the spirit of friendly competition, tentatively ribbing each other between matches and laughing when Ilya decides to forget about winning and just rams as many of the other avatars as he can, opposing team or not. 

By the time they head to the ice, there’s some casual conversation and banter going on between the players. Ilya will take the win. Everyone seems a little more relaxed as they come out of the elevator, and Ilya is excited to see how this will translate to the ice—he hopes their coaches notice the improvement after more quality time together, and maybe he can convince them to let the team go on some group outing.

Ilya wonders if they have any escape rooms in Regina. 

“Davydov, you are not going to make it as a rapper,” he’s saying to the defenseman with a laugh as they walk through the lobby. “I’m sorry. It’s just the truth.”

“You haven’t even heard my mixtape!”

“I don’t need to,” Ilya says with a shrug. “I heard you singing in the shower after the workout this morning. I’m pretty sure you killed at least four cats with that voice.”

“Hold on, boys.” One of the IHF coordinators holds up a hand when they get to the sliding doors of the hotel. “The last team’s just grabbing their stuff off the shuttle. You can wait in here, since it’s so cold.”

Ilya scoffs, jutting out his chin. “Thank you, but we are Russian,” he says, with chuckled murmurs of agreement coming from the members of his team that understand English behind him. “We know cold. If it’s okay, we’ll wait outside—maybe we will get whoever’s out there to hurry up.”

When the coordinator nods, Ilya strides through the door and out into the street. It is freezing, he’ll admit it, but he’s not one to back down from a challenge, and they’re already running late. Coach Kharlamova is already at the arena, apparently, so they need to get going if they don’t want her to—

Ilya collides with someone in the street. Hard.

His hands fly out to steady the person automatically, already apologising even as he stumbles to keep his balance on the sidewalk slick with ice. He’s so focused on arranging his feet that he doesn’t catch the whiff of citrus and mint and rain until it’s too late, and he hears a sharp intake of breath from the person he just almost ran down.

“Rozanov.” 

There’s no time to steel himself, no time to prepare, but he doesn’t think he could ever be prepared by the way Shane Hollander steals all the air from his lungs. His hair sticks out at odd angles from under his beanie, making Ilya’s hands twitch at his sides with the effort not to reach up and tuck them beneath the soft fabric. Shane’s cheeks and nose are shaded red and pink from the cold, making his freckles stand out in the harsh light of the white snow and matching blank sky, and his eyes are so dark that they look like black pits as they widen at the sight of Ilya in front of him. He looks beautiful.

He looks mad.

Ilya watches his expression shutter in real time, his face flitting from surprise to shock to anger and finally, somehow worse than the last, total indifference. The muscle in his jaw ticks, the one Ilya used to set his mouth to and bite down on just to make him gasp, and he juts his chin out the way he always does when he wants to appear tougher than he feels. 

He said Ilya’s last name like—like it’s October again, and they’re not anything, they’re not even friends, just grudging rivals setting their differences aside only temporarily to work together.

Take it back, Ilya pleads in his head. Say my name, say it like you did that night, please. 

But he knows it’s not coming, and he knows it’s because of him. 

Still, he can’t help himself.

“Shane,” he says with a nod, and he watches a flash of something cross Shane’s face before he quickly tries to calm it again. “How was holiday for you?”

Shane’s eyes narrow. “Fucking peachy,” he grits out, and ooookay. The redness in Shane’s cheeks isn’t just from the cold. “You?”

“Awful,” Ilya tells him honestly, because he’s so tired of pretending otherwise. 

The same something appears, just for a moment, and Shane opens his mouth to say something before he shakes his head and shuts it again, looking away to the shuttle where his Team Canada teammates are still unloading their bags at a snail’s pace. 

“Sorry to hear that,” is all he says in the end, but Ilya contents himself with the fact that Shane looked like he wanted to say more. Maybe he would have asked about Sveta, about how the 25th was without his mother. Something. 

“Thank you for your message,” Ilya says quietly, then takes a breath. He can do this. Okay. Yes. “I wanted to say… um. I’m sorry for—”

“Don’t.” The one word is said so fiercely that Ilya almost reels back from the blow of it, has to pretend that his foot slipped on the ice and busies himself staring at the ground for a moment while he recovers. When he looks up, Shane’s eyes are blazing. “Just—don’t. Not here, okay?”

“But—somewhere? You said we could—”

“We both said a lot of things,” Shane interjects, shaking his head. He looks away, lifting his hand as if to rake it through his hair before he apparently remembers he’s wearing a beanie and lowers it again. Ilya can hear his teammates approaching behind him, sliding past with absently curious looks as they go to line up for the shuttle, and he knows that several Marauders on Team Canada will probably spot him any minute, but he needs to hear whatever Shane has to say. 

He’s also desperate for any excuse to stay close to him, to be able to see the flecks of amber in his eyes and smell the rain. He hasn’t wanted to admit it, to himself or to Sveta, but part of the reason he’s felt so off for the last week without Shane is because he’s developed this buzz under his skin that only seems to settle when he’s around. It doesn’t matter that things are so off-kilter when it comes to Shane that he’s not sure it can be righted. He’s still pathetically, totally and completely settled by the mere fact of Shane standing nearby. He itches with the urge to reach out and touch. 

“Shane…”

“Just—please don’t call me that, okay?” When Shane’s eyes turn back to Ilya’s, they’re pleading with more desperation than Ilya thought was possible. He bites his lip. “Please. Just… don’t. We—we’ll talk. Maybe, um, later. Not today. I thought I could—I thought I—”

“You thought what?” Ilya prompts, clearly too gently for Shane’s liking. He understands. It only reminds him of all the times he encouraged Shane to tell him what he wanted in bed, and it’s only then that Ilya really remembers where they are: on a street in between their hotels, standing in front of a shuttle with their teammates swarming around them. Not there, in Shane’s apartment. Safe. 

Shane blows out a long breath and shakes his head again. Ilya watches the shutters close over his eyes in real time, sees the moment that the Shane he’s been glimpsing these past few weeks disappears. 

