Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories:

F/F, M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid

Relationships:

Ilya Rozanov/Shane Hollander, Rose Landry/Svetlana Vetrova, Rose Landry & Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander & Hayden Pike

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Hayden Pike, Yuna Hollander, David Hollander, Rose Landry, Svetlana Vetrova, Original Female Character(s), Jackie Pike, Ruby Pike, Jade Pike

Additional Tags:

Getting Together, Emotional Slowburn, Making Out, Emotional Infidelity, First Time, Explicit Sexual Content, Secret Child, Car Accidents, Hurt/Comfort, Feelings Realization, Unreliable Narrator (Shane Hollander), Love Confessions, Coming Out, Mutual Pining, Masturbation, Dry Humping, Come Eating, Finger Sucking, Hand Jobs, Hurt Ilya Rozanov, Injury, Hospitals, Flirting, Idiots in Love, Humor, Enemies to Lovers, POV Shane Hollander, Light Angst, Lesbian Rose Landry, Good Friend Hayden Pike, Happy Ending, Crying, Panic Attacks, Lesbian Svetlana Vetrova, Choking Kink

Language:

English

Series:

Part 7 of cjo + hr

Collections:

Prongs_Antlerz favourite hockey yaoi, 🏒 Hockey Boys 🥅

Stats:

Published: 2026-02-02 Updated: 2026-02-19 Words: 47,857 Chapters: 4/7

temptation

Summary

“I have a secret,” Ilya whispers. 

Half-awake, Shane blinks at him sleepily. “What is it?” 

“I cannot say.” Ilya’s eyes flicker between Shane’s. “But this secret, it is why things are complicated. It is why I didn’t go to Russia when my father died.” 

OR: a rewrite of Heated Rivalry, with a twist.

Notes

Chapter 1: anyone quite like you

Chapter Notes

so… did you read heated rivalry and wish it delved into shane’s state of mind a little more? did you secretly hope the sex scenes would be longer? did a part of you want to gently probe shane and ilya’s minds during their outing and subsequent coming out? did you want more yearning, more lesbians, an insane amount of oomph? well, let me tell you, you’ve come to the right place.

cw: emotional infidelity is minor (canon compliant. shane has a girlfriend when they meet. they break up quickly and he never actually cheats).

this fic’s twist is not everyone's cup of tea. it IS fun though. if you enjoy mystery, please read without clicking below (we recommend this, but know it’s not for everyone). if you do not, please feel free to click da spoilers button.

spoilers

ilya has a secret child, born in 2009 to an original female character. shane does not know about the child for many years.

in the meantime — enjoy the first chapter of temptation!

December 2008 

Shane Hollander is seventeen, dehydrated, and pretty sure he’s being spied on. 

Not that it matters. On the ice, he’s at the top of his game. Following his mother’s advice, he’s taking the risky shots, showing off just enough to garner attention without making himself seem reckless. 

It’s a few days before Christmas, and he’s preparing for the World Junior Hockey Championships. There is nowhere on Earth he would rather be. 

For Shane, the World Junior Hockey Championships, in combination with the upcoming NHL draft, means proving himself, and if he’s lucky, setting his career up for life. It all starts here. Everyone knows that. 

It just so happens that he’ll also get a look at Russia’s young phenom, too. Ilya Rozanov, already a competent, ruthless player — a sure-to-be handpicked rival, just for Shane. 

Shane knows he can beat Rozanov. He has to. He’s not going to let Rozanov lead the Russian team to a gold medal victory. His only genuine (that is to say, realistic) stressor is the upcoming NHL draft, but that isn’t until June. 

Today, the Canadian and Russian teams are both scheduled to practice at the same ice rink. Any minute now, Rozanov could show up. 

Focusing on the game, Shane zips past Davie, a fast but sloppy player, and smashes the puck into the net. Despite having been slighted, Davie whoops enthusiastically, and Shane feels a burst of pride. He’s honing his body and his mind, turning himself into a formidable player — somebody you wouldn’t want to play against, but gloat about playing alongside. 

Panting, he skates around the net, nodding at his coach – who always looks stern, but has never treated him differently because he’s Asian-Canadian, the way some of his teammates have – before coming to a stop beside William. William nudges his arm, jerking his head toward the stands. Shane frowns, craning his neck as he squints, and– 

There. 

Ilya Rozanov. 

Standing smack in the middle of the inner walkway with his hands in his pockets, Ilya Rozanov smirks at him. He looks relaxed, but entirely concentrated. Concentrated, for whatever reason, on Shane. 

Horribly, disturbingly, Shane’s first thought is that Rozanov is beautiful. His honey-blonde hair curls around his ears almost boyishly, in a way that looks effortless. He’s wearing a dark blue hoodie, something Shane himself would wear, and sweatpants—the most boring outfit a person could don, and yet, Shane finds himself imagining the body beneath it, gaze honing in on the mole on Rozanov’s cheek. Does he have more moles? Are they scattered across him like stars? Is he just as pale beneath his clothes as his face is? Is he soft, or is he pure muscle? It’s hard to tell exactly from here, but Shane’s seen enough photos of Rozanov to know he’s got piercing blue eyes. Eyes that are currently locked on Shane. 

Face heating, Shane turns away. 

Jesus. What is he thinking? Why the hell would he picture his biggest rival, someone he’s going to have to compete with relentlessly to be picked first at the NHL draft, naked? 

A whistle is blown, and Shane dutifully skates back into formation. 

Another whistle, and he’s off. 

He feels Rozanov’s eyes on him and plays hard. Somehow harder than he had been before — which he hadn’t even known he was capable of. He tries not to think about that.

What is it Rozanov is seeing, anyway? His dark hair? His freckled, sweaty face? Or is Rozanov cataloguing the way he plays, measuring himself against him? 

Why is the guy spying on him? 

It doesn’t matter, he tells himself firmly. I’m going to beat him anyway. 

They only play for another ten minutes, and somewhere in that time, Rozanov slips away without Shane seeing him go, apparently tired of indulging in espionage. Or maybe his coach called him away. 

Muscles aching, Shane follows his team into the changing room. He scrubs himself clean and changes into fresh clothes. Slowly, his team trickles out. 

The Russian team is probably changed by now, might even be on the ice already. Shane would be stupid not to take a look. He’s just returning the favour, he reasons with himself. There’s nothing wrong with employing your rival’s techniques. 

Biting his lip, he grabs his phone out of his cubby and maneuvers over to Messages. 

SHANE: Practice running overtime. Pick me up in 1 hour? 

MOM: Are you sure? We can come watch you! 

SHANE: That’s OK. Running drills. Will wait out front when done. 

MOM: OK.
Proud of you, honey. 

Exhaling through his nose, Shane pockets his phone and grabs his bag, leaving the changing room feeling distinctly like he’s doing something he shouldn’t be doing. 

He finds a seat a few rows above the penalty box and sits down. Then, fixing his posture, Shane watches Ilya Rozanov play. It’s only fair; Rozanov watched him play. He should be afforded the same privilege. 

The Russian team – just like the Canadian team – aren’t wearing jerseys with names printed on them, but Rozanov is hard to miss anyway. He plays like his ass is on fire, like he’ll die if he doesn’t recapture the puck. He’s a bull, a mass of muscle and instinct, who just so happens to shoot with razor-sharp precision. At once, Shane is enraptured. He can’t look away for a second. 

Both Shane and Rozanov are eligible for the NHL entry draft. They’re both stars in the making, both playing to win and establish themselves as the best hockey players in the league. Maybe even in the world. 

A few minutes in, and he has to admit Rozanov is as impressive as everyone’s been saying. The guy moves like he was born on the ice. Like he understands, intimately, how to exercise his talents. He’s a goddamn marvel. 

Halfway through the practice, Shane swears Ilya looks right at him, head turning subtly as his nostrils flare, panting hard. He looks almost surprised to see him, before his face morphs into something determined. Something challenging. Unsettled, Shane takes that as his cue, standing as soon as Rozanov looks away. He ducks his head as he departs. 

He darts back into the changing rooms, finding a bench to sit on, and wills his mind to go blank. 

Shane’s not entirely sure why he’s lingering in the changing rooms, why he texted his parents and asked them to pick him up an entire hour later than they had initially decided. He had lied to his mother, for maybe the first time in his life, all for– 

For what, exactly? 

Nothing, he tells himself firmly. I just needed a moment alone. A break. Normal people take breaks.

He’s waiting. He knows he is. 

“Shit,” he breathes, standing again. He slings his bag over his shoulder, grimacing at himself, at his out-of-character behaviour. He should get out of here. He should, but he could… take the scenic route. Maybe meander down the hallway connected to Rozanov’s– the Russian team’s changing room. 

Aimlessly – as aimless as one’s intention can be with a destination in mind – Shane shuffles down a hallway, and then another. He halts when he hears voices, loud boisterous laughing, followed by a slew of Russian words he simply has no chance of trying to translate. 

He presses his back against a wall, arms tucked tight against his chest, and then he waits. Again. 

He’s listening out for Rozanov’s voice, hoping to catch him on his way out. Just to say hello, to establish contact. A few moments of meagre eye contact won’t do — not if they are going to be playing against each other. It’s unsportsmanlike. 

A few people leave, sparing Shane a quick glance. A few of them nod at him. One guy offers him a tentative smile that Shane returns eagerly. Nobody says anything to him directly, though. 

Maybe it’s a Russian thing? 

Sighing, Shane folds his arms across his chest. One by one, the Russian team filters out. Shane waits, and waits, thinking about the chicken salad he has prepped and ready to go in the fridge at home. 

And then, abruptly, he realises the changing room is quiet.

Shit. Did he somehow miss Rozanov leaving? 

Hastily shoving off the wall, Shane turns the corner and– 

Jumps back. 

Rozanov blinks at him very slowly, like a chameleon. Distantly, Shane registers that he’s quite tall, up close. He’s got at least four inches on Shane. 

“Uh,” Shane manages, voice cracking. “Sorry.” 

Rozanov regards him silently, nodding at him almost hesitantly. It’s as though all that bravado he had on the ice earlier has just… vanished. Or maybe he thinks it’s cool, acting like the quiet, brooding type. 

Hell, maybe he is the quiet, brooding type. Shane doesn’t know. 

Sighing, Rozanov leans back on the balls of his feet and adjusts his bag over his shoulder. 

A second ticks by. Two. 

Awkwardly, Shane coughs. 

“Bless you.” 

Bless you, Shane thinks, almost hysterically. The first words Rozanov has ever spoken to him. 

“I was coughing,” Shane says. 

“Okay.” Ilya sticks his hand in his pocket, retrieving a packet of cigarettes. Shaking a cigarette out, he smiles. Slowly, accent thick, he says, “In that case, go fuck yourself.”

At once, Shane feels knocked off-kilter. What is this guy’s deal? 

Bristling, Shane watches Rozanov stick the cigarette in his mouth. He grabs a lighter out of his pocket, but doesn’t light it. 

Shane clenches his hands, rallying. He doesn’t have to be rude just because Rozanov has decided to be a douchebag. Unlike Rozanov, he plans to maintain a good reputation. He has to think about his career. 

“I– uh, I wanted to say hi,” he starts, careful to keep his tone even. He sticks out his hand, arm hovering in the air. “I’m Shane Hollander. We’ll probably be seeing a lot of each other.” 

It’s true. Until a few days into January, the two of them will be playing against each other on the same ice. 

“Okay,” Rozanov says, looking bored. He does not take Shane’s hand. 

“Yeah,” Shane says wearily, dropping his arm. He hates how slighted he feels by it. “So, you know. Are, um… are your parents here?” 

“No.” 

Jesus, what’s with the monosyllabic responses? 

“That must be rough,” Shane says, losing steam. “With Christmas, and everything.” 

Rozanov stays silent for a moment, eyebrows twitching minutely. It occurs to Shane suddenly that Rozanov is Russian, and English might not be a language he is entirely proficient in. Privately, he reminds himself to speak more slowly. 

“Is fine,” Rozanov says, finally. 

Nodding, Shane flickers his eyes away, before they fly back to Rozanov. He doesn’t know why, but it’s hard to look away from him, like he’s got some sort of gravitational pull. 

Rozanov flicks open the lid of his lighter then, like he’s readying to leave. Hastily, Shane clears his throat. 

“The tournament’s gonna be in my hometown, next year,” he says. “Ottawa.” 

At this, Rozanov arches an eyebrow. Taking care to pronounce each word, he asks, “Is more exciting in Ottawa?" 

Surprised, Shane huffs a laugh. “Than here? I mean, to a local, probably. But it’s just as cold.” 

“Good for ice,” Rozanov says. 

“Too bad we play inside.” 

Rozanov laughs, and Shane’s stomach swoops. 

Shoving the sudden swarm of butterflies in his stomach down, down, down, Shane holds out his hand. 

“Good luck, Rozanov,” he says, finding that he means it. 

Rozanov smirks, and this time, he accepts the handshake. His hand is cold, fingers calloused as they wrap around Shane’s. It feels, impossibly, familiar. Like Shane’s hand remembers Rozanov’s from another time, another place. 

“You will not be so friendly when we beat you,” Rozanov says. 

Shane rolls his eyes. “That’s so not happening.” 

For a long, electric moment, Rozanov just looks at him intently. Insanely, Shane worries Rozanov is seeing something in him that Shane himself isn’t even privy to. Like he’s picked up on something hidden, something unknown. The thought is half unsettling, half terribly thrilling.

Shane realises, all at once, that he’s still holding Rozanov’s hand, the point of connection remaining far past what is socially normal or acceptable. A zing of embarrassment shoots up Shane’s spine, heat blossoming on the back of his neck. God, he’s making himself look like an idiot. Rozanov probably thinks he’s a moron. Still, Shane stays, waiting for Rozanov to pull back first. It’s too late for Shane to do it now.

Finally dropping Shane’s hand, Rozanov shrugs. Putting the cigarette in his mouth, he starts walking backwards. Right before turning, he says, “See you, Hollander.” 

And then he’s gone.

“So,” his mom says in the car, catching his eye in the rearview mirror. “Did you run into Ilya Rozanov?” 

“I did,” Shane admits. 

“What was he like?” 

Shane mulls it over, realising only then that Rozanov didn’t wish him any luck in return. “Kind of a dick.” 