“I thought I could do this,” he whispers. When he speaks again, his voice is firm and authoritative. “I can’t, okay? I can’t.”

Ilya shifts from foot to foot, frowning. There must be a way he can fix this. “But I wanted to—you said we—”

“Jesus, Ilya, did you not hear me? Leave me the fuck alone, okay?” Shane snaps exasperatedly, much louder this time, and Ilya sees a few people glance over at them in his peripheral vision. Shane clearly sees the same thing, clamping his mouth shut and flexing his hands at his sides as he looks around surreptitiously. “For fuck’s sake, Rozanov,” he murmurs, a little quieter this time but still just as biting. “I don’t have fucking time for this right now. You don’t have time for this right now. And you—you don’t get to just waltz back up to me and demand we talk whenever you feel like it. You’re ready to talk, but I’m not, okay? So get that through your skull and fuck off with your team, please.”

Shane sounds like he’s begging, desperate and anguished, and Ilya… well. Ilya’s never been able to say no when Shane begs, has he?

“Okay, Hollander,” he says, and he swallows hard and pastes on an understanding smile he knows comes out as more of a grimace. It’s hard, it’s impossible, but he was reminded by his conversations with Sveta that hockey is the most important thing in this equation. For Shane, at least. They can’t do this, not right now. He takes a step back, realising that on instinct he was standing far closer to Shane than is necessary. “Okay. I will leave you alone. For now. But… when you do want to talk, um. Please just text me. I will come running.”

Shane’s eyes slip shut for a brief moment, his jaw clenching again, and Ilya wants to reach out and smooth the crease in his brow with his thumb so badly it hurts. 

“Fine.”

Ilya only barely resists the urge to smile, the tiny spark of hope that has been snuffed out a thousand times over the past few days flickering to reluctant life once more. 

“Yes? You will text?” Ilya can’t help but seek out the extra confirmation. 

“Yes, okay,” Shane says slowly, nodding once. “I’ll text you.”

Ilya never claimed to be a very patient person. “Are you sure we cannot just—”

“Fuck, Rozanov, why can’t you ever—”

“Roz!”

It’s a little louder than necessary given how close he’s standing to the pair, but Wyatt Hayes seems unbothered as he bro-hugs Ilya with a bright grin on his face. One flickering glance between Shane and Ilya, though, reveals that there’s another reason for his interruption. They’re causing a scene. 

Ilya’s suspicions are confirmed when Troy Barrett appears at his side, offering another bro-hug as he adjusts the strap of his hockey bag over his shoulder. He glances around and sees more than a few Canadian and Russian players avert their eyes, busying themselves with loading or unloading their bags from the storage bay. 

“Good to see you, man,” Troy says. “Merry Christmas and all that.”

“Rozanov doesn’t celebrate Christmas.” Shane flushes as soon as he’s done speaking, fixing his gaze on his shoes as he lifts one shoulder in a poor attempt at an apathetic shrug. “I mean—right? Russians have a different Christmas, I read somewhere.”

Ilya knows he knows exactly when Orthodox Christmas is, so to him the lie is glaringly obvious. It’s also fucking adorable. Ilya hates him. So much. 

“Yes, is in January,” Ilya acknowledges. “But I still celebrated. Was good, thank you. Yours?”

Ilya’s politeness is unnatural and stilted, and all three of his teammates give him an odd look, but he doesn’t care. He’s just trying desperately to act normal. He’s not sure he even knows what that is anymore when it comes to Hollander.

“The usual,” is all Troy says in reply, and Ilya nods knowingly. They share a look. He’ll definitely be seeking out Troy to catch up later.

“Mine was also good,” Wyatt volunteers, apparently completely missing Ilya’s knowing glance. 

“Um. How was yours, Hollander?” Ilya’s just trying to keep the conversation going, because apparently he’s completely forgotten how to be a functioning human being. 

“You didn’t ask him already? So rude,” Wyatt teases, then frowns. “What were you even talking about? Looked pretty heated over here a minute ago.”

“Practice schedule when we get back.”

“Just friendly chirping before game against each other,” Ilya says at the same time, and he doesn’t dare meet Shane’s gaze now. 

“Right…” Troy says slowly, glancing between them. Ilya suddenly feels way too exposed by his discerning eyes. 

“Well, in case I don’t see you, good luck against Sweden tomorrow,” Ilya tells them. “Tell the others also.”

“We don’t need it, but thanks,” Wyatt says cheerfully. “I love the kid, but Haas is going down. Marly was here somewhere with Chouinard, but I think they’ve gone to see the trainer. I’ll tell them you said hi.”

“Let’s try and organize a hangout,” Troy suggests. “Grab Pike and the others from the US team and have a mini Marauders reunion or something. Y’know, before Canada destroys you both.”

Ilya has to laugh at this, eased by the familiarity of a good chirp and the suggestion of seeing his friends again. “You will look great in silver, Barrett, don’t worry.”

“Hey, you said the same thing to Hayden this morning!” JJ says, looking surprised as he comes to stand beside Shane who has suddenly gone very still.

“Um.”

“I should get going,” Ilya says quickly. “Coach will rip my balls off if I make my team late.”

“Congrats on Captain, by the way,” Troy replies.

“Thank you.” Ilya swallows. “Congratulations to you, too, Hollander.”

“Thanks.” Shane won’t even look at him.

“Uh… anyway. See you guys later.”

Ilya turns to go, and as he does he hears JJ murmur to Shane, “what’s up with you two? I thought you made up.”

“No, they’ve been weird since the combine.”

“But after, they—”

“Alright, boys, time to go!” Ilya calls in Russian and claps his hands, louder than he needs to be but desperate to drown out the sound of JJ, Wyatt and Troy theorizing. 

A few of his teammates give him another odd look, but he doesn’t care. He just needs to get the fuck out of here. He manages to load them all onto the bus and climb in himself in the span of about thirty seconds, Shane, Wyatt and Troy still stood talking with their team when the shuttle pulls away, and only then does Ilya allow himself to let out a shaky exhale and turn to the window so his seatmate won’t see his expression.

That buzz under his skin is back. Fuck.

Russia wins their first game, but it’s a lot closer than it should be. Finland is a tough team, sure, they’ve won medals in this tournament plenty of times, but they should have been no match for Russia’s offence. Instead, Ilya finds himself scraping by with a last minute goal on top of his first early in the first period and Tretyak’s in the second, leaving them with a measly 3-2 win.

He feels like it’s his fault, too. Maybe his pre-game speech wasn’t invigorating enough, or he didn’t make enough of an effort with the team, or maybe it was simply him that wasn’t playing right. He’s horrified to realise that it’s probably the latter. He feels hollowed out on his current line, off-kilter without Barrett or Bood or Holl—his team beside him. It’ll just take some getting used to, he tells himself. They still won.

Regardless, he semi-apologises to the team in the locker room afterwards, explaining that the Canadian cold is getting to him and then jokingly calling Dmitriev a liar when he points out that Ilya has now lived in Canada for several years. They laugh, he makes a more sincere comment that he won’t let it happen again, and they move on. 

Russians are simple that way.

The next day is fucking boring. They don’t have a game, only two hours of ice time strictly regulated by IHF officials patrolling with their clipboards and walkie talkies, and the rest of the day is spent exploring the hotel or lying facedown on his bed and wishing that he didn’t exist. 

Whatever. 

He tries to convince the team to go to the pool on the seventh floor for a swim, another lame attempt at bonding, but they all either make excuses or outright turn him down. Whatever camaraderie they’d formed during the video game tournament has faded, clearly. At least he has nine more days to convince them that they can be friends. Maybe.

By five o’clock, he’s going stir-crazy. His head is still whirring from his conversation with Shane yesterday, even though it should be on the tournament. A call from his father only puts him more on edge. 

“But we won,” Ilya points out after his father tells him the game yesterday was a disappointment for the third time, and he knows instantly it was the wrong thing to say. 

“You were sloppy,” Grigori Rozanov corrects, and Ilya can practically hear him shaking his head. “Slow to the puck, missing passes—”

“I missed one pass.”

“—and Ivanov should not have let that second goal in,” Grigori continues as if he hadn’t spoken.

“I can’t control what the goalie does, Dad,” Ilya reminds him. 

“It is still your fault. You are the captain, Ilya, it is your job to make sure he’s ready. You should be running drills with him right now, instead of sitting around like you are.” Ilya wisely chooses not to comment on the shit-fit his father would inevitably have had if he hadn’t answered the phone, even if he was running drills with Ivanov. “You have been in Canada too long. It has made you lazier, if that was even possible.”

“Yes, sir,” Ilya says, a little more monotone than is probably smart, but he can’t help himself. “We will do better in our next game. You’ll see.”

Grigori laughs, razor-sharp and biting. “You better,” he snarks. “If you can’t beat Japan, you have no hope. Honestly, I still have no clue why they let—”

“We will work very hard,” Ilya interrupts, because he has no intention of letting his father launch into his usual treatise about the blasphemy of letting a country like Japan compete. Never mind the fact that they won a game 17-1 in the Championship only a few years ago. He stands, pacing the landing of the stairwell because sitting still while he talks to his father is never a good idea. It only makes him want to punch something. “Training is going well. Coach Kharlamova is tough, but very smart.”

Grigori makes another noise of disapproval. “It is a disgrace, letting a woman coach the men’s team. She has no idea the kind of power and strength that men’s hockey requires. Maybe this is why you like her, actually. You have no idea either.”

Ilya grits his teeth and then begins biting at the tender skin around his thumbnail so he doesn’t say anything stupid. “Yes, sir.”

“Don’t forget to see the trainer tomorrow,” Grigori instructs. “You were favouring your left side after that hit in the second period. Of course, you shouldn’t have let that child close enough to touch you, but…”

“Yes, sir,” Ilya says a few minutes later, when he’s finished telling him all the ways he failed. He’s been dodging his father’s calls for several weeks now, so he forces himself to sit through all of it—he just tries his best to block it out. It doesn’t help him much. Ilya searches through the tense silence for something else to say. “Did you have a good holiday?”

He asks this because he can’t ask about the 25th. He can’t go through the humiliation of explaining to his father that part of him had been expecting a call from him the whole day—that even though his mother was a far off memory, he sometimes noticed Grigori looking at the gold crucifix Ilya always wore around his neck with a fond expression his son never saw anywhere else and Ilya hoped. Despite himself, despite Grigori, despite the roaring chasm of words unsaid between them, he hoped that there would be a call, however brief, and it could come with an even briefer silence where they breathed and in their matching exhales would be the sliver of acknowledgement that yes, this day was awful for him, too.

But he can’t say that. He can never say that. So instead, he asks about a stupid holiday and still hopes beyond hope that his father will mention the date.

Grigori laughs again. Ilya has never met anyone that has such a toneless laugh, so completely absent of joy. “Bali is a slum,” he spits, oblivious as always to the torment occurring on the other end of the line. He makes a semi-approving noise after a beat. “Alexei had a good time, though. He said the nightlife was very good.”

Ilya swallows. He hadn’t known his brother went on the holiday. “Oh?” he intones politely. 

“I don’t know why we go somewhere so destitute every year,” his father continues. “It’s so… lowly. Of course this is the kind of thing your mother would love. She always has enjoyed charity work.”

Ilya goes very, very, still.

“What? My… mother?”

This was not what he meant when he hoped his father would acknowledge his mother. This was not what he meant at all.

There is silence over the phone for several long moments that seem to stretch out for eternity. “I meant—your stepmother…uh…”

The silence this time is unbearable. Ilya rests his head against the cool brick of the wall and closes his eyes. “Polina?” he prompts. 

“I know my own wife’s name,” Grigori snaps, and Ilya only barely resists the urge to laugh at the indignation in his voice. 