It’s a good thing he doesn’t need any luck. 

The final game of the tournament rolls around, and the Russian team wins. 

It’s humiliating on more than the surface level. This, losing to a team that plays dirty, makes Shane feel almost helpless. How is he supposed to lead his team to victory when the Russian team, at every single one of their games, lacks sportsmanship? 

The Russian team barely puts a lid on it, halting their celebration only long enough to line up and shake the Canadian team’s hands. Rozanov smirks when he gets to Shane. Squaring his shoulders, Shane grits out, “Congratulations.” 

“See you at the draft,” Rozanov says. Smugness emanates from him in waves, and the thing is — Shane can’t blame him. He played incredibly, barely letting Shane breathe. If it were Shane, he wouldn’t be smug, but he’d be riding the high of the performance for days.

During the ceremony, Shane is given a silver medal. It feels more like a burden, a representation of his failure, than an acknowledgement of his talents. A medal that says: you were almost good enough. Almost. 

He let Canada down. Canada had placed its bets on him, on Shane Hollander, and he had failed. He was supposed to bring home gold, and he hadn’t. The measly silver around his neck weighs heavy in a way that makes his chest ache.

Blinking back frustrated, angry tears, Shane wonders if maybe this is his ego’s fault. He’s met his match, someone who plays on the same level as him, and he hadn’t prepared for it. Distantly, quietly, he thinks: Who could ever prepare for Ilya Rozanov? Nothing could’ve prepared him for the energy, the brute force, the skill.

That’s probably why he feels so off-balance whenever Rozanov looks at him, why he had to resist the urge to shove him every time the guy had smirked during a face-off.  

Yeah, he decides, ignoring the droning Russian national anthem as it echoes over the arena. That’s what it is.

2009

In the end, both Rozanov and Shane are named league and playoff MVPs, in part for being the scoring leaders of their respective leagues, but also for their excellent captaincy. It’s fair, Shane concedes. They both led their teams to the championship. Still, Rozanov is drafted first. Again, for the second time in his life, Shane comes in second. 

The Montreal Voyageurs claim Shane, and it’s pretty cool, being drafted by the most legendary franchise in the league. They are also located only a couple of hours away from Shane’s hometown in Ottawa, so there really isn’t any point in complaining, even though being picked second, especially after Rozanov, stings. 

Of course, Ilya Rozanov is drafted by Montreal’s archrivals, the Boston Bears. This would be fine, except for the fact that Rozanov’s career is now intrinsically linked to Shane’s. Their rivalry, as manufactured as it sometimes feels (every crowd loves having sides to pick), is officially off the ground. 

Beside Shane, Rozanov shuffles. All around them, photographers are yelling things, asking them to smile wide, to embrace each other. 

Like hell is Shane putting his arm around Rozanov. But he’ll smile. With teeth. Briefly. As a treat. 

“Congrats,” Shane says once the flashing cameras have dwindled, sticking out his hand the way he had a year ago, at the World Junior Hockey Championships. Like he had then, Rozanov accepts the handshake. 

“Thank you.” 

He does not congratulate Shane back. Silently, Shane fumes. 

This time, thankfully, Shane breaks the handshake first, within an appropriate time frame. Something that looks like shock flares in Rozanov’s eyes — like he’d expected Shane to wait for him to do it. Again. Something satisfied settles in Shane’s chest, just behind his ribs.

He holds onto that feeling the entire way back to the hotel, through getting changed into his suit, and re-entering the lobby. There, he pretends to mingle while his mother does the talking, but his focus lies elsewhere. 

He doesn’t even realise he’s looking for Rozanov until he spots him. Rozanov is standing on the balcony overlooking the lobby, next to an old, bald, angry-looking man, and someone Shane recognises as the Boston Bears’ representative. He’s also looking right at Shane, with an unreadable expression on his face. 

Rozanov looks like some sort of GQ model, with his styled hair and dark navy suit. His suit hugs his thighs and arms in a way that makes it very, very clear it was tailored to him perfectly. It makes him look expensive. Untouchable. 

Shane looks away first. 

Somehow, they don’t cross paths the entire evening. 

Back in his hotel room (with his parents sleeping just across the hall), Shane tosses and turns. He can’t sleep, oscillating violently between the urge to shower and the urge to work out. 

He spends thirty minutes feverishly poring over the newly published articles about Rozanov. And then, mouth tight, he throws his clothes back on and leaves the hotel room. 

This city is largely unfamiliar enough to him, but he feels safe enough to go running. He’ll go slow, he decides as he starts a light jog. That way, he won’t get too absorbed in the motions and get lost, like he sometimes does back home. 

For a while, Shane runs aimlessly. He turns a corner, heading toward a nearby park, and veers onto a downtrodden path he had walked with his dad earlier in the day. 

He slows down when he hears fast footsteps approaching, head turning just in time to see fucking Ilya Rozanov fly past him. 

At once, Shane kicks into high gear. 

For ten minutes, Shane Hollander chases Ilya Rozanov through a park, only barely resisting the urge to tell him through clenched teeth he’s an asshole. 

Only when his legs feel like they’re about to fall off, lungs burning, does Shane finally slow down. 

“Shit,” Shane wheezes, falling gracelessly onto the ground. 

Ahead of him, Rozanov leans over, bracing himself on his knees as he pants. Then, pulling a hand through his sweat-damp hair, he walks back over to Shane and sprawls out opposite him. In the movement, Rozanov’s foot knocks against his. Shane ignores the way it makes his own panting breath catch. He ignores the way it almost seemed purposeful, too.

Head tipping back, Rozanov pulls at his soaked, sleeveless t-shirt, legs falling open. Shane watches him helplessly, something hot and heavy settling in his gut. 

“You following me?” Shane exhales. His chest feels light, despite the heavy exhaustion weighing his shoulders down. 

Chest heaving, Rozanov leans back on his hands. “No. I saw you from far away. You looked tired. Like old dog.” 

A laugh bursts out of Shane, and Rozanov’s eyebrows fly up. He looks almost pleased by Shane’s reaction. 

“So you decided to race me?” Shane asks, pulling his leg up to rest his head on his knee. Rozanov watches the movement, eyes flickering down for a split second before finding Shane’s face again. 

“In case you collapsed,” Rozanov explains. “Did not want them to find you uh–” A furrow of brow — like he’s chasing a word just out of reach. Then, “In heap.”

Shane huffs another laugh, staring at him disbelievingly. Though he’s smiling, he thinks, like he just can’t help it. Rozanov makes him do and feel a lot of things he feels like he can’t help—he makes him feel impulsive and stupid. “You are such an asshole.” 

Rozanov makes a disapproving noise, something close to a scoff. “I am gentleman.” 

Shaking his head, Shane drops his head and tries to catch his breath. He’s not sure why his face feels warm with Rozanov’s direct attention on it; he’s glad he’s flushed enough to cover the blush. 

“Good day, yes?” Rozanov says after a moment. 

“Yeah,” Shane agrees. “Yeah, it was.” 

Rozanov tilts his head, eyes glimmering in the moonlight. It’s a little hard to look this directly at him. He’s dragged in, though, by some sort of gravity that Rozanov has on him. Shane feels stuck there, his attention entirely centred around Ilya Rozanov. He leans forward, licking sweat off his lips. “Everything you dreamed of?” 

With the loss still weighing unpleasantly at the back of the mind, he flatly says, “Almost.”

Rozanov grins, unapologetic and bright. “Sorry.” 

“Fuck off.” 

“We will see each other,” Rozanov says. “More than before.” 

Shane furrows his eyebrows until he figures out what Rozanov means. “Oh. Um, yeah. Montreal and Boston play against each other a lot.” 

“Should be interesting.” With that, Rozanov pulls his cigarettes out of his pocket, expertly retrieving one with just his mouth. He lights it quickly, taking a quick pull. Then, unexpectedly, he holds it out to Shane. 

“Ew.” Shane wrinkles his nose. “I don’t smoke.” 

Rozanov doesn’t say anything. He only raises his eyebrows. 

At once, it feels like a challenge. 

“Fine.” 

Rozanov crawls over on his knees, lit cigarette dangling between his fingers. In what looks to be a practised motion, Rozanov spins his hand like he himself is going to tuck the end between Shane’s lips for him. Shane, operating almost instinctively even though he’s never done this before, parts his mouth expectantly.

The corner of Rozanov’s mouth ticks up like he’s won something. Shane’s not quite sure what. He was meeting the challenge, but now he feels more like a prey staring up into the looming figure of a sharp-eyed predator. Like he’s been tricked. He feels warm all over in a way he can’t blame on the running.

Rozanov waits another beat, hand still hovering between them, before tapping the burned end of the cigarette to the dirt beneath them. “You going to take it, Hollander?”

Embarrassment blossoms, unfurling over his cheeks and the tips of his ears in a bright shade of pink. “Yeah,” he says, lifting a hand. He wipes it off on the side of his pants before taking the bud between his own fingers, watching the bright ember at the other side of it. Hesitantly, against everything his mother has ever told him, he brings it to his mouth.

Rozanov watches the movement like a hawk. Shane catches his eyes as he seals his lips around it. Rozanov’s still there, right above him, looking so tall, and wide, and—

“Inhale,” Rozanov urges. “Slow.”

Shane swallows thickly, mouth already tingling with the unfamiliar feeling of smoke filling it. 

He inhales.

And then, violently, unpleasantly, he coughs. The cigarette almost drops entirely from his hand, head turning to the side as he sputters and gasps, the inside of his throat scorched. His eyes, alongside the rest of him, burn in discomfort. He holds the cigarette out, as if it even being near him is making it worse, and Rozanov takes it from him as Shane gasps a steadying breath.

Eyes bright and amused, Rozanov murmurs, “Bless you.” 

“Fuck off,” Shane says, throat raw and burning. How the hell does Rozanov smoke those things? 

“Okay,” Rozanov agrees, and just like that, he’s on his feet again. He puts out the cigarette on the back of the packet and slips the half-finished cigarette pack into it. Like he’s saving it for later. 

He turns, and Shane realises that Rozanov really is leaving. Shit. A strange part of him has the instinct to lurch forward and wrap his hand around Rozanov’s wrist, asking him to stay—but that would be humiliating. Far more humiliating than choking on the first inhale of a disgusting cigarette. 

“Bye,” he tries to say, but it comes out sounding more like a question. He feels unbearably dizzy, by something more than just how unmoored Rozanov consistently seems to make him feel. 

“Bye, Hollander.” Rozanov starts up his jog again, and Shane heaves a sigh, turning in the opposite direction. 

Mouth dry, the taste of smoke lingering on his lips, Shane walks back to the hotel. 

When he climbs into the shower to wash the now dried layer of sweat off his skin, he tries so unbelievably hard to think about his girlfriend and will his cock hard enough to get off. He needs to wipe the thoughts of the day out of his brain, but miserably, he stares down at his dick in his hand, trying to force it into complying and coming up empty-handed.

Then, he thinks about Ilya’s satisfied smirk, that unbearably cocky tick of his mouth as he’d held the cigarette out, just a few inches away from Shane’s mouth. The bright of his eyes, the honey of his curls, the width of his shoulders, the smattering of his moles—the thoughts all roll in at once. His dick, the traitorous thing it is, kicks in his hand in interest, filling out in his hand.

Shane squeezes his eyes closed, hoping to block out the thoughts. Instead, they increase tenfold, filling his brain with almost a highlight reel of every single time Ilya Rozanov has looked at him. Every sharp stare, every smirk, every searching look. Shane’s fist flies over his dick, breath stuttering out of him. 

For the rest of his life, he’s going to have to live with the fact that he ended his NHL draft day by jerking off with Rozanov’s face superimposed on the back of his eyelids. He comes with his name on his lips.

December 2009 - Ottawa

It’s Shane’s second and very last year participating in the World Junior Championship, and he could not have been happier. For one, they were being held in his hometown. For two, he had spent Christmas with his parents and rang in the new year with his teammates. The entire tournament had been going well, and Shane was playing better than ever before. 

Shane wonders, in the quieter moments, if Rozanov spent Christmas alone again. He was probably with his team, Shane supposes. But it’s not the same. Some guilty, juvenile part of him wants to ask Rozanov about it, about his family and how he’s settling into Boston. He’s sure Rozanov misses his parents, like Shane would, if his parents didn’t also come to every single hockey event he ever attended.

He still can’t stop thinking about Rozanov, but thankfully, he has found a way to channel his fixation into something productive. Namely, spending every free moment studying Rozanov’s games. He knew how Rozanov played now, knew what risks he thought were worth taking, knew precisely the second he tended to draw back. He would never be taken off guard, on the ice, by Ilya Rozanov ever again. He would be prepared. He was prepared.

The whole incident with the cigarette hadn’t been a big deal, anyway. It had been adrenaline, nothing more. The shower afterwards had been a slip of control, a momentary lapse in judgement, nothing for Shane to worry about — not when he had so much else to deal with.

He didn’t even look at men. And when he did, it wasn’t real. The men he noticed were unusually and very objectively beautiful — they would catch the eye of anyone, regardless of gender or sexuality. He wouldn’t include any of his teammates in the list of men he was noticing, because that would be inappropriate and make things weird. They were just men. Men that Shane noticed, lingered looking at, and sometimes, rarely, thought about when they weren’t even around.

It’s not like Shane is gay. Despite the fact that he had separated from his girlfriend, something he probably should’ve done a long time ago, he was still interested in girls. He’d even slept with — and even almost gone all the way with — a few since the break-up. So many girls were interested in him. So, it was fine. It was so beyond fine. Ridiculously fine, even.

He isn’t, and hasn’t been, thinking about Ilya’s red, pouty lips at all, and he certainly never for a second even wondered what they’d feel like against his own.

Heads ducked together, Shane and Rozanov were poised and ready for the face-off. The whistle was about to blow, signalling the beginning of their last match together in the World Junior Hockey Championships. 

“This is fun,” Rozanov says, a crooked grin on his face. 

“Sure,” Shane agrees. The puck’s about to drop. 

“Less fun for silver-medalist.” 

Shane almost smiles. “Guess you’ll find out.” It’s the closest to chirping that Shane’s ever come. He feels like a baby chick, on unsteady little feet, but something about Rozanov drags it out in him, makes him want to shove back.