“Of course,” Ilya says, but the conversation is over. Grigori is tense and distracted, and chastises Ilya for the Finland game three more times before he hangs up.

This kind of thing has happened a few times during their phone calls over the past year or so, but it’s getting more frequent—tiny moments, places where his father will slip out of time just for a second before returning back to his usual prickly self whenever Ilya tries to course-correct. He’s asked Alexei about it before, but his brother just says he’s making it up.

As if Ilya has the twisted mind to make this up.

He’s had a sinking feeling recently that he knows what’s going on, but… what can he do? Polina seems content to bleed Grigori dry, not caring much how corpus mentis he is while it happens, and Alexei is the same. As long as he gets his drugs and his parties and his women, he’s happy.

And Ilya—Ilya is here.

Alone.

Fuck. 

***

Ilya is here.

Shane is certain of it by halfway through the second period, a nagging feeling on the back of his helmet that he’s being watched intensely having appeared not long after the puck dropped. Since his parents aren’t here yet and Hayden is busy in his own game against Kazakhstan, it doesn’t take much deduction to guess who it is. 

He clenches his jaw as he receives the puck from JJ, legs burning as he turns and sprints towards Sweden’s net. He weaves around two defenders, switches from a forehand to a backhand, and flicks his wrist. It’s simple, mechanical. The puck sails into the top corner of the net, effortlessly slipping between the gap in the goalie’s glove just like he knew it would, and only when the buzzer goes does he allow himself to look up.

Fuck. There he is. Ilya is sitting in the second to last row behind the Canadian benches, dressed in all black with a hoodie string in his mouth as he stares intensely down at the ice. He seems to balk a bit when their eyes meet, and Shane wants to bare his teeth. Good. 

What the hell is he doing here? He’s not with his teammates or coaches, must have slipped away to come see the game, so why?

He looks distinctly vulnerable sitting by himself. It’s the same kind of rawness that Shane saw when they ran into each other yesterday, and it casts deep shadows across his face. There’s a part of Shane, the part that is eager to remember the good weeks they had together, that wants to climb up the steps in his skates and sit beside Ilya just so he isn’t alone.

But he can’t, for obvious reasons, and he doesn’t want to. He meant what he said to him yesterday: he’s not ready to talk. He’d thought he was, but seeing him was like ripping open sutures that had only just been sewn, a tearing of something deep inside him that he doesn’t know how to heal. He doesn’t think whatever Ilya has to say to him will help.

Shane scared him off, and now Ilya just wants to make sure that he knows that they’re done, and that Shane won’t tell anyone. His face when he’d seen their teammates glancing over at them had said that part crystal clear. He has no interest in anyone finding out about them.

Like, neither does Shane, obviously, but that’s not the point.

He slows to a stop at centre ice for the faceoff and lets out a long breath. He has a game to play. 

And actually, it kind of pisses him off when he thinks about it on the breakaway, shoving a defenseman into the boards on his way past with the puck. Is Ilya trying to distract him on purpose? Is it some part of his sick game to take gold in Shane’s country for the second year in a row? He must know that his mere presence is enough to send Shane spinning off-kilter, surely. It has to be some kind of tactic.

It has to be.

Right?

***

Ilya just wanted to see Shane.

It doesn’t do much to settle his nervous system, Shane isn’t close enough for that, but seeing him darting back and forth on the ice like he owns it helps, he thinks. 

Sort of. 

But now Shane’s seen him, and Ilya can tell he’s distracted when the puck drops and it takes him an extra half-second to move. He’s still lightning-fast, imbued with so much speed that no one else will notice that he’s not the same blur on the ice that he usually is as he checks number 32 into the boards so hard that the plexi rattles and slips by two more to score another goal.

But Ilya notices. He always does. 

The same way he can tell that Shane’s left skate is bothering him, the same way he can tell that he doesn’t like his linemate, some sluggish guy from St Johns that doesn’t seem to know which net is even theirs, the same way that he can tell Shane is unhappy with the fact that they’re trailing Sweden by two goals by the way he keeps glancing up at the scoreboard.

He knows Shane. And he knows that no matter how much he wanted to see him, no matter how much the sight of Shane on the ice makes him want to hop the boards, tackle him to the ground and kiss him stupid, he’s just being selfish and unfair.

Shane probably thinks Ilya’s here to distract him on purpose. It’s not a tactic, he wants to shout. I just love you so much it makes me stupid.

This was the thing he didn’t want to come out of this whole thing. He never wanted to jeopardize Shane’s game, and as he discovered during his conversations with Sveta—this is one of his ultimate fears. He can’t mess this up for him. He won’t. 

(He also never wanted to feel all of… this. I didn’t sign up for this, Shane had said to him once, back when he was struggling to come to terms with the obvious submissive streak Ilya had chosen to pick at. He wants to yell the same thing back at the tiny 24 on the ice. I never asked for you.)

He lets the hoodie string clenched between his molars fall from his mouth, stands up, and—feeling like a magnet being pulled from its opposite pole—leaves.

***

Oh.

Ilya is gone.

That’s… right. That’s a good thing. Ilya is done trying to psych him out, he’s realised the error of his ways, and he’s left Shane to his devices. 

Great. Superb. Fan-fucking-tastic.

Shane shakes his head to rid himself of images of unkempt curls the colour of spun gold and bright eyes marred by the dark circles beneath them. Right. Hockey. He has a job to do, and he’s not going to let Ilya be the one to jeopardize it. 

They lose 4-2. Shane can still feel the remnants of Ilya's cool gaze burning into the back of his head for the rest of the day. 

***

Ilya fucking hates interviews. 

He’ll never admit it, and it wasn’t the whole reason, but an added bonus of playing at the university level for a few years before going to the draft is not having to do nearly as much press. When they do, it’s usually a brief post-game thing or a group deal where he’s able to hide behind Marly and JJ’s booming voices or Wyatt’s rambling explanations or Troy’s monosyllabic answers. 

For Troy, his awkwardness only enamors the press to him more—he’s shy, he’s so focused on hockey he can’t be bothered with social skills, he’s prioritising his sport and his time. It’s endearing, he’s a regular young Sidney Crosby.

For Ilya, he’s… well. He’s already cast into a role, and his stilted answers only confirm every stereotype. It’s a hard thing to break, and nerves only make it worse.

That’s why the World Juniors suck so much. As a member of such a famous team, as the captain, no less, he’s expected to attend every interview with a polite smile on his face and thank the interviewers for their inane questions. 

Seriously, how many more times can he answer the same thing? What does Russia need to do to win against ____? 

The third time he’s asked, he just stares down the journalist with barely-restrained disgust. “Score goals,” he drones. “More than other team would be helpful, I think.”

The journalist blinks, clearly not expecting the venom simmering underneath his faux-politeness, and takes a seat again. 

The IHF coordinator points to the next person, and Ilya turns his head, already thinking up possible answers to how has being assistant captain of your university team (obvious disdain for both the ‘lowly’ role and for his presence playing for a university implied) helped you here?

Instead, the journalist that stands and introduces herself says that she’s from ESPN. Ooookay. Ilya wrings out his hands beneath the table, preparing himself. Last year, it had been ESPN that asked a question that stumped him into silence for an excruciating twenty seconds, eventually stammering out a disjointed response that he still suspects didn’t even answer their question since it didn’t make it into the article. He still wakes up in a cold sweat thinking about it sometimes.

“Ilya, you’ve been playing with the McGill Marauders for almost two years now, and helped lead them to their third consecutive victory in the championship last year. My question is two-pronged: first, how are preparations going for the playoffs with the Marauders, and second, how do you find the playing style and approaches of both the coaches and your fellow players differ between the Canadian and Russian teams?”

Fuck.

Ilya takes a deep breath, worrying at the skin between his thumb and forefinger with his opposing thumb in his lap. He understands all the words she said, of course he does, but he still needs an extra minute to formulate a response that he hopes is semi-coherent. 

“I was asking if—”

“I heard,” Ilya says, taking another breath. Ihatepressandfuckthis, Ihatepressandfuckthis, he chants over and over again in his head, but he’s a good captain. He can do his job. He can speak fucking English. “The playing style is very different. In Russian style, there is lot of focus on power. They used to say there was no team that could skate against Russians for whole game.” He chuckles ruefully, and the journalists in front of him titter. More flashing bulbs of cameras. “Of course, is different now, but still a big part of our playing. Also, there is more focus on team, I think. Canadians like… um. They like creativity, and showing individual talent.”

He wants to say that the Russian style has a tendency towards the robotic, to drilling everything unique about your playing out of you so that you can play less like a team and more like one homogenous super-player, a brick wall moving up and down the ice. But he knows better than to call his country out like that.

“A brief follow-up question before you continue, Ilya,” the journalist says, looking pleased with his answer. So far, so good. “Which style of play do you prefer?”

He feels the collective intake of breath. Russia and Canada have been enemies on the ice pretty much as long as they’ve been playing against each other, and so he knows every year people will be chomping at the bit to find out which side of the fence he falls on. 

But again, he won’t call his country out like that. 

Either of them.

“Whatever style means I win,” he says with a smirk, and he’s rewarded by a few laughs and snorts in the crowd.

“Fair enough. And how have playoff preparations been going with McGill?”

“Very good,” Ilya replies. “Team is working hard, playing well—”

“Your loss against UBC just before the break has been talked about a lot in the news,” another journalist chimes in. 

“Yes, I know this,” Ilya says impatiently. “And—”

“I don’t know if I’d call that playing well,” the same journalist says with an ugly laugh, getting a few looks from the others sitting on the foldout chairs around him. 

“Yes, we lost,” Ilya says, his voice firm and leaving no room for interruption. “By one goal. Is not impossible, even for best team in the league. So we work even harder, and when we come back in January you will see.”

The smug journalist raises his hand again, but doesn’t wait to be called on. “On that note, Ilya, do you think the loss had anything to do with your Captain Shane Hollander’s unexpected absence—and is that something you plan to work out on the ice when you play him on Team Canada next week?”

Ilya clenches his jaw. He hates the implication that it was somehow Shane’s fault for losing, but he hates the idea that he plans on fighting Shane on the ice for it even more.

“No, because I am adult.” He watches his words settle in to the journalist’s microphones and recorders, considering whether Coach Kharlamova would be mad if he stormed out—obviously—and whether he can salvage this—maybe. He’s been waiting for an opportunity like this, if he’s being honest, and had begun to think it wasn’t coming. 

Another deep breath makes it easier to control his anger, and when he speaks again his voice is even and controlled.

“Hollander is amazing player,” he begins. “He is even better Captain. He always thinks many steps ahead, and thinks to correct stuff I can’t even see. I am honoured to be his assistant. We missed him on ice against UBC, yes. But he had—um, family emergency, and we are a team, so we support him and wish his family well. As for game against Canada, I am looking forward to playing against him with my team. We will not fight over something so silly as missing game for emergency. But trust me: Russia will win.”

Ilya searches through the crowd of people chuckling in the dingy media room until he finds the lone camera in the back with the red light blinking that indicates it’s recording, looking directly into the gaping maw of the lens. 

“I still have few tricks up my sleeve Hollander hasn’t seen.”

***

What.

The.

Fuck?

Shane is still frozen, staring at his screen with his mouth agape like an idiot. Did Ilya really just say that on television? Did he talk to Shane, looking directly into the camera that later aired on ESP-fucking-N?

Unbelievable. It’s—well. It’s something. He doesn’t know exactly what to do with it yet, whether he can actually store this Ilya in his head alongside the one that came to his game yesterday and the expression he had as Shane ran away, but he can’t deny the warmth that blooms from his chest as he watches the clip.

Ilya’s face, even just for a moment, is raw, open, and vulnerable. It’s so quick that anyone else might miss it, an infinitesimal slip that only someone close to him will catch, and Shane does. He sees it clear as day.