Rozanov’s grin turns sharp, and the next moment, the puck drops. 

They play hard and fast, both so quick on the ice that even Shane almost loses track of Razanov more than once. 

It doesn’t matter in the end, though. Because Shane wins. Canada beats Russia 3:1.

The celebration lasts the entire night, but Shane slips away around midnight. He’s exhausted down to the bone, but there’s a buzzing under his skin, making it impossible to sleep. Like he had during the NHL draft, Shane dodges his team in the hotel bar and leaves the hotel. 

Shane would never in a million years pick up smoking, but leaning against the hotel wall, arms folded around himself in the cold, he kind of wishes he did. Just for something to do with his hands. 

For some reason, he’s not surprised when Ilya Rozanov sidles up beside him a couple of minutes later. Rozanov’s suit scrapes against the wall as he adjusts his stance, crossing his arms with a sigh. Shane resists the urge to look at him. 

“Congratulations,” Rozanov says, breath clouding in the air. It’s the first time he’s ever congratulated Shane. 

Unsurely, slowly, Shane says, “Thanks.” 

“You played good,” Rozanov says, throwing Shane off. Where does he get off, complimenting Shane after a year and a half of douchebaggery? 

“You too.” 

Rozanov doesn’t smile. “I know.” 

Silence follows, and Shane can’t tell if it’s comfortable. He watches Rozanov light a cigarette, taking a long drag of it. Shane’s nose scrunches, but he doesn’t look away as Rozanov’s eyes flutter shut, head tilting back to rest against the brick. 

“Your backhand is weak.” 

“So is yours.” 

Rozanov rolls his head against the wall to look at him. At once, Shane’s body goes warm. 

“You suck at insults,” Rozanov says. 

We’re always outside, Shane wants to say. We’re always outside when you talk to me like I’m a real person. 

He clears his throat. “I’m not an asshole.” 

“Like me?” 

“Yeah. Like you.” 

Rozanov hums. After a moment, he tells him, “I saw the Reebok ad.” 

Shane’s eyebrows fly up, delighted bewilderment making him sway a little. He opens his mouth, pauses, and closes it again. The advertisement clip had been sultry, to say the least — nothing like the ad campaigns he’s taken part in before. They had stripped him bare from the waist-up and sprayed him with a water-lube mixture, the faux sweat dripping down his jaw, throat and then over the muscular plane of his tanned chest. Unprompted, he imagines Ilya Rozanov in a hotel somewhere watching it. Ilya watched it and remembered it. The thought thrills him.

Finally, after a long, loaded pause, he manages to say, “You did?” 

Rozanov nods, like it’s nothing, like he hasn’t just rocked Shane’s world. “They made you sexy.” 

Shane sputters out a laugh. “What?” 

“You know,” Rozanov waves through the air. “Sweaty, wet. Like seeing you… What is the word?” 

Heart rate increasing, Shane watches Rozanov search for the word. He doesn’t even try to offer a word himself, too wrapped up in the way Rozanov bites his lip, in the way he’s remembering- remembering Shane panting, sweating, exerted-

Rozanov snaps his fingers. “Post-coital. After sex, yes?” 

“Yeah,” Shane rasps. A beat. “You really think so?” 

Shane’s not sure he feels particularly sexy when he’s post-coital. He usually just feels kind of queasy.

“Yes.” Rozanov gives him one of his signature crooked smiles, taking a deliberate step forward to bump Shane’s shoulder with his own. “They gave you sex appeal.” 

Shane flickers his eyes between Rozanov’s. He’s so close now, body a long line of heat beside his. “Like you?” 

The question feels more like a confession than a query. 

Rozanov’s smile falters before turning into something playful. His gaze drops, and Shane’s stomach drops with it. “Like me.” 

Without meaning to, Shane looks at Rozanov’s mouth. The curve of his pink lips, the stubble on his chin, the mole on his cheek. He’s beautiful. 

Fuck. 

“Hollander,” Rozanov says, voice low, eyes searching. 

With enormous effort, Shane lifts his gaze to Rozanov’s eyes. His stomach swoops. 

Rozanov drops his cigarette. 

Shane isn’t sure which one of them leans in first, but slowly, surely, the distance between them shrinks. Ilya is watching Shane like a hawk, almost as if he’s expecting Shane to be the one to pull back before they meet in the middle.

The whole world disappears, his attention telescoped entirely on the curve of Ilya’s mouth, of the intensity of his gaze. He finds his foot drifting across the cement, not only closing the space between their lips, but their bodies too. Shane’s not breathing—if he was, he thinks he might be hyperventilating — instead, it sits in his chest, held tight, like he’s waiting for the moment to break.

He thinks, momentarily, that maybe he’s just doing this because Rozanov expects him to pull back. To chicken out.

But then he thinks about how Ilya’s tongue would taste, and about how their mouths would slot together perfectly, and how nice it would feel to have Ilya’s strong nose pressing into his cheek, and that thought disappears in a puff of smoke almost as dense as the ones exhaled when Ilya smokes.

Shane looks between Ilya’s eyes, wetting his lips.

And then, almost tentatively, Rozanov makes the final move, and suddenly, the gap between them isn’t there at all, and Ilya Rozanov is kissing him. His lips are soft and plush, tasting like smoke and a little cold when they find Shane’s. 

Exhaling shakily, Shane presses closer, heat gathering in his belly. He’s never felt like this before. Never felt like there’s liquid fire – pure, unfiltered desire – coursing through his veins from a kiss. 

Rozanov’s tongue darts out, teasing the seam of Shane’s mouth, and Shane melts. His hand darts out to steady himself, fingers closing around Rozanov’s hoodie as he sucks in a breath, mouth parting. Opening granted, Rozanov licks into his mouth, pushing at Shane’s shoulder until Shane falls back against the wall, knees weak. 

Hand cradling Shane’s jaw, Ilya taps at the corner of his mouth. Shane parts his lips again, and Rozanov’s eyes darken, pupils, blowing wide. Panting unevenly, Shane flexes his dick, eyelids fluttering when a wave of anticipatory pleasure licks up his spine. 

Rozanov wets his lips, leaning in again, like he’s going to kiss Shane open-mouthed and wet, and- 

A sudden, jarring ringing. 

They startle apart, staring at each other for a beat. Jerkily, Rozanov reaches into his pocket and grabs his phone. He checks the Caller ID and picks up immediately, turning away from Shane. 

Hands pressed to the cold wall behind him, Shane stares at Rozanov’s back and wills his heart to halt its frantic gallop. The guy just kissed him — the guy just got him hard — and now he’s walking away? Like it was nothing? Like it doesn’t matter? 

It’s the first time – and probably only time – that Shane has ever kissed a man, and said man is retreating before Shane can even catch his breath. 

He inhales, a sudden gasping thing, and his gaze sweeps around them. Searching, seeking, suddenly aware that anyone could’ve been watching, that anyone would’ve seen them. A deep terror crawls like ants beneath his skin. No one is around, but they could’ve been. They could’ve seen Shane Hollander, Canada’s up-and-coming golden boy, kissing a man.

What was he thinking?

“Da. I’m here,” Rozanov says, and Shane’s head flies up. But Rozanov isn’t looking at him, his focus on the phone pressed to his ear. He walks a few paces away, and Shane remains frozen where he is, the terror morphing quickly into deep, fiery anger. 

Rozanov keeps walking. 

As quickly as it came, the anger seeps out of him. It transforms into something else — a cocktail of hurt and shame, making Shane’s eyes burn. The feeling simmers just below his breastbone, making it difficult to draw in a complete breath. Embarrassment wraps ivy-like around his ribcage, the sting of rejection a humiliation ritual in its own right. 

Why should he even care? Why does he care? 

Ilya Rozanov is an asshole.

Shane shouldn’t give a shit. Shane should hate him. He’s going to be the best hockey player in the world — if he isn’t already — and this, giving in to Rozanov’s mind games, is something he doesn’t have time for. 

Because that’s probably what this is. Rozanov is messing with him, trying to throw him off and confuse him — to some unknown end. Probably to make it easier to provoke him on the ice. Maybe for — for blackmail material. Though why he would incriminate himself in the act of gathering potential blackmail material, Shane does not know. 

Desperately, as he stares at Ilya’s side profile, he wishes he could despise him. Wishes he could hate him half as much as his mother already does, and oh God, Shane just made out with his rival — right outside of a busy hotel, no less. He had Ilya Rozanov’s tongue in his mouth, they exchanged spit, they- they touched, and-

Shane closes his eyes against the sudden wave of nausea rolling through him. And then, timidly, he opens his eyes again and watches Rozanov’s silhouette. He waits for the hatred to come, to overpower the rejection, but instead, something a little too close to affection rears its ugly head. Swallowing, Shane snuffs it out, thumb and forefinger put to flame. 

“Good,” Rozanov says, head turning to shoot Shane a half-sympathetic look, like he’s saying what can you do? 

Shane scowls. He can’t believe how unaffected Rozanov seems to be. Like he pushes rival teammates up against walls and makes out with them all the time. 

Like Shane’s just one out of a hundred. 

Rozanov ignores him, walking further away from him, clearly seeking privacy as if his tongue wasn’t just digging its way into Shane’s throat. 

“And the little gem?” Rozanov asks, voice going gentler and softer than Shane has ever heard it before. All at once, slicing through his own discomfort, Shane feels like he’s intruding. 

Still, he can’t move. He’s dizzy with the sudden change in mood, reeling now that the fire Rozanov had set in him sputters, arousal leaking out of him like he’s some sort of leaky balloon. He’s just a man, he realises. A man who has now been touched by another man, in public, where anyone could’ve stumbled across them, and now, alone, he has to live with that.

Distantly, like he’s floating somewhere above his own body, Shane watches Rozanov re-enter the hotel, leaving him outside in the cold without so much as a goodbye. 

He laughs, a little hollow, a little empty. Just twenty minutes ago, he was celebrating. Twenty minutes ago, he didn’t know what Ilya Rozanov tasted like. 

Ears burning with something like shame — like defeat — Shane squares his shoulders and trudges back inside, beelining for the elevator. 

He’s never been lonely before, not really. With the way his parents hover, and the way he’s always surrounded by teammates, there was never any risk of it. 

But now, opening his hotel room with hands bitten cold and trembling from the brisk January air, he feels it: he’s staring down the barrel of a horrible, yawning loneliness. He doesn’t know how to rectify this, how to walk back the unbeaten path, undo something he didn’t experience alone. 

Almost as if trying to ignite a harrowing nostalgia for a moment barely past, he can still feel the warmth and tingle of Rozanov’s mouth against his — remembers, vividly, exactly how it felt to kiss him. His brain, torturous and the most isolated it’s felt in his entire life, plays it on repeat, like a record stuck jumping over the same scratch.

He falls asleep knowing that he’s carrying this secret with Rozanov. Even though he’s alone, he’s not alone in knowing this. 

That thought, despite the way his heart won’t stop pounding uncomfortably, puts him to sleep. 

July 2010 - 5 months later

Five months after winning gold at the World Hockey Junior Championships, Shane is at his parents’ house — the large waterfront cottage serving as his solace as well as his temporary place of imprisonment. 

Even in the privacy of his own mind, he feels guilty thinking about the house as anything other than a good, safe place to return to after long months of playing hockey. His own apartment feels sterile and cold, and he doesn’t like bringing people there. It feels too much like an invasion of his privacy, having someone poke around his things, as sparse as they are. Even the idea of someone having a look through his wardrobe makes him itchy. The only person he’s ever had over is Hayden Pike, his closest friend for the past two years. But – and excuse the pun – even he is on thin ice.  

Having just signed a lucrative endorsement deal with CCM despite not having played a single game in the NHL yet, Shane’s grown more and more aware of how much money he has. He’s been playing with the idea of buying his own place near his parents’ house. His own little getaway, where he isn’t accused of kitchen crimes and unable to flee without looking like a cowardly coward who cowers. 

“Shane, honey?” Yuna, Shane’s mom, calls from the kitchen. 

Grimacing down at his phone, Shane sinks further into the couch, shoulders and navy hoodie bunched up around his ears. “Yeah?” 

“What’s in the blue container in the fridge?” 

Shane believes the blue container in the fridge contains what was once tofu. He’s pretty sure he stuck the container in the fridge a month ago, and he’s not entirely sure what said tofu may have become since then.

He lowers his book, making eye contact with David, his dad, who’s sitting in the armchair beside him. He thinks his dad sees the guilt in his eyes. “Uh… Not sure.” 

“It looks like some sort of abomination,” Yuna says. “I think it’s all mould.” 

David clears his throat, flipping a page of his Bon Appétit magazine. “Maybe he’s growing Cyclosporine.” 

Yuna doesn’t say anything for a long moment. Then, “Excuse me?” 

“Galileo, Einstein, Freud,” David muses, winking at Shane. “All geniuses who drew inspiration from unusual experiments.” 

Rounding the hallway corner, Yuna levels David with an incredulous look. “Did you seriously just call Freud a genius in my house?” 

David smiles serenely. “Our house.” 

Yuna pays him no mind, instead turning her attention to Shane. Somehow, Shane retreats even further into the couch, subtly trying to become a single entity with it. 

“Stop trying to create new bacteria in the fridge,” she instructs. 

Shane, appropriately and predictably, cowers. “Yes, ma’am.” 

Maybe he’ll build a cottage, he thinks with a heavy sigh. He’s certainly got the money for it. A cottage he’ll keep tidy, something on the lake, without nosy parents and blue containers in it. An isolated paradise, just for him.

Dinner rolls around, the way it always does when Shane’s returned from a run or a swim. Yuna accompanies him to the lake, cheering him on when he does a handstand before showing him up by doing her own handstand. Laughing, squinting through the setting sun, Shane feels just like a kid again. 

David’s pulling a chicken, kale and mushroom pie with a crumbly, golden crust out of the oven as they re-enter the house, and he sighs good-naturedly at them, telling them to hurry up and put on some dry clothes. Snorting in sync, Shane and Yuna do as he asks, and they all sit down at the dinner table as the very last dregs of sunlight slip across the dining room floor. The chairs cast long shadows, and Shane thinks he’ll probably always remember the house like this, cast in the evening sun, the golden light accentuating his parents’ laugh lines and bright, proud eyes. 