It’s the same look that he had when Shane came to his dorm room and demanded he speak Russian to him, the same one he had in the brief moment between when Shane said his name and when it all came crashing down.

Okay. Right. Friendship. Team bonding. Normalcy. Shane can do this. He can pretend he didn’t spend the last two hours spiralling silently over that clip until JJ gave him a strange look from his bed across the room and announced that they were going to hang out with the rest of the guys. Easy.

Only he can’t do this, because when JJ said the guys Shane thought he meant the Canadian team. Instead, he throws over his shoulder just as he leaves their room, “by the way, Bood says to bring stuff to swim. Apparently their hotel has a killer pool.”

Shane freezes halfway to the door. He means the Marauders, then, his team, not… wow. Okay.

Shane’s mind is whirring as he rummages through the bottom of his suitcase for the swim trunks he always throws in there after the disastrous tournament when he was sixteen and Hayden suggested they go skinny dipping since neither of them brought anything. He is not going to sit on the sidelines this time.

Will Ilya be there, he wonders? Will he look at him? And—and if he does, will it be like that?

Shane doesn’t know. He doesn’t know a lot of things these days. 

After one more beat of hesitation, he turns back to his suitcase and grabs the bag neatly tucked in the corner along with his trunks. He feels bad for not having the chance to give Luca the new gloves before his first game, and for barely acknowledging the kid when they were on the ice besides a curt nod, so he hopes he gets the chance to make up for it, somehow.

He has a lot of things to make up for when it comes to the Marauders.

The teasing begins as soon as he gets down to the lobby and sees both the Canadian and American Marauders waiting by the coffee machine.

“Ah, the prodigal son finally decided to join us!” Hayden pretends to swoon, Marly fanning him. “Guys, I don’t know if I can take it—he’s just so talented—”

“Fuck off, Hayd,” Shane replies, but he’s grinning a little. This, at least, is normal.

“Man, did you see ESPN going on and on about him earlier?” Bood adds. “It was endless. Like, we get it, Hollzy’s the best player the world has ever seen, blah blah blah.”

“If they keep blowing so much smoke up your ass, you’re gonna blow up like a balloon and float away like Aunt Marge,” Wyatt agrees with a laugh, frowning when everyone looks confused. “Prisoner of Azkaban? Anyone?”

What the hell is an Azkaban? Wisely, Shane opts to stay silent. 

“C’mon, guys, Cap deserves it,” JJ says. “Everyone knows Canada’s gonna take gold.”

This dissolves the group into a predictable argument about how the US team is going to smoke Canada and vice versa, but it doesn’t take long for the conversation to be steered back to the ESPN coverage of the championship as they exit their hotel and hop the snow banks to cross the street. They all seem to be riveted by the fact that Ilya called Shane out on TV like that.

“Do you think he’s trying to fuel some… I don’t know, some, like, rivalry storyline?” Hayden says thoughtfully, then curses as they’re battered by another onslaught of wind. “Fuck, it’s cold.”

“No,” Shane says immediately, biting his tongue to stop himself from saying more. He thinks his certainty is noteworthy enough, because Hayden cuts him a look. “I mean… I don’t know. He’s competitive, sure, but he hates press. I don’t think he’d make anything up that they could sink their teeth into, you know?”

It does make him wonder. He’d debated already whether this was another mind game from Ilya, designed to throw him off so he could win. But he knows, he knows Ilya wouldn’t do that.

“He did defend you,” Hayden muses. “Y’know, when that guy tried to slam you for needing to go home early. You should just tell them your mom was in the hospital. Hearing she got her appendix taken out will shut them all up for good, then you won’t need Rozanov to stick up for you.”

Shane winces. It had been a cheap lie, and Hayden had even called him over the break to see how his mom was doing. He was concerned, being a good friend, and Shane was lying. He’s lying about a lot of things nowadays. The untruth of it all sits rancid in his stomach. It’s not like he could tell Hayden what really happened, though, and it had been the first thing he could think of. 

“He wasn’t—he wasn’t sticking up for me,” Shane says weakly, the words hollow even to his own ears as the sliding doors of the hotel opposite his own open with a whooshing sound. “He was just being a good teammate.”

“Who’s a good teammate?”

It’s Ilya, because of course it is. Even at times like today, times when Shane knows he’ll be there, he always seems to pop up when Shane least expects it. It’s a superpower. Or a curse. Shane hasn’t decided yet. 

“JJ,” Hayden lies smoothly, because he’s a God amongst men and Shane has just been gawping at Ilya like an idiot instead of responding. “He said he’d order us pizza if all they have is fish at the buffet tonight. We’re so tired of fucking Omega-3s.”

Shane isn’t, of course, he quite likes the fish, and he shudders to think of the greasy slices of pepperoni that will no doubt be wafted in front of his face in a poor attempt at enticing him later, but he bites his tongue.

“Captain is having pizza during tournament?” Ilya whistles. He sounds doubtful, but amused nonetheless. “Now I have seen everything.”

“I probably won’t have any,” Shane says lamely. “But, um. Yeah. JJ really wants it.”

The three of them fall into a silence that Hayden probably doesn’t notice the tension in for the few seconds before their teammates reach them, and Shane takes advantage of the opportunity to ogle Ilya without any eyes on him. 

He looks good. Like, not good—his curls are unkempt and a little limp, and he looks like he hasn’t slept since the tournament started—but his lips are as pouty and kissable as ever, the feminine shape mismatched against the sharp angles of his cheekbones and jaw, and his eyes are bright when they turn to fix Shane in a cool gaze. It’s very fucking annoying that he still manages to look like a Greek god after all that.

“Um.” Ilya shifts from foot to foot. Does he seem…nervous? “Tough game yesterday.”

“Yeah,” Shane replies, both relieved that this is a topic he actually can talk about and wary, like he’s bracing himself for a hit. He searches through his messy brain for something else to say, desperately clinging to the semblance of normalcy they’re putting on for the rest of the team. It’s like there’s some unspoken agreement between them, a desire not to let them see… anything. “Uh, yeah, it was rough. Haas played well, though. He deserves the win after that goal in the third period.”

“It was very good,” Ilya acknowledges, and Shane wants to say, didn’t you leave halfway through the second period? How did you see it? until he realises that Ilya must have put the game on his TV as soon as he got back to the hotel room. Ilya gestures to the drawstring bag clutched in his hand. “You did not give the gloves to him already?”

It takes Shane a minute to remember that Ilya had seen the gloves once when he came over, and he flushes when he remembers what happened next—getting fucked to within an inch of his life with Ilya whispering filth in his ear the whole time, his hand ghosting across Shane’s throat enough to have him coming so hard he saw stars. Judging from the way Ilya’s eyes have darkened and fixed on Shane’s lips, he’s remembering the same thing.

Subconsciously, Shane’s tongue darts out to moisten his bottom lip. Ilya tracks it with all the attention and heat of a starving lion. 

Fuck. He needs to get them back on track somehow. You’re mad at him, he reminds himself firmly. You hate him, remember?

But the litany of fuck Ilya Rozanov, the one that used to run in a loop on his head and went suspiciously quiet for a few weeks until it roared back to life during his time at home, has now turned into something else. Get fucked by Ilya Rozanov, a tiny desperate voice pleads in the back of his head as if part of him is trying to will it to reality.

“Not yet,” Shane says with a weak smile, a little louder than strictly necessary but needed to drown out the voice in his mind. “I, um, I didn’t have time before the game yesterday.”

Ilya grins, though whether he’s just back to play-acting or knows exactly what Shane had just been thinking, it isn’t clear. “Didn’t want him to get the upper hand, yes?”

“No, that’s not—” Shane starts to say, defensive, and then he notices the knowing smirk on Ilya’s face and rolls his eyes. “Whatever.”

“You are good Captain,” Ilya says softly, his eyes far too gentle for Shane to be able to handle right now, and then he turns away and claps his hands. “Right. Who wants to go swimming?”

The team cheers, and the celebration only increases in volume when Luca Haas finally emerges from the elevator with a shy smile and a little wave. He’s clearly embarrassed at being the centre of attention like this, but too bad. He deserves the hype, and besides—it means attention isn’t on Shane instead. 

“Great game yesterday, kid,” Wyatt says, clapping Luca jovially on the back. He glances apologetically at Shane, but Shane knows he’s just teasing. “Of course, not so great for them, but…”

“You deserved the win,” Shane tells him honestly, and Luca nods in thanks.

Shane asks him about what the Swedish team is like, and Luca’s happy chatter fills the conversation easily as they all head towards the elevators and pile in to go up to the seventh floor. It’s moments like these when Shane feels like he might actually be a good captain, when he’s encouraging and complimentary where it’s deserved and offering simple words of advice when mistakes are pointed out. It always is easier in these in-between moments, Shane more able to find the words to motivate the players when he’s not standing in front of all of them at once. 

They change in the swanky area that’s more like a spa than a locker room into their swim trunks, Shane pointedly averting his eyes even more than usual because he cannot risk Ilya seeing him sneaking a glance, and then head out to the pool.

Shane is surprised to see it mostly empty, only a few kids playing at the opposite end with their parents splayed out on the deck chairs nearby. Ilya waves jovially at a woman offering who is clearly her daughter a towel, and she just lowers the sunglasses on her nose—they’re indoors and it’s December, who would wear sunglasses right now?—and peers across the water before waggling her fingers in a lazy wave back.

“Who is that?” Marly asks as they all toe off their slides and set their towels on the long bench stretching one side of the wall. 

“My coach,” Ilya says.

Chouinard whistles. “She’s hot. Think you could put in a good word for me, Rozy?”

“Not a chance,” Ilya replies with a laugh. Shane fights not to let his eyes flicker over to Ilya’s bare chest glistening from their pre-swim showers. “Her husband is right there, also. Probably not good look for her captain to try setting her up with child.”

“I’m not a child!” Chouinard protests to dismissive jeers from the others. 

“Our coach is here too, dumbass,” JJ hisses at him, and Shane spots Coach Dubreuil reading a book on one of the other chairs. The team has already moved on to more important things—namely, seeing who can get the biggest splash out of their cannonball off the diving board.

The room is quickly filled with cheers and whoops as the team splashes around, elated at the rare moment of freedom. It’s the only point in the whole tournament where all three teams that the Marauders are comprised of have a whole afternoon off at the same time, and Shane is surprised by the relief he feels as he looks around the room.

Of course, plenty of these guys are also on the Canadian team—it’s not like he’s a stranger in his own locker room, not like he knows Ilya is—but there’s a certain ease to his body as he dives into the water amongst them all together.

It’s in the way that Luca shoves water at Wyatt, only to get dunked by JJ. It’s in the way that Hayden and Bood tackle Troy while Ilya cackles, ducking under to lift Troy onto his shoulders and suggest a chicken fight. It’s the way that he looks to Shane when Hayden has been defeated, triumphant and panting and glorious, and asks who’s next.

When no one from the team volunteers, Ilya turns to the five kids that have been slowly edging closer the whole time and crooks a finger. “How about a race?”

Some of the littler ones edge behind their friends and siblings, clearly nervous, but a little girl no older than seven boldly steps up and juts her chin. “I could beat you!”

“You?!” Ilya exclaims, his outrage so over the top that the kids immediately giggle. “You are tiny. I could beat you in my sleep.”

“I’m captain of my swim team at school!” she shouts back.

Beside Shane, Marly whistles. “She’s got you beat, Roz,” he calls out. “He’s only the assistant captain.”

Ilya lets them all boo him, shooting a joking glare at Troy when he joins in, and then folds his arms. Jesus, they’re massive. “Well, I am captain of swim team, too. My team is in Russia, you wouldn’t know the name.”

The little girl scowls. “You’re lying.”

Ilya shrugs. “Who wants to find out?”