He hopes he’s as happy as they are when he’s older. Hopes he feels less lost after he’s done playing hockey. That he finds something — someone to come home to, at the end of the day. 

“So,” Yuna says, taking a sip of the ginger-infused sparkling water Shane had insisted on making yesterday. “How are we feeling about the charity event next week?” 

“Good,” Shane replies. 

He’s looking forward to it, actually. Hayden will be attending with him, and he let it slip during their phone call today that there’s talk about the X-Squad cast showing up, too. Embarrassingly, Shane’s been fond of the X-Squad franchise for years. On long-haul flights, after he’s watched his token new movie choice (something he does to ensure he’s never out of the loop), he always flicks over to one of the movies from the series. It’s a comforting habit, a familiar set of films that he always enjoys the experience of rewatching. 

“I heard Rozanov’s attending,” Yuna says, and Shane has to try very, very hard to school his expression. 

Taking a bite of his pie, he says, as casual as can be, “Oh?” 

“Makes sense,” David says. “He’s a hockey player.” 

“A reckless one,” Yuna huffs. “Mark my words, he’s going to sustain some sort of injury, and soon. If not on the ice, then off it. He doesn’t strategise. Not like you, honey.” 

She directs this at Shane, who has, abruptly, lost his appetite. 

“You really think so?” he asks. “That he’ll get hurt?” 

Yuna purses her lips. “Most players do. Everyone gets their bell rung eventually.” 

“You’ll be fine,” David tells him, patting Shane’s hand kindly. 

It’s not himself Shane is worried about, but that’s not something he could possibly say. He looks at his father, who is very enthusiastically cutting into his pie, and wonders what he’d say if he knew that a mere five months ago, Ilya Rozanov kissed him, and that Shane wanted him to. Would he pat his arm kindly, reassurance passed through the point of contact like a pulsing thing? Would he assure him that everything would be fine?

He won’t ever know. Can’t know.

He looks back down at his meal, scooping up some of the warm, buttery crust and sticking it in his mouth.

The charity event – sponsored in part by CCM – is a lot bigger than Shane had anticipated. Shane feels like a prop, dressed in a custom black jersey with CCM’s logo on his chest and Hollander across his shoulders on the back. Brand visibility, they had said over the phone. Good for engagement. 

They were right, unfortunately. Shane has fielded no less than fifteen conversations he only half-understood, unsure why his only role at this charity event was advocating for a hockey-gear company. He’s doing well, though, he thinks, because the few conversations he’s had alongside representatives from the company have ended with an encouraging pat to his shoulder. It’s a good sign, he’s sure.

He doesn’t touch the food, trailing after Hayden. His parents are around here somewhere, confidently mingling in a way they don’t seem to have passed down to Shane. 

Repressing the urge to sigh, Shane lets his gaze slip over the sprawling tables, mindlessly counting the champagne flutes, until– 

He stops breathing, heart skipping a beat. Standing maybe ten meters away, laughing at something a woman in a red dress is saying, is Rozanov. 

Rozanov is wearing a similar jersey, with his name printed across the broad width of his shoulders. He’s wider than Shane, and imagines if he were cornered against a wall, he’d feel just — small. Vulnerable. The thought of feeling exposed beneath Ilya Rozanov brings heat to the apples of his cheeks — but he doesn’t have time for that. He’s here on important business. He’s not here to stare at Ilya Rozanov, or his perfectly swirled curls, or his biceps.

He’s attuned to Ilya Rozanov, he realises with mild mortification. He had known where he was before he spotted him, sensing his presence like some sort of bat. Except, instead of using echolocation, he relied on his latent attraction to men. 

Hysterically, he wipes that train of thought from his mind, startling when Hayden nudges him. 

“Rozanov, eight o’clock.” 

“Hayden, that’s not- you’re at my eight o’clock.”

Hayden frowns and holds up both hands in little L shapes, like he’s telling left from right. Shane’s not really sure that’s helping. Then, shaking his head, he lifts a hand and, very embarrassingly and obviously, points at Ilya Rozanov. “Over there.”

Of course, because today is a bad, no good, karmically imbalanced day, Ilya Rozanov turns and locks eyes with Shane, raising an eyebrow at Hayden. 

“Dude,” Shane hisses under his breath, smacking Hayden’s arm out of the air. 

“Shit,” Hayden breathes. “Dude’s scary.” 

Shane’s not sure he would use the word scary to describe Rozanov. But that’s neither here nor there. 

Rozanov’s gaze lingers like he’s trying to decide whether to come over, which cannot happen. The last time Shane saw him, Rozanov kissed him out in public and then ducked away to take some weird, mysterious phone call. 

Shane decides he cannot give him the satisfaction of breaking eye-contact first and turns bodily, standing in front of Hayden. “Can we go grab a drink?”

Hayden peers over Shane’s shoulder, squinting a little suspiciously. “He’s still looking at you.”

Defensively, Shane says, “He’s looking at you. You’re the one staring at him.”

“He’s burning a hole in the back of your head.”

“I’m thirsty, man,” Shane stresses. “Come on.” 

He does not give Hayden a chance to argue. He wraps his hand around his wrist, dragging them both into the mess of the crowd, far away from Rozanov, and much closer to the table full of little water and Gatorade bottles. 

They arrive at the table, and as Shane picks up a short little bottle of yellow Gatorade (his favourite flavour), Hayden pats his shoulder and excuses himself to go say hi to Bill. Shane has no idea who Bill is, and Hayden does not pause to explain anything at all. He slips away, leaving Shane alone.

Then, finally, Shane deflates. 

Behind him, someone says, “I hate these things.” 

Shane jumps, turning clumsily. His mouth falls open when he spots none other than Rose Landry, superstar and X-Squad’s best asset, giving him a sympathetic smile. 

“You’re–” he tries, blinking too fast. 

She tilts her head, clearly amused. “I’m…” 

“Rose Landry,” he blurts. “Um. Miss Landry. Fuck. You’re- this is insane. Hi.” 

Rose Landry laughs. Jesus, Shane’s just made a superstar laugh! “Call me Rose. It’s nice to meet you, Hollander.” 

She offers him her hand, which he takes, shaking it slackly. 

“Shane,” he manages. “Call me Shane.” 

Rose’s eyes sparkle, manicured hands smoothing down her blue, satiny dress. Resting on her clavicle is a silver necklace with a tiny dolphin pendant, playful but elegant. Her red, glossy hair is in an updo, something that looks complicated to create. 

She’s beautiful. 

“So,” Rose says, drawing the word out. “You come to these things often?” 

Shane huffs a laugh. “Charities?” 

Rose shrugs. “Events. Whatever they may be.” 

“Sure,” Shane says, mind racing. He wants to seem interesting. He’s talking to a superstar. “Um, I mean, I try to. Sometimes I don’t really have a choice.” 

Like an idiot, he points at CCM’s logo displayed on his chest. Rose arches an eyebrow at it. 

“I’m just the show pony,” Shane says. 

“Rozanov’s wearing the same thing,” she comments, smiling at Shane’s stupid joke. “Do you guys know each other?” 

“He’s an asshole,” he says, and immediately regrets it. Talking badly about rival teams isn’t exactly good sportsmanship. 

Rose does not seem to care, though. Snorting, she picks her champagne back up off the table. “I take it you two are rivals in real life, then.” 

“I guess,” Shane says slowly. “He’s just- he’s a lot. I don’t hate him, or anything, but…” 

Nodding, Rose hedges, “But saying hi to each other is too friendly?” She makes a face at herself. “Sorry, I’m being nosy.” 

“It’s okay.” Shane almost tells her that not many people are all that curious about Shane’s life. But that’s usually because Shane isn’t a very interesting guy, beyond hockey. 

“If you’re sure,” Rose says. “How do you thi–” 

“There you are,” a deep, rumbling voice says. 

A tall, handsome man slips his arm around Rose. He’s wearing a blue suit that complements his dark skin, and hugs his arms distractingly. 

Shane quickly reaches for the lid of his Gatorade, tearing his eyes away. When his eyes find Rose’s, she’s looking at him differently, almost curiously. 

Shit. 

Luckily, the man kisses the side of her head, and she turns her attention to him, beaming up at him. 

“This is Miles,” she tells Shane, before patting Miles’ arm. “Miles, this is Shane Hollander.” 

The two exchange a handshake, and Shane tries not to think about how warm Miles’ hand is. 

“Good to meet you,” he says, hoping his smile isn’t read as timid. 

“You too,” Miles says, his smile genuine. His gaze snags momentarily on Shane’s torso, which, for some reason, makes Shane flush. 

He wonders if he should feel… threatened, in some way. Or jealous. A beautiful woman, one he looks up to, was speaking with him, and now she’s got her arm around some guy. 

He probes around, trying to figure out what he’s feeling. Finds that he’s kind of just intrigued. By Rose, of course. Not this Miles guy. 

“I’m afraid I’ve come to steal her away,” Miles says apologetically. “She’s due for some heavy-duty mingling.” 

Rose groans dramatically, leaning into Miles’ side. “But I hate mingling.” 

“I know, honey,” Miles says. “I know.” 

Sighing, Rose visibly steels herself. “Okay. Shane, give me your phone.” 

Fumbling, Shane grabs his phone out of his pocket and hands it to Rose. She types something into it, tongue peaking out of his mouth, before handing it back with a smile. 

“Text me,” she says, and with that, she’s gone, Miles on her arm. 

Shane stares after her for a moment, half-convinced he just made up the entire conversation in his head, when Hayden appears at his side. 

“What the hell?” Hayden says, eyes wide. “Did you just score Rose Landry’s number? In front of her boyfriend?” 

Laughing, Shane rolls his eyes. “Shut up, man.” 

Thirty minutes and seven exasperatingly mindless conversations later (No, yeah, CCM gear is great. Yeah, that’s why they’re sponsoring me. Ha.), a man with a clipboard approaches him. 

“Photos,” the man says, looking a little harried. “CCM wants photos.” 

“Oh,” Shane says, looking down at his jersey. “Sure. Where do you want me?” 

“Next to Rozanov,” the man says, scanning his clipboard. Shane, very politely, does not scream. “Everything’s set up in the conference room next door. Follow me?” 

Because he’s a good friend, Hayden follows Shane, who follows Clipboard Man. Comically, all three of them sigh at the same time, which, even more comically, none of them acknowledge. 

Watching a crowd slowly amass, Shane shuffles uncomfortably. Playing hockey is his favourite thing in the world, but he wishes, desperately, that it didn’t come with expectations like these. Injuries, he can take. Dealing with the press? Being a representative of some multi-million dollar company? No thanks. 

After a few minutes, Rozanov sidles up next to him. He looks unfairly put-together up close. He doesn’t even look stupid, wearing a jersey inside. Despite how stuffy it is, he also smells good- like expensive cologne and something harder to identify, something musky and mouth-watering. Shane’s pretty sure he himself smells like sweat and stress. 

Scowling, Shane straightens his jersey. 

“Bad day?” Rozanov asks. 

Huffing, Shane focuses on the gathered photographers. He keeps still as the cameras start clicking, trying not to close his eyes against the flashes. 

Out of the corner of his mouth, Rozanov says, “You look angry. Like a mule.” 

Shane ignores his asinine comment, adjusting his jersey again. 

The cameras keep flashing, bright and overwhelming.  

Ducking close, lips grazing the shell of Shane’s ear, Rozanov breathes, “You look hot.” 

Heat crawls up the back of Shane’s neck. He doesn’t know if he’s mortified or turned on. Barely opening his mouth, he says, “Shut up.” 

“Did Rose Landry think so, too?” Rozanov asks, swaying back out of Shane’s personal space. “That you are sexy?” 

Nostrils flaring, Shane – stupidly – recalls that night. How cold the wall had been at his back. How hard his heart had been pounding. How quickly he had swelled in his trousers. 

They gave you sex appeal, Rozanov had said. And then he had left. Just like that. 

“Shut up,” Shane says again, silently vowing to shove Rozanov into the swarming crowd if he tries to lean closer to him again. 

“Hollander, give us a smile!”

“Show us those pearls, Hollander.” 

“Big smile, come on!”  

The barrage of requests washes over him. He hates that Rozanov is, apparently, already perfect. The media’s darling — the broody bad boy. What does that make Shane? The socially incompetent goodie-two-shoes? 

Clenching his jaw, Shane rearranges his face into something that, at the very least, feels like a smile. 

He doesn’t realise he’s sweating until he clenches his fists and has to wipe his palms on his trousers. It’s as if his clothes have shrunk, tightening around him like an anaconda. 

He can’t breathe. 

“Hollander,” Rozanov says, and Shane manages a short, shaky exhale. “What is your face doing?” 

Shane’s eyes dart to Rozanov, who looks uncharacteristically uneasy. 

“I–” Shane sucks in another breath, wishing the cameras would just stop flashing. “I’m gonna-I–” 

The words won’t come, and Shane wills his legs to move, to take him as far away as possible. After a second, they do, jerky and uncoordinated, like he’s never walked a day in his life. He makes it to the edge of the crowd and simply shoves his way through, ignoring the protesting photographers.  

Hayden’s worried eyes find him as he pushes through the crowd, but he shakes his head at him. He’s fine. He will be fine. 

He nearly collides with his mom when he’s skirting around the buffet line, who reaches out to steady him. 

“Have you been drinking?” Yuna asks, concern written all over her face. “You look a little red, honey.”  

“No,” Shane manages. “No, um. I just- bathroom.” 

He ducks around his mom and ignores her calling after him, making for the bathroom. He just needs a moment. To catch his breath. 

He unfocuses his eyes as he walks, refusing to make eye contact with anyone. He’s barely made it to the bathroom, hasn’t even entered a stall, before the door swings open behind. 

Jesus, he cannot catch a break. 

“Hayden, I’m–” 

The words die on his tongue as he turns, faced suddenly with Ilya Rozanov standing there. He watches his throat bob, swaying in place like he can’t decide whether to come closer to Shane or not. 

“I’m sorry,” Rozanov says, shoulders tight. He looks uncomfortable, voice unsteady. “I did not… I did not mean to offend you.” 

A short laugh bursts out of Shane. He’s not breathing right. “You didn’t.” 

A heaviness tugs at Shane, something making him feel weak, and he braces himself against the sink. His breathing is coming too fast, heart pounding like it wants out of his chest. 

Rozanov takes a step closer to him. “You are panicking.” 

“No.” 

“Hollander.” Rozanov steps closer. “You are breathing like a dog. This is panic attack.” 

“Fuck you.” 

Inquisitively, Rozanov arches an eyebrow. “Is that what you want?” 

Seeing red, suddenly, Shane squeezes his eyes shut. Pressing down hard on the sink with his palm, he says through numb lips, “Can you please leave?” 

A beat of silence follows, and then, voice much closer than before, Rozanov says, “Open your eyes.” 

Shane doesn’t move a muscle, eyes still firmly shut. 

“Hollander.” A small, tentative touch to his shoulder. “Open your eyes. Please.” 

Swallowing around the lump in his throat, Shane does. His vision blurs as he blinks, Rozanov swimming in front of him. 

“Good,” Rozanov says quietly, eyes flickering between Shane’s. “Now, can you breathe like a human person?” 

The request startles a laugh out of Shane, inhaling as he does. 

Some sort of tension eases out of Rozanov when he does, mouth tilting up ever so slightly. 

Gaze steady, Rozanov asks, “Why did you panic?” 

Shane’s not sure how to respond. He doesn’t know himself, really. One second, he had been fine, and the next, everything Rozanov was saying felt too real. Too exposing. Like the entire world might pick up on the effect Rozanov’s words were having on him. 

“You just left me,” Shane tells him, voice echoing in the bathroom. He feels strange: electrified and exhausted all at once, like his body expelled all of its energy and is running on adrenaline. He doesn’t know why he’s telling Rozanov this. “In Ottawa. You- you kissed me, and then you left, like it was nothing. We were outside, anyone could have seen us. Do you get that?” 

“It was important.” 

“What?” 

“The phone call,” Rozanov says. “It was important. I could not ignore it.” 

Shane blinks at him. A flicker of anger licks its way up his back. “I don’t care. Oh my God, I don’t care. That wasn’t the problem.” 

“What was problem?” Rozanov asks. “That we were in public? Or that I made you hard?” 

Shane stares at him, disbelieving. “You are such an asshole.”

“No, what is it, Hollander? Or are you just going to huff and puff?”

“I’m not-”

Rozanov takes a step closer. The movement alone silences Shane mid-sentence. “You are not…?”

Anger bleeds out of him.

Pathetically, Shane thinks, God, what are you doing to me?

And helpless to do anything else, he stays planted where he is, letting Rozanov edge on, filling his space.

Soft now, he says, “You can’t do that again.”

Rozanov’s head tilts, like he’s pondering the demand. “I cannot kiss you, or I cannot do it in public?”

Shane wets his lips. 

Rozanov’s eyes drop down, tracking the movement. 

Shane finds himself asking, “Do you want to?” 

Rozanov doesn’t look up from Shane’s mouth, watching it unashamedly, like he doesn’t care if Shane catches him doing it. Maybe he wants him to. 

“Kiss you?

“Yeah.”

Bright blue eyes, lit up by the sterile white bathroom lighting, flicker up to meet Shane’s. “Do you want me to kiss you, Hollander?”

“Oh, you’re asking this time?” Shane shoots back.

“You did not want me to last time? Did not seem that way when you let me stick my tongue in your pretty mouth.”

Pretty mouth. Pretty mouth. Pretty mouth. The words reverberate in Shane’s skull, knocking against the bony walls of it, making his heart race.

“I asked first.”

Rozanov laughs, amused and ... almost fond. “Oh, we are children now?”

“Rozanov-”

A strong, warm hand is suddenly at his cheek, cupping it, a thumb digging in gently to the flesh of it. “I think you want me to kiss you. Maybe do more. I think-”

Shane curls a hand around the back of Ilya’s neck and drags him in, their mouths colliding like two players on ice, an attack of teeth, lips, and tongue that sends Shane himself into a dizzy spell. 

Desperately, Shane grabs Rozanov’s hip, head spinning as he presses closer. He needs more. He needs– 

A crash, like someone dropped a glass, sounds from outside. 

This time, they don’t jolt apart. Instead, taking his time, Rozanov pulls away, disconnecting their mouths with a slick noise. 

Rozanov leans back, but doesn’t step away from him. His gaze is intense and focused, lips wet and kiss-swollen. Shane’s mouth tingles, tongue darting out to taste the remnants of Rozanov’s mouth against his.

“You are staying at hotel?” he asks. 

Shane swallows, nodding belatedly. “Yeah. Yeah, CCM booked us in the same hotel, I think.” Unnecessarily, he adds, “Hayden’s a couple doors down from me.”

“What room number?”

“1220.” He doesn’t know why he doesn’t hesitate to hand it over. A part of him, after he’s already said it, wonders if this is a terrible idea, but then Rozanov smiles, like he’s won something, and Shane can’t help but feel like he’s the prize.

“Okay.” Rozanov stuffs his hands in his pockets, eyes darting away, and his smile slowly disappearing. “I have uh- obligations. Things to do. But maybe, sometime after eight, I might knock.”

Shane doesn’t reply, letting him sweat. Then, once Rozanov looks back at him, he says, “I might answer.”

Rozanov’s mouth twitches up. “Okay.”

Clearing his throat, Shane nods again. “You, um. You need to go. I’ll wait two minutes and come out after you. So no one knows.” 

Rozanov rolls his shoulders and hums, making for the door. 

Shane watches him, eyes lingering on the back of his head. “Bye, Rozanov.”

Ilya hums, glancing one last time over his shoulder. “See you later, Hollander.”

Awaiting Rozanov’s arrival, Shane takes off the CCM jersey and puts on a two-piece suit, one he’d brought just in case he had to attend a dinner with any important people while on the trip. Rozanov is not an important person — not like that — but he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to wear.

A boy has never come to his hotel room before.

He never even shared a hotel room with his ex-girlfriend, and the two girls he’d done anything with after that had dragged him back to their apartments.

He just wants to be prepared — which is why he also, using a private driving service, has a douche delivered right to his hotel room door. The exchange is maybe the most mortifying moment of his life, but the man, a guy who looks somewhere in his forties with greys wisping through dark black curls, does not look like he cares at all. Shane, out of embarrassment, tips him a hundred dollars in cash. He only realises once the driver has departed that he’s still wearing a suit. 

He has no idea how to use the douche. He watches fifteen videos explaining each step in agonising detail. He gets as far as climbing into the shower before he talks himself out of it, burying the boxed douche in his suitcase, beneath the suit. 

Jesus. He’s so embarrassing. Shane Hollander is going to take this to his grave. 

Suitless and buzzing with nerves, Shane throws on a plain black t-shirt and soft sweatpants. He has just enough time to run his hands through his hair before he hears it.

A knock at the door. 

Shane’s stomach tries to swoop and fall at the same time, and he’s suddenly grateful he didn’t douche. 

Breath tumbling out of him shakily, Shane checks the peephole. Ilya Rozanov is standing in the hallway alone, face turned to the side. 

Shane opens the door. 

Rozanov turns to him, then, and takes a moment to drink in Shane’s appearance, which is hot and flattering in theory, but he’s also lingering out in a hallway with Hayden Pike two doors down, who Shane is sure is on the phone with his long-term girlfriend, but who could walk out at any second.

“Get in here,” Shane whisper-yells. He doesn’t wait for Rozanov to step inside; he grabs him by the forearm and yanks him over the threshold, ducking his head out to peek side-to-side to make sure the coast is clear. It is.

He closes the door, hooking the Do Not Disturb sign over the handle, and lets it click closed.

“I thought you would not open the door,” Rozanov says mildly. “Instead, you kidnap me.” 

Shane resists the urge to wring his hands together. “I- we should talk. Right?” 

“Sure,” Rozanov says, approaching him slowly. Shane takes a step back, and then another. 

“About… about earlier,” Shane says weakly. 

“Okay,” Rozanov agrees. Shane takes another step back, shoulders colliding gently with the wall. 

“Rozanov,” Shane says, meaning to sound firm. This close, he’s surrounded by Rozanov. His cologne, something musky and masculine, washes over him, making him feel light and heavy at the same time. 

Rozanov’s eyes flicker down to Shane’s mouth, tongue darting out. “Hollander.” 

Like he had the first time he kissed Shane, Rozanov cradles Shane’s jaw. His chain – a golden cross – glints in the low light, and Shane’s gaze locks on it until Rozanov taps his lower lip with his thumb, tilting Shane’s head back up. 

They lock eyes, but neither of them says anything. Instead, slowly, Rozanov leans down and presses his lips to the corner of Shane’s. 

Tentatively, Shane tilts his head and kisses him back. Rozanov strokes his thumb over his chin approvingly, and heat floods Shane’s belly, Rozanov’s soft mouth stoking the flames of his arousal. 

Rozanov licks at the seam of Shane’s mouth, sliding the hand cradling his face to the valley of Shane’s neck. The touch makes Shane shudder, and he opens his mouth around a quick inhale. Greedily, taking the opening, Rozanov licks into his mouth, the noise wet and loud in the hotel room. 

Shane’s own hands wander, finding purchase on Rozanov’s waist. He feels his stomach flex beneath his touch and frantically pulls at Rozanov’s button-up and slips his fingers beneath, revelling in the warm, soft skin beneath. 

A strong, muscled thigh bullies its way between Shane’s, pressing firmly against his crotch. Shane realises, all at once, that he’s so, so hard, and now Rozanov can feel the outline of it against him, the warmth of it, the hardness. 

“Fuck, Rozanov,” Shane breathes, capturing his mouth in another kiss. His hips twitch forward, and Rozanov moans softly, squeezing the side of his neck appreciatively. 

He pulls away, a string of spit connecting them. It breaks when Rozanov asks, “You want this?” 

Mutely, Shane nods. 

“Say it,” Rozanov says, eyes dark and intense. “Say it, Hollander.” 

Head fuzzy, Shane manages, “I want this.” 

“Fuck.” 

Hand finding the small of Shane’s back, Rozanov ducks down to kiss him again. Surrendering to the onslaught of feelings, Shane parts his lips, and Rozanov sucks in a breath, pressing closer. Rozanov licks into his mouth, turning the kiss into something else—something hotter, wetter. He flexes his thigh, and Shane’s hips twitch forward, a small whimper catching in his throat. 

Rozanov groans, his calloused fingers threading through his hair. Shane feels his dick twitch, an excessive amount of pre smeared across the head of his dick, wet enough that as it pulses in interest, he can feel the sensitive tip brushing against the soaked fabric. Before long, the kiss turns into something frantic. 

It’s striking how confident Rozanov seems to be. Maybe he really has done this before. Maybe he’s with men all the time — or maybe he’s skilled enough with women that it translates. Transferable skills, Shane thinks muzzily. 

Rozanov reaches down then, fingers wrapping around Shane’s wrist. He pulls Shane’s hand out from under his shirt and presses it flat to his own stomach, unbuttoning his shirt as Shane scratches lightly through Rozanov’s happy trail, feeling the muscles beneath his palm jump. 

The shirt lands on the floor, leaving Rozanov’s chest bare. 

Eyes flickering down, Shane catches sight of the bulge in Rozanov’s trousers. 

Oh, shit, Shane thinks. I’m so gay. 

Panting, he looks up. Rozanov's pupils blow wide, the blue of them swallowed almost entirely. 

Shane holds Rozanov’s eye as his hand descends, fingers tracing over the ridges of Rozanov’s bare stomach before the tips of them stop dead at the beginning of his waistband. Shane sinks his teeth into his bottom lip, watching and waiting for approval as he dips them just the slightest bit beneath the elastic of Ilya’s pants.

Minutely, offering permission, Rozanov nods. The approval sends a zing up Shane’s spine, but does little to ease his nerves as he removes his hand completely, making quick work of unbuckling Rozanov’s belt, leaving it hanging open in the loops. Button and fly go next, and finally, with his breath held tight in his throat, he works his hand beneath Rozanov’s dark briefs, still not daring to look down at his own actions. 

As he delves in, the pad of his middle finger comes in contact with the length. The shock of warmth of skin against skin sets Shane’s nerves alight.

Shane is touching a dick. Shane Hollander is touching another man’s dick. Sure, with just the very top of his finger, but still, he’s touching a cock. 

Rozanov doesn’t urge him along when Shane takes a steadying breath before dipping in further, encircling his fingers tentatively around Ilya’s girth. It’s bigger than his own — which, surprisingly, doesn’t make him feel weird — and is heavy in his hand. There’s a heat and weight to it that Shane wonders if he’d enjoy just as much on his tongue. He wonders if his jaw would ache if he attempted to accommodate it sliding in and out of his mouth.

The idea of knowing what Rozanov’s cock tastes like makes his own kick within the confines of his briefs. He lets his eyes flutter closed, dropping his head forward till it connects gently with Rozanov’s collarbone. He shifts his hand, dragging the foreskin up, then down again. It’s nothing special, he’s not about to give the best hand job in the world, but a single glide of his fist over Rozanov’s dick feels- monumental.

He feels exactly like Neil Armstrong must’ve felt when he took the first step onto the moon. Or something like that.

Softly, so soft it sounds like he doesn’t even intend to, Rozanov moans, bringing a hand up to the back of Shane’s head, threading his fingers through soft, freshly-cleaned strands, settling it there and urging him away from his collarbone, and into the crook of his throat. 

Shane follows the guidance easily, panting heavily as he noses at the skin there, working his hand at the slightly awkward angle within his underwear. Shane’s head shifts, and the tip of his nose knocks against the cold chain of Rozanov’s necklace.

“It feels good?” Rozanov asks.

Shane feels like he’s lost in a fog, and despite the fact that Rozanov is merely petting him while letting Shane jerk him off, Shane nods. Because it does. Touching Rozanov feels good. Touching a man feels good in a way it’s not supposed to.

He drags his hand all the way to the tip, squeezing over it, feeling the slickness of Ilya’s pre come smearing onto his fingers. Jesus. He’s way less wet than Shane is. Is he not as turned on?

But then, right beside his head, as Shane drags his hand down over his dick again, Rozanov groans, head tilting back. “Fuck.”

Shane doesn’t expect what happens next. A hand weasels between their bodies, grabbing Shane’s wrist and gently tugging it out. Shane has to fight back the petulant, mildly pathetic whine that almost slips from him. 

“What are you-” Shane begins, pulling his head back.

Rozanov doesn’t let him finish his sentence. He drops Shane’s wrist, grabbing at his waist instead, and steals the breath from Shane’s lungs by sealing their mouths together in a searing kiss.

It silences Shane immediately, brain turning into a slurry of static, only Rozanov pulls away again. 

“You have never done this before, no?” His voice is casual, non-judgemental, as he slides his hands under Shane’s t-shirt, urging it upward before pulling it over his head.

Shane feels caught off guard — the fact seems obvious, but hearing Rozanov say it directly makes him feel just as nervous as he had before Rozanov had even arrived in his room. He feels more exposed now, his shirt shed and his experience called into question. Shane bites the inside of his lip, his hesitation chewing at him, before saying, “I’ve had sex.”

“With a man?”

Reluctantly, he admits, “No.”

“Okay. I will make it easy.”

Shane doesn’t know why the statement puts him at ease, but his shoulders sag with it, body complying with every nudge and movement as Rozanov urges him to the edge of the bed. The back of his knees collide with the mattress, and then, Rozanov… descends?

He shuffles down till his face is against Shane’s chest, kissing his sternum once before strong hands drift over Shane’s hips, along the sides of his thighs, before curling around the back of them and-

“Oh my fucking god,” Shane chokes out. Ilya Rozanov lifts him like it’s nothing, not even offering a huff of breath or a grunt as he drags Shane into his arms. He scrambles, arms wrapping around Rozanov’s neck, eyes frantic. “Why are you-”

Rozanov, the asshole he is, simply grins crookedly in response before tossing Shane like a sack of potatoes to the top of the bed.

“You’re such an asshole,” Shane huffs, dropping against the pillows. Rozanov crawls onto the bed and then over Shane, looking down at him. The warm light from the lamp casts dark shadows across Rozanov’s sharp features. He’s so beautiful like this, aglow in yellow, like a cozy, warm thing.

“Yes, I am asshole. Asshole who is going to make you come.”

God, he wants that. He wants Rozanov to make him come. He doesn’t even care how it happens — honestly, if Rozanov kisses him for long enough, Shane’s pretty sure he could come just from that, like an over-eager teenager in the back of a car in a parking lot. Rozanov makes him feel similarly to how he did his first time, but there’s no dread now. This doesn’t feel like an inevitability, a thing he has to do.

He wants to do it.

He wants.

Shane slides a hand into Rozanov’s hair, pulling him in closer. “You’re cocky.”

Ilya hums. “Or maybe you are just easy.”

“You don’t know that.” Shane doesn’t think he’s easy. He’s never been easy before. Why is everything so different with Ilya Rozanov? He doesn’t know. He’s not sure he wants to introspect enough to find out, not when Rozanov is looking at him, hungry and wanting, and hovering above him.

“Hm. You fold very fast, Shane Hollander, for someone who is not easy.”

Shane huffs, impatient. “Are you going to touch me or not?”

“Mm. Yes. Like that.” Rozanov’s hands slide beneath Shane’s thighs, pushing them up, up, up till his knees are close to his head. The position is- obscene. He’s bent in half like Rozanov could just slide right inside him, were there not a few layers of clothing between them. The thought makes Shane shiver. 

Rozanov grinds his bulge against the curve of Shane’s ass, the hard length dragging against it. Shane gasps, eyes fluttering back as his spine arches, pushing back against it. “See. You fold.”

Shane has the sudden urge to kick Ilya Rozanov in the head. “Rozanov,” Shane says, warningly. 

Rozanov laughs, endlessly amused by Shane’s sexual frustration, and eases his legs back down. “I want you to sit in my lap. You can grind against me. This is okay?”

“You’ve done this before.” It’s a statement — not a question.

“Grinding? Sure.”

“No, slept with a man.”

“Hm. Yes. Back in Russia. I was younger.”

“Oh.” Instinctively, Shane wants to ask more. If he’s honest, he’s got about a dozen questions sitting on the tip of his tongue, begging to make it past the fence of his teeth, but he swallows them, very bravely, because he wants to come sometime this century—and Shane knows if he starts, he won’t stop.

“Is okay,” Rozanov smooths his hand along the side of Shane’s leg. “I will make it good for you. I want you to feel good.”

“It is,” Shane says, too quickly. Too earnestly. “I- It’s good.”

The smile that tugs at Rozanov’s mouth isn’t cocky; it’s soft, paired with a hungry, lustful look aflame in his eyes. “I know. I am very good.”

Shane knees him in the side, shifting up onto his elbows. “Lay on the bed.”

Rozanov laughs, bright and comfortable. “Oh, you are so bossy now.”

And yet, he complies, rolling off of Shane and settling against the pillows. Shane doesn’t linger in his spot for more than a second, following after Rozanov and throwing a thigh over his legs, settling atop his lap. 

The feeling of sitting in a man’s lap is- a lot different from having a girl perched on his. He’d never minded it, hadn’t minded the softness of their hips, or the way they’d ground down on him — if he closed his eyes, all of it felt pretty good, as long as he didn’t think too much about it. Instantly, eyes wide open, this feels good.

Rozanov’s legs are out flat against the bed as Shane rests low on his thighs, watching rapt as Rozanov guides his hands up and down over them a few times, feeling out the shape of them, caressing them.

Rozanov reaches higher, grabbing Shane’s hip and manhandling him slowly into position, till their crotches are flush together, Shane’s mouth hovering unbelievably close to his. He plans to lean in and kiss him, but then a guiding hand urges his hips into a roll, dragging his aching, untouched cock against Rozanov’s, and all executive functions switch off at once. He drops his head, moaning wanton as his eyes flutter closed.

“Shit,” he grits out.

“Just keep going like this,” Rozanov tells him. 

Shane nods. Doesn’t consider asking a single question or doubting Rozanov’s instruction for a single second. He rocks his hips, mouth ajar on a pant as their cocks grind together through the layers of fabric. 

“Holy shit,” Shane whimpers. 

The pressure slowly morphs into molten pleasure, and Shane’s spine melts. He stops thinking about the way he’s moving, about the way he looks, and gives in. He surrenders to it, to the moment and to what his own body wants. 

“Good,” Rozanov says, voice tighter than it was a minute ago. 

The praise makes something warm glow in his chest. He quickens the pace, moving his hips in small, halting circles. It feels so good, amplifying the friction against his slick cockhead. 

“Good,” Rozanov says again, this time squeezing Shane’s hips, guiding him into a slow stop. 

Panting on top of him, Shane frowns. 

Tutting, Rozanov pats his hip and takes a second to shove down Shane’s briefs till they’re tucked beneath his dick, before he wraps his hand around Shane’s dick, giving him a slow stroke from base to tip. Shane gasps as his spine arches, the touch electric. 

His dick spurts another dollop of pre-come, and within three strokes, Rozanov’s hand is covered in it. 

His eyes flicker up to Shane’s. “Still okay?” 

“F-Fuck,” Shane breathes, keeping his balance by placing his hand on Rozanov’s pec, right below his bear tattoo. Without even meaning to, his hand squeezes it, the generous muscle yielding to his touch. “Yeah—yeah, it’s okay.” 

For a few minutes, Rozanov plays around with the speed and grip around his dick, like he wants to experiment, wants to see exactly what makes Shane tick. Letting go of Shane’s waist entirely, he tugs at his balls, rolling them between his fingers. This expels a heavy, amorous sigh from Shane, and he feels Rozanov flex his dick against his ass, the hard, hot line of him making Shane feel like putty in his hands.  

“You are so wet,” Rozanov says after some time, voice rough. He’s staring at Shane’s leaking cock, running a thumb over it. “Wet like a girl.” 

“Oh, fuck,” Shane moans, unable to stop his cock from jumping. Noticeably delighted, Rozanov speeds up his hand, and Shane- oh, fuck, he’s going to come. He’s going to come with Ilya Rozanov’s hand wrapped around his cock, and he’s going to love it. 

“Don’t stop,” Shane groans, fingers splaying over Rozanov's chest. “Fuck, don’t- don’t stop, Rozanov–” 

Rozanov watches him raptly, stroking Shane with a quick and tight fist. “Tell me when you are close.” 

Shane fights to keep his eyes open, legs spreading on Rozanov’s lap. It’s as if his body has turned into a vessel for pleasure, like he was created for this. For Rozanov to touch and lick and take. “I’m close.” 

Rozanov presses his own cock more firmly to Shane’s ass, breath stuttering out of him. “Look at me.” 

Catching himself on Rozanov’s shoulder, Shane listens to Rozanov jerking him off, honing in on the wet, slick noises. And then he looks up at him through half-lidded eyes. 

The second his eyes find Rozanov’s, the pleasure mounts and turns molten in his veins. He moans, long and ragged and surprised as his cock twitches in Rozanov’s fist. 

“Fuck,” Rozanov breathes. 

Shane can hardly draw a breath in, small, hurt noises bleeding through his panting as he paints Rozanov’s stomach with strips of come. It’s so fucking hot, Shane can barely think. 

It takes a minute for Shane to come down. He’s trembling a little, the overwhelming orgasm having sapped him of all his strength, so he makes no immediate move to get off of Rozanov’s lap.  

“Okay?” Rozanov asks, chest heaving. 

Huffing a laugh, Shane nods. 

“Good.” He pats the side of Shane’s thigh twice, like he’s saying good game. It’s very bro-y. Shane takes the hint and rolls off, brows furrowed in confusion. 

Clicking his tongue, Rozanov makes to slide off the bed. “O-kay. Goodnight.” 

Shane’s mouth falls open. “What? You’re leaving?”

Rozanov halts his movements, lolling his head to look at Shane. Slowly, his mouth turns up into a smirk. “I am fucking with you.”

Indignantly, he smacks Rozanov’s bicep lightly. “You are such a dick.”

Falling back into the mattress, Rozanov shrugs. “You came, Hollander. Is not like I would be leaving you high and dry.” His eyes skim over Shane’s still leaky dick and then his own come-covered stomach. He corrects himself, “High and wet.”

Shane ignores the wet comment entirely. His eyes are wide as they drift down, settling on Ilya’s cock, so hard and angry that it’s a dark, flushed pink at the tip. Shane did that. Shane got him hard and aching, even if he’s playing his stupid game. “You didn’t come.”

Rozanov’s head tilts to the side. “Do you want me to?”

Flushing, Shane flares his nostrils. “Obviously.”

Humming softly, Rozanov sits up and leans in, knees digging into the plush mattress. “Say it.”

Shane’s pulse spikes, his breath catching. Then, “I want you to come.”

Swift and confident, Rozanov swings his leg over Shane and settles on top of him, cock heavy where it’s sticking out of his briefs. 

“Just- jerk off and come on me,” Shane says, unable to comprehend that these words are coming from him. 

Unimpressed, Rozanov says, “You make me do all the work.” 

Equally as unimpressed, Shane says, “Yeah.” 

Rozanov may just have made him come harder than he’s ever come before, but he’s still an asshole. He can make him sweat a little.

“Bossy.” 

He sticks his hands into his briefs, wrapping his fingers around himself. He pulls his cock out, its impressive length making Shane’s mouth water. 

“You look like you have seen God,” Rozanov says, squeezing around the head of his cock before he starts up a slow rhythm. 

“You are such an–” 

“Asshole,” Rozanov finishes for him, hand speeding up. His cheeks flush pink, mouth falling open. “I know.” 

It’s unbelievable how hot Rozanov looks while pleasuring himself. It’s as if he feels it in his own body, thighs and arms tensing as his arm works. Enthralled, Shane presses his hands to Rozanov’s stomach, just to feel it twitch. He slides his palms down before settling them on Rozanov’s thighs, squeezing. 

Shane watches Rozanov’s shameless display, wondering, privately, if maybe Rozanov’s putting on a show for him. 

“Feel good?” he asks. 

Moaning softly, Rozanov tightens his fist around his cockhead and strokes himself shallowly. “Tell me what you want.” 

Hesitating, Shane says, “I don’t know.” 

Exhaling shakily, Rozanov squeezes himself around the base, halting all movement. Cupping the side of Shane’s face almost tenderly, he says, “Tell me what you feel. What you like.” 

I like you, Shane almost says. 

Leaning into the contact without meaning to, he says, “I don’t know.” 

“Bullshit,” Rozanov says, voice quiet and intense. Thumbing at the corner of Shane’s mouth, Rozanov starts up a deliberate rhythm again, arm moving quickly now as he jerks himself off, eyes never leaving Shane’s.  

Quietly, Shane murmurs, “You look hot.” 

Rozanov groans, before laughing. “Your dirty talk needs work, Hollander.” 

“Your etiquette needs work,” Shane shoots back. 

“Hollander.” Rozanov wets his lips, pressing his thumb into Shane’s mouth. Shane lets him. “Tell me what you want.” 

In a rush, around Rozanov’s thumb, Shane admits, “I want to suck your dick.” 

Pupils blowing wide, Rozanov pulls his thumb out of Shane’s mouth. He ducks low, nose nudging Shane’s. Shane tilts up into the contact, sighing when Rozanov captures his mouth in a kiss. 

On the ice, Ilya Rozanov is pure muscle and instinct. Here and now, he’s something else, something primal and thoughtless. A blaze of glory, of light, bound to exist on the back of Shane’s eyelids every time he blinks for the rest of his life. 

Into his mouth, Rozanov pants, “You want to suck my dick?” 

Shane squirms. “Rozanov–” 

“Tell me.” 

Eyes flickering to Rozanov’s cock, to the wet head, to the girth of it, Shane breathes, “Yeah. Yeah, I wanna suck your dick. I wanna feel it in my mouth.” He doesn’t know if he’s doing this right. Rozanov isn’t wrong — his dirty talk isn’t great. He doesn’t know what he should or should not say, so he just says, spilling out the dirty little thoughts he’s been shoving down.  “I- I wanna know how you taste.” 

Rozanov’s forehead finds Shane’s, and then, both panting, they watch Rozanov jerk off together. His breathing quickens, and he sneaks in a messy, open-mouthed kiss to Shane’s mouth right before he groans. 

“Shit, Hollander,” Rozanov gasps, and Shane feels his come splatter over his stomach, the warmth of it soaking right into Shane’s skin. Rozanov’s hand reaches down, dragging through the mess, massaging the come into Shane’s sweaty skin. Shane, surprisingly, lets him. His cock is still half-hard and resting against his hip, twitching with interest as Rozanov drags his thumb through a thick stripe before bringing it up to Shane’s mouth, tapping the slicked finger twice against Shane’s bottom lip.

Eyes focused on Rozanov’s, he parts his lips obediently, and Rozanov feeds his thumb into Shane’s willing, open mouth. He sucks the mess off, and now, he has a piece of Rozanov inside of him. His come is inside of him. Shane shudders, hollowing his cheeks, sucking harder at the digit as his vision goes a little unfocused.

Rozanov is panting heavily, and after a beat, he eases his thumb out of Shane’s mouth, dragging it teasingly across his bottom lip as the now cleaned digit paints a line of Shane’s own saliva across it. 

He darts in then, kissing him, replacing it with his own as he slips his tongue eagerly into Shane’s mouth. Shane grips at his bicep, arching up to deepen the kiss, and wonders if Rozanov can taste his own come on Shane’s tongue.

The kiss breaks, and finally, Rozanov flops onto the bed beside him. They’re both a mess, covered in spend and sweat, and Shane wonders what they’re supposed to do now.

Rozanov doesn’t give him long to wonder or worry. 

He grabs a couple of tissues, handing them over to Shane before grabbing a couple of his own. He dabs some of the mess off his stomach, rolling off the bed. “I will use your shower.”

Shane nods, dragging the tissue across his stomach, thoroughly swiping the mess away. 

He collects his clothes from where they’re strewn across the room and ducks into the bathroom. Shane has his dick tucked away and his shirt pulled back over his head by the time Rozanov exits, a fog of steam swirling around him as he exits. He’s fully dressed now — shirt buttoned almost all the way to the top, his curls damp against his head and only half-dried.

“I should go,” Rozanov tells him. 

“Right.” Shane nods, sitting up a little straighter in the bed. “Yeah.”

He watches, something weird and unfamiliar tugging in his chest, as Rozanov heads to the door without another word. Shane presses his tongue to the back of his teeth, wondering if he should say goodbye, or goodnight or if he should say nothing at all.

“See you,” Rozanov calls over his shoulder. 

Sinking into the mattress bonelessly, Shane makes a small noise. “See you.” 

It’s only after, once the door is locked and Shane’s alone again, that Shane realises he didn’t get to make Rozanov come. But next time. Next time, he could-

There won’t be a next time, he tells himself firmly. There can’t be, so there won’t be. 

There shouldn’t have even been a this time, but Shane let himself. It’s a blip in self-restraint. A one-off mistake.

Is it a mistake? His brain asks. If you don’t regret it?

It takes an hour for sleep to finally take him. The sheets smell like sex and like Rozanov’s skin and cologne. He falls asleep with his face pressed into the pillow Rozanov had laid against at the end, sleep finally overtaking him, as he wonders—Is Rozanov, a few floors away, thinking of him now, too?

Chapter 2: find my soul

Chapter Summary

“So, um,” Rose says, sudden and jarring. “I guess I should probably tell you I’m a lesbian.”

Shane feels his own eyes bug out, and immediately schools his expression. He must not be very successful, if the way Rose’s mouth purses around a smile is anything to go by.

“Wow.” Shane wrings his sweaty hands together. “That’s— awesome. Um. That’s— that’s really brave. Thank you for trusting, uh, me.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier,” Rose says. Voice a little softer, she says, “It’s just… you’re a hockey player, Shane. And I’m— me. But I kind of got the vibe that maybe we’re in similar boats. So to speak.”

Stomach flipping, Shane echoes weakly, “Similar boats?”

Chapter Notes

hello lovely people! we hope you enjoy chapter 2 as much as we enjoyed writing it :D we had to split it in two because it clocked in at approx twenty thousand words. oops. chapter 3 will be edited and uploaded soon!

we did say updates weekly, and it has been a solitary single day, but oh well.

enjoy!

cw:
- rose gets semi-outed to shane. it is not a stressful scene, nor is she upset about it.
- shane has a thought that is biphobic. he doesn’t know better, but it is biphobic.

September, 2010 

Being a man with impeccable self-discipline means that Shane’s life revolves around a very particular, very intensive, and very boring routine. At least when he’s not travelling. He wakes up, goes for a ten-kilometre run, and then makes himself breakfast (a green smoothie and a lightly salted bagel), before plopping himself down in front of the TV. There, he eats and watches SportsCenter. When he’s done, he showers. 

These days, Shane also exchanges a few texts with Rose Landry – because, somehow, they’re friends now – while he waits for his bagel to warm up. 

Usually, this makes for an unexciting — but relaxing — morning. Today, Shane is not relaxed. 

“The Bears will thank me this season,” Rozanov is saying, his smug face filling up Shane’s screen. Then, without a trace of irony, he adds, “I will score fifty goals by end of February. Easy.” 

Shane’s mouth falls open, a disbelieving laugh following. To no one, he says, “What an asshole.” 

“Feeling any pressure to outperform Shane Hollander?” the interviewer asks Rozanov. “Given that it’s your first season?” 

Rozanov frowns, tilting his head. “Who?” 

Shane full-body flushes. He’s not sure if he’s mad or — or something else. He just knows he can’t stand the look on Rozanov’s face. The smile playing on his lips is playful, challenging, like he’s waiting for someone to refute him or call him out. But no one does. They know he’s playing a game. 

The interviewer asks another question, and Rozanov smirks at the camera, eyes sparkling despite the horrific, sterile lighting. How can someone so sweaty and cocky and ill-lit be beautiful? 

Annoyed with himself, Shane turns the TV off. 

He hasn’t seen Rozanov in person since they… hooked up, which was months ago. Shane hasn’t heard from him at all—which makes sense, given that they never exchanged numbers. 

God, they didn’t even exchange numbers. So why is Shane all twisted up about him? 

On the TV, Rozanov winks. 

It’s going to feel so, so good to win the first time they play against each other.

A month later, Shane does. He wins against the Bears in Montreal, despite Drapeau’s (minor) ankle injury. Shane played the entire game like he was on fire — and he knows this for a fact, having watched a play-by-play of the match on his phone, hunched over in the taxi between two of his teammates on the way to the hotel. 

(“Will you disappoint them, Hollander?” 

Rozanov’s words on the ice haven’t stopped ringing in his ears. He can still feel the echo of his own smile from when he’d looked up at him. 

“Nope.”) 

Privately, Shane wonders how much of his excellent performance on the ice had to do with Rozanov’s presence. As much as he wants to resent the fact that Rozanov makes him a better player, it’s the plain truth. Even his parents can see it — Yuna had laughed, telling him his rivalry with Rozanov was keeping him razor sharp, that their mutual animosity for one another was as much a benefit for his playing as it was for the NHL’s brand. And then, like she had said something totally normal and not the worst possible thing ever, she’d thrown the car keys to David (who, like always, caught them with a flourish) and got in the car. 

Shane isn’t sure what’s worse — how much his own mother loves that Shane has an arch-nemesis, or how obsessed Shane is with said arch-nemesis. 

Because it is an obsession, he’s come to realise. Normal people don’t settle down for the night by reading articles about the person they’re supposed to hate. Normal people’s guts don’t twist up whenever there are new paparazzi photos to sift through, photos of a club, or a hotel, or a cab. Normal people don’t see their arch-nemesis on the back of their eyelids whenever they jerk off. 

He’s so fucked. 

He walks with his teammates inside, tugged by his elbow straight into the hotel bar. In the distance, he watches forlornly as the elevator door closes, without Shane Hollander in it. He just wants to go to bed. His glasses, a crisp glass of water and the last forty-five pages of his book are waiting for him.

 “Put your game-face on, Hollander,” JJ says with a grin.

The hotel bar is as loud as it is crowded, and Shane is ready to leave the moment he sets foot inside of it. He was planning on doing just that when JJ slung an arm around him and steered him over to a table in the corner with a few of their other teammates already sitting there. The spot offers no real privacy, but still provides the illusion of it. 

There are five shots lined up on the table. Shane does not want five shots. Shane does not even want one. 

“No thanks, JJ.” 

JJ groans. “Capitaine, please. We fucking won! We are victorious! Take a shot with us.” 

Shane stares vacantly at the table. They did win. He does feel good about this. 

“I’ll do one shot,” he concedes. 

JJ and the other men around the table cheer enthusiastically, whooping much louder than necessary. 

He’s glad to be here, with a team that respects and appreciates him. Captaining a successful team, one that works like a well-oiled machine, is something Shane’s proud of, something he’s worked hard for. 

This does not stop him from slipping away the second JJ and Hayden are distracted, the remnants of the shot still burning the back of his throat. 

Shane slows to a sedentary pace once he’s over the bar’s threshold, enjoying the quiet and the fizzling pride still buzzing through him. By himself, he walks the length of the reception. 

He could use some fresh air, though. Heading toward the elevator, he thinks about the roof. It’s probably empty, given that everyone seems to have congregated in the bar. Pressing the elevator button, he leans back and waits. 

When it arrives, it’s blissfully void of people. He steps inside and presses the button for the top floor. On the way up, the elevator dings, stopping on the sixth floor. 

The doors slide open to reveal none other than Ilya Rozanov. 

The silence that settles between them is immediately tense. Ilya Rozanov stands there, shirt untucked, hair messy like he’s been running his hands through it. Or like someone else has been running their hands through it. He’s clutching his phone loosely, and Shane kind of can’t believe his nerve — how can hands be sexy? It’s so unfair. 

Rozanov looks smug. About what, Shane’s not sure. Maybe he just always looks like that. Rozanov doesn’t step inside, and Shane doesn’t step out of the way for him to enter.

Swallowing thickly, Shane manages, “Long time no see.” 

“Not true. We were on the ice four hours ago.” 

“It’s a saying,” he explains. 

Rozanov’s mouth twitches up. “I know.” 

The elevator doors begin to close. Instinctively, Shane throws an arm out to stop it. He retracts it when the doors glide open again. 

“You are not partying with your team?” Rozanov asks. Still not entering the elevator. This is not how elevators work. 

Defensively, Shane says, “I did. I have. I’m just taking a break.” 

Rozanov hums. “You do not like to drink?” 

He hesitates. “I don’t not like it.” 

“Are you drunk right now, Hollander?” 

“I had one shot.” 

Rozanov’s lips tug up then, like Shane’s walked right into a trap. “You are sober.” 

Narrowing his eyes, Shane says, “Basically.” 

“You can fuck.” 

An electric current zips up the length of Shane’s spine. “Sure. If I wanted to.” 

Rozanov tilts his head to the side, eyes dragging up the length of Shane’s body, halting only once they settle on Shane’s mouth. Shane swallows thickly.

“Okay,” Rozanov says.

The doors begin to slide closed again, and driven by instinct, stupidity, and probably his dick, he steps over the threshold. Rozanov grins at him, bright.

“Oh? You are coming back to my room?” Rozanov grins at him, annoyingly charming. “I was going downstairs, Hollander.”

Shane looks left to right. Once he’s confirmed no one is in the hallway, he lifts a hand and touches Rozanov’s wristbone — featherlight, a ghost of affection. “Okay. Then go downstairs.”

Rozanov falters, eyes flicking down to the point of contact. 

Shane kind of can’t believe he managed to knock Rozanov off kilter.

He’s knocked off his own, suddenly, when Rozanov shoves him against the closed elevator door and slots his mouth over Shane’s. Shane barely has time to react before there’s a hand up his shirt, grabbing a handful of his pectoral.

He makes an embarrassing noise against Rozanov’s mouth, hand fisting into his hair as he kisses back too enthusiastically. Then, half a dozen floors up, the elevator dings — reminding Shane of exactly where they are. 

Disconnecting their mouths with a slick noise, he shoves Rozanov back, who is breathing heavy and wild-eyed. 

“Hollander?” Rozanov pants. 

“Hotel room,” Shane says, firm. He has half a mind to scold Rozanov for once again being reckless about this — kissing him in hallways littered with security cameras, or where anyone could exit their room and see them. Unfortunately, he finds that he kind of likes how reckless Rozanov is. He’s already sporting a half-chub. 

He really needs to stop listening to his stupid dick. 

“Where, uh… which– what room are you in?”

Wordlessly, Rozanov turns and makes his way down the hallway. Shane trails behind. They stop in front of room 313, and Rozanov swipes them in. Behind him, Shane takes a quick second to double-check the hallway, which is blissfully empty. When he looks back into the room, Rozanov is already over the threshold, staring at Shane like he’s going to eat him alive.

Fuck.

He’s so fucked. 

Mistake, Shane remembers, the thought vague and off-centre. Hooking up with him was a mistake. Don’t do it again. Walk away.

“You are going to come in?” Rozanov asks, unbuttoning the top button of his shirt one-handed.

“Obviously,” Shane replies, and steps inside. Silently, he toes his shoes off by the door, tucking them against the wall. When he looks up, Rozanov is staring at him, looking equally baffled and lustful. Rozanov, copying him, despite being halfway into the suite already, slides his shoes off and kicks them to the side.

For a beat, neither of them moves or speaks. Tension fills the room — thick and charged and engulfing. Rozanov opens his mouth to speak, but Shane doesn’t let him; he replaces whatever words might’ve been sitting on the tip of Ilya’s tongue with his mouth, sealing their mouths together. Roznov’s lips are soft and pillowy against his, the scratch of fresh stubble dragging across his chin.

Rozanov makes a quiet noise against his mouth, pushing Shane’s shirt up from the hem till it’s bunched at his chest. He breaks the kiss, borderline tearing the item of clothing over Shane’s head before diving in again, this time even hungrier. Shane welcomes it, greedily drinking in Rozanov’s attention and the possessive groping of his wandering hands. They slide over his waist, his hips, his lower back, and then dip over the curve of his ass, grabbing a handful.

Whining, Shane grinds forward, nudging them closer to the bed. He has one hand curled around the side of Rozoanov’s neck as the other worms between them, blindly attempting to undo the buttons of Rozoanov’s shirt. 

He is unsuccessful. Groaning, he pulls back from the kiss, huffing frustratedly as he works from the bottom up. Rozanov laughs, so damn amused while Shane’s frustration mounts. 

“Why are there so many?” Shane fumbles with the next couple of buttons. They’re so tiny. Why are they so small? 

Rozanov knocks his hands away, taking over. “I am like birthday present, Hollander. You have to unwrap me.”

“You are so annoying,” Shane says, tone aiming for annoyance — but it doesn’t land quite right. His voice is too airy, his eyes too wide and focused on the now-revealed strong lines of Rozanov’s stomach.

“Yes,” Rozanov agrees easily, “But you want me so bad.”

Shane can’t answer that, not even with a scoff or denial. Anything feels like a confession, making him too easy to see through. To get away from the moment, he just pushes forward, brushing their mouths together again. 

Rozanov doesn’t push. 

Knees hitting the edge of the bed, Rozanov sits, neck craning to keep kissing Shane. His hand lingers on Shane’s waist as he does so, before he tugs him into his lap. Shane’s knees end up pressed into the mattress on either side of Rozanov’s thighs, framing them. His hands cradle both sides of Rozanov’s jaw, while Rozanov’s warm, wide hands settle over the width of Shane’s thighs.

Sucking in a breath, Shane slips his tongue into Rozanov’s mouth. Is helpless not to. He feels compelled, pulled forward by something stronger than gravity. 

Ending up in Ilya Rozanov’s lap seems to be a pattern now, but he can’t help but enjoy the experience pretty thoroughly. The stretch at his hips, the exploratory hands, the radiating body heat — he soaks it all in, melting against Rozanov’s front.

Long fingers dig into the meat of his thigh, and Shane makes a soft, muffled mewling noise into Rozanov’s mouth.

“Your thighs,” Rozanov groans theatrically, head tilting back, exposing the long line of his throat as he squeezes them. “I cannot get enough.” 

“Okay, you Neanderthal.” 

“I do not know why you say this,” Rozanov says. “I am not allowed to appreciate your body?” 

Breathlessly, Shane tells him, “You’re appreciating them very primitively.” 

Pressing his thumbs into the inner side of his thighs, Rozanov quirks an eyebrow. “You want me to stop?”

His frustration wars with his anticipation, muscles twitching right beneath Rozanov’s stupid hands. “No.” 

Playful and confident, Rozanov smirks. 

At once, he remembers the confession he’d made right before Rozanov had come all over him. Remembers how aflame his cheeks had felt, how wrecked he’d been; he’d admitted to just how badly he wanted to taste and suck Ilya Rozanov’s dick. His heartbeat kicks up a notch. 

I wanna feel it in my mouth, he’d said. I want to know how you taste.

Against Rozanov’s mouth, he whispers, “Can I—” 

He hesitates, tilting his head and kissing along Rozanov’s jaw instead, abandoning the question. 

Rozanov does not let him. He grabs him by the jaw, dragging him up till they’re nose to nose. Shane fights a shiver. “What do you want?”

Shane tries to close the distance between their mouths, but the grip on his chin is iron-firm. 

“Hollander,” Rozanov coos, a little sing-song-y. “Tell me. I will give it to you.”

Shane looks away. He doesn’t know how to do this, how to be sexy and coy. His dirty talk had been mediocre at best last time, and he’s not sure anything’s really changed since then. Quietly, he asks, “Can I suck you off?” 

Rozanov blinks at him very slowly, pupils blown wide. “You cannot be serious.” 

Nerves collide with desire. “What do you mean?” 

“You ask this like I would say no,” Rozanov says, nonplussed. He presses his thumb to the corner of Shane’s mouth. “Like I would say no to this.” 

Reflexively, Shane’s mouth parts. Rozanov’s eyes focus intently on Shane’s lips, watching as he slips his thumb past the gap between them. He pushes it inside, and Shane lets him, pliant and easy. Always so easy, when Rozanov’s grabbing the reins. 

The weight of his thumb pressing down on the wet muscle of Shane’s tongue is grounding — it drags him into the present moment, all other thoughts dissipating, his senses suddenly sharp. 

Gently, he sucks on the digit, eyes still locked with Rozanov’s.

“Get on your knees.” 

Shane slides out of his lap and drops down so fast that his knees hit the carpet with a thud. 

Rozanov looks at him, surprise flickering. A soft fuck escapes him, but Shane doesn’t let his gaze linger on the shape of his mouth — focusing instead on Rozanov’s crotch. 

He tilts forward, pressing his face warm cheek to Rozanov’s cock, trapped beneath the fabric. The heat of it warms him, making something smouldering low in his gut fully catch aflame. Driven by instinct, he turns his face and parts his lips, mouthing wetly at Rozanov’s bulge. 

His saliva absorbs into the fabric, but Shane just keeps going, nuzzling and kissing at it as Rozanov gets harder and harder, and—

“Fuck, Hollander,” Rozanov exhales. Shane’s eyes flick up, his tongue still pressed against the cotton of Rozanov’s pants. “Take it out.”

The instruction doesn’t feel commanding — more like a gentle, guiding nudge. Shane kisses the outline of Rozanov’s dick, right above the vague outline of the crown, and finally pulls back. He blinks to clear the fuzziness in his head, feeling half fucked-out, for some reason. He doesn’t know why he’s so affected already; he hasn’t even been touched, bar the fingers threaded in his hair. He’s not even sure when they got there. 

Shane makes quick work of unbuckling Rozanov’s belt, tugging impatiently at the fabric where it stretches over his thighs. Rozanov, helpfully, lifts his hips up. Shane drags his pants and underwear down at once, letting them pool at his ankles.

Rozanov’s cock is big. He knew that, but God, it’s really—

“You do not have to take it all in your mouth,” Rozanov tells him, as if he can hear Shane’s every thought. “Start uh— shallow. Focus on the head. Use your tongue. Do not worry about taking it too deep. Does not need to be deep to be good.”

Shane’s tongue darts out, wetting his bottom lip. “You don’t think I can make it fit?”

Rozanov raises a brow at him. His cheeks are flushed, Shane realises, with sweat glistening across the high of his cheekbones. “Is everything competition for you?”

He wraps his fingers around Ilya’s cock, angling it so he can drag his tongue through the slit of it. Rozanov curses, lashes fluttering.

“Yeah,” Shane answers, “Kinda.”

“You are a freak, Shane Hollander,” Rozanov sighs, shaking his head as his mouth tugs into a grin.

Shane fights the mirroring grin that threatens to split across his face. He just leans in, taking the pink, leaking head into his mouth, and— 

Holy shit.

There’s a dick in his mouth.

He’s sucking someone’s dick.

At once, startling, the reality sets in — but Shane does not let it slow him down. He follows Rozanov’s instructions to the letter, focusing his attention at first mostly on the tip. He moves his tongue, experimenting with how much pressure Rozanov likes and where to apply it. 

Rozanov seems to like every single thing he does, but certain little movements make his hips stutter like he’s fighting the urge to sink his entire cock down Shane’s throat — which, fuck. Shane remembers those and repeats them, over and over.

With every positive reaction from Rozanov, Shane gains the confidence to explore further. He lets it slide deeper into his mouth, the wet head dragging across the roof of his mouth. Rozanov’s fingers, still settled at the back of his head, curl into his hair. Still, though, they don’t push or nudge. He doesn’t rush Shane along, just allows him to explore and discover at his own pace.

It makes Shane feel emboldened. Brave.

He settles a hand against the side of Rozanov’s thigh, gripping at the flesh there as he takes him deeper, deeper, deeper—

The head knocks against the back of his throat, and the muscles of it flex as he gags, pulling off quickly to cough. Rozanov coos something at him, but Shane can’t hear him over the rush of blood in his ears. It’s something sweet, dipped in honey. Something reassuring. 

The gagging does not deter him. He dives back in, taking Rozanov in almost as deep, before pulling back a few inches. His jaw aches almost pleasantly as it stretches wide, accommodating Rozanov’s thick cock as he finally, finally manages to get the bobbing motion down. He keeps his hand around the base of Rozanov’s dick, right around where he seems to not be able to get past, and focuses on hollowing his cheeks and sucking as his head shifts back and forth.

He kind of loses himself in the repetition of the movement, eyes falling closed and brain shutting off completely. His tongue, working on its own schedule on intermittent strokes, caresses Rozanov’s frenulum, making him shudder and gasp above Shane.

Spit is smeared across his mouth, and he realises, at once, that it’s dripping down his chin a little too. He’s messy. Sloppy. 

It’s so unbelievably hot. It’s filthy in the best possible way, and Shane’s neglected cock kicks in his boxer briefs, leaking steadily into the cotton of them.

“Hollander, I’m— fuck, you have to—”

Lost in the now comfortable, repetitive motions of bobbing his mouth over Ilya’s shaft, Shane can’t really comprehend what Rozanov is saying. He glances up, brown eyes glistening and cheeks hollowed as he takes Rozanov’s cock just that little bit deeper than he thought he could.

Rozanov curses, words so slurred and quiet that Shane isn’t sure if it’s Russian or English.

“I’m going to— Hollander—” Rozanov pulls at his hair, dragging him off his dick by the strands, a sharp sting at his scalp shooting a bolt of arousal down his spine. 

“Did I—” Shane rasps, panting. “Was it okay?”

“I’m going to come,” Rozanov pants, wrapping his hand around his length, fist dragging over the spit-slick length. “Jesus Christ. Fuck, you — you are so good. So fucking pretty.”

Groaning, Rozanov aims the head of his dick at Shane’s mouth. His fist flies, cock brushing Shane’s cheek when he suddenly jerks, the first stripe of come smearing into Shane’s skin. He paints Shane’s mouth, cheek, chin, all the while heaving for breath, making small, low noises in the back of his throat. 

Shane’s dick gives a violent, sympathetic throb. 

Flushing with arousal, his tongue peeks out, dragging across his swollen bottom lip. He’s tasted Rozanov’s come before, had it fed to him the first time they did this, but it feels just as exciting and filthy the second time. He swallows it down, and Rozanov stares, following the bob of Shane’s throat. 

Voice wrecked, he orders, “Up.” 

Heavy and buzzing, Shane stumbles up. His tucked-up erection almost hurts, giving a weak twitch every time he so much as thinks about the come on his face. 

Rozanov tugs him down onto the bed beside him, rolling on top of him smoothly. His weight is comforting and grounding, taming the hum beneath his skin. Surprisingly tenderly, Rozanov leans over him, lips finding Shane’s temple. 

The gentle touch makes something warm and pleasant unfurl in Shane’s chest, and even as Rozanov pulls away, he feels the place his mouth touched Shane’s skin, achy and ghost-like. 

With his thumb, Rozanov carefully swipes the come away from Shane’s face, wiping his hand off on the duvet. Shane lets him do this wordlessly, painfully aware of how hard he is. How close he is to Rozanov, how easy it would be to rut up against his strong thigh. 

He doesn’t. He can behave. 

Swiping the very last of the come from Shane’s chin, Rozanov smiles. “What is it?” 

Shane furrows his eyebrows. “Hm?” 

“You are thinking something,” Rozanov murmurs. “What is it?” 

Languid and content, Shane realises he hasn’t really been thinking. He just feels… safe. Safe, satiated, and spent, despite having not even come yet, despite the pulsing ache of his hard cock in his underwear. Maybe it’s because he hasn’t come—maybe it’s just because he made Rozanov feel good. There’s something satisfying in knowing he can do that to him. For him. 

But he can’t tell Rozanov that. He can’t tell Rozanov that he feels safe and so, so useful, and he’s hard about it, hard to the point that his thoughts feel fuzzy at the edges.

“Your mouth,” Shane tells him, words barely making it past his lips. 

Rozanov gives his chin a little tap. “You want my mouth?” 

“I want you to make me come.” Then, softer, “Please.”

A breath shudders out of Rozanov. “Fuck.” 

He lifts himself off of Shane, watching Shane push himself up higher on the bed. Slow and steady, he parts Shane’s legs and slips between them. 

Rozanov’s slender fingers wrap around Shane’s erection through his trousers, squeezing him once before he goes for the zipper. 

Hooking his thumbs into the waistband, he pulls Shane’s trousers and underwear down in one go. 

And then, lying on his back, with his legs parted for Ilya Rozanov, Shane is entirely naked. And very, very willing. 

Neither of them says anything as Rozanov lowers himself, stretching out on the mattress to accommodate his size. He noses at Shane’s inner thigh, sucking gently into the thin skin. A shiver licks up Shane’s spine, because—Rozanov is right there. His mouth is so close to Shane’s dick. 

He can’t stop a punched-out breath from escaping him when Rozanov wraps his hand around Shane, giving him a loose, teasing stroke. He’s fucking throbbing in Rozanov’s hand, needy and desperate and so turned on he’s getting dizzy. 

“You drive me crazy,” Rozanov breathes, bottom lip grazing Shane’s dick. 

“Rozanov,” Shane pants, eyes furrowing when Rozanov mouths at the tip of Shane’s dick. 

Shane paws at Rozanov’s shoulder, hand finding purchase on the side of his neck. Rozanov flickers his eyes up to Shane’s, and then he takes Shane into his mouth. 

He bobs shallowly, tongue flattening over the side of the head, slipping lower as his lips stretch around Shane. 

It’s fucking obscene. Shane can’t look away. 

Rozanov moves with confidence, taking Shane’s cock down his throat like it’s nothing, swallowing around the ruddy, dripping tip easily.

It’s so much to feel. To watch. 

He feels hot all over, skin prickling with the beginning of euphoria. Something tight, sudden and deeply familiar coiling in him. Embarrassment barely has a chance to blossom at how close he already feels before Rozanov’s hand finds his balls, fingers tugging and massaging at them fucking expertly and ripping any coherent thought from Shane’s brain. 

He pants, gripping at honey-coloured curls, tugging at them — no intention behind the movement, just trying desperately to grasp his own sanity.

He doesn’t even mean to do it, it’s just — it’s so much. His hips twitch upward into Rozanov’s mouth mindlessly as his head falls back, a wanton, breathy moan slipping from his parted lips. 

Rozanov pulls back to swallow around the tip, sucking in a wet breath through his mouth before he redoubles his efforts. 

The hot, wet cavern of his mouth is almost too much. All at once, Shane understands what his teammates