Ilya proceeds to spend the next twenty minutes doing race after race with the kids. A few of the other guys like Luca and JJ and Marly join in, but even they soon tire of the theatrics—because Ilya goes all out. Every time, he keeps up with them with slow, sanguine strides until five metres from the end, where he inevitably is hit with an obstacle. At first he’s occupied sabotaging the other guys on the team, claiming he’s just giving the kids a fighting chance by tackling Marly and holding him underwater, and then he starts pretending to get attacked by a shark halfway instead. A few times he is the shark, playfully ducking the kids under the water and laughing when they come up screaming to go again.

And Ilya is game every time, until finally he stands up in the shallow end and announces. “Okay. All or nothing—final race. Hey, Hollander!”

Shane startles. He’s pretty sure his gaze had been stuck tracking a bead of water as it made its way down Ilya’s chest, and from the look on Ilya’s face he knows it. Fuck, it was a bad idea to keep watching the races. He quickly smooths his expression into a scowl. 

“Yeah?”

“Watch us. Make sure none of these cheaters cheat, okay?”

Shane just nods, too afraid to say anything more for fear it’ll come out as a whine.

As soon as the race starts, all thoughts of watching the kids disappear. Shane can only see Ilya, cutting through the water with the kind of refined precision that says he was made for it, the muscles in his back rippling as he reaches forward with a blade-shaped hand and pulls himself across the pool, legs kicking behind him. 

Shane pointedly refuses to look at his ass. He’s pretty sure he’d die if he did.

He does look at Ilya’s face every time he lifts it to breathe, the way his eyes dart around to check how far the kids are behind him as he goes, the slight grin lifting the corners of his lips. He looks joyful, lighter than Shane has seen him since the tournament started, and he’s just glad he had a tiny bit to do with it.

Then the theatrics begin again. This time, Ilya stops dead in the middle of the pool and frowns, craning his neck to hear something beneath the surface. “Hollander, you hear that?” he calls out. “Sounds like pretty song. I want to follow and listen more.”

The little girl that first stepped forward has now reached the other end of the pool, and her eyes widen when she hears Ilya. “A siren song?”

“Yes, this,” Ilya says with a nod, and then begins to sink into the water. When only his mouth is above the surface, he gurgles, “so pretty—must—hear it—”

And then he’s gone, one hand dramatically reaching out for help as he disappears into the depths, and the girl dives back in his direction, quickly followed by the others.

Ilya allows himself to be pulled up, performing a pretty convincing dead man’s float in the water as the kids poke at him, giggling, until finally he lifts his head and roars at them playfully. The kids scream, then almost drown from laughing, and Ilya hauls the two littlest ones that are clearly struggling in the deep end under each arm with ease and strides towards the edge of the pool.

He plops them each down on the cool tile, two more kids now clinging to his back as he only pretends to complain, and studies the little boy and girl—they must be twins—before saying something to them in a low voice. They both look a little shy and sad to have been defeated by the water the big kids are playing in, but whatever Ilya says makes them beam.

They stand, toddling over on their little legs towards their parents. “No running!” Ilya calls after them, his voice dripping with fondness, and the kids dutifully slow down to a walk. 

The coach for Russia that Ilya pointed out earlier lowers her sunglasses again and says something to him in rapid Russian, and he laughs before shrugging and heading back over to the other players. The last of the kids have finally clambered off of him, apparently content with their pool noodles in the shallow end, and Ilya rolls his shoulders as he reaches the group that was watching. 

Shane is amongst them, and he’s careful to avert his eyes in case Ilya sees the emotion he knows is written plainly across them. He hadn’t known Ilya was so good with kids, but he clearly loves them—he’s patient and kind in all the places Shane knows he’d be irritable and snappy, always bothered by kids’ inability to follow instructions properly and tendency to give up when they can’t do something immediately. Ilya, apparently, is more than happy to talk them through it all.

“Anyone up for chicken fight rematch?” Ilya says, putting his hands on his hips, and this is not helpful because it immediately draws Shane’s gaze to the sharp V of his hips disappearing beneath the dark trunks that cling almost obscenely to certain areas. 

He’s so entranced by the sight, in fact, that he only just has time to avert his eyes before JJ nudges him. “We could so take him.”

Ugh. Shane wishes he could take him.

But he can’t do that, obviously, and Shane… well. Shane does like competition. 

That’s how he finds himself perched atop JJ a minute later, Ilya complaining about the unfair advantage of JJ’s massive size until Troy steps up and sarcastically proclaims himself the answer to Ilya’s prayers. In response, Ilya just puts an elbow atop Troy’s head with ease and pushes him underwater. 

Shane ends up fighting Ilya on Marly’s shoulders. He’s never really noticed how truly massive Marly is, but he always notices how big Ilya’s thighs are—knows them by heart—so he’s surprised to see that Marly’s broad chest gives him a run for his money.

Ilya just smirks when he sees Shane’s cheeks darken, Shane barely able to force his gaze up to meet Ilya’s jubilant eyes as Luca prepares to referee.

“You’re going down, Hollander,” Ilya says, and Shane finds himself grinning back.

“You first.”

Egged on by cheers from the kids that have come over to join them, they lunge for each other when Luca shouts “GO!” Shane has to remind himself repeatedly that he’s not in his bed and tangled in the sheets, wrestling with Ilya just to pin him down and kiss his way down his body, he’s in a public pool, and there are children, and his dick is right behind JJ Boizeau’s head.

Ignoring Ilya’s maniacal grin as he scrabbles for Shane’s  nipple—he always does like to play dirty—helps. It’s easier when he focuses on the task, the competition, and Ilya might have ferocious power on the ice but Shane happens to know that Ilya bruised his ribs in the second period of his first game in the tournament.

What? He never said he didn’t play dirty, too.

He’s reaching to shove Ilya in the spot just below his beautiful chest when he suddenly sways violently to one side, JJ almost losing his balance when Marly beats Shane to the punch and shoves his ride first.

“Fucking rude,” Shane exclaims, only sparing a moment to hope that their splashes are loud enough to drown out his cursing for the kids before he grabs Ilya’s shoulders and pulls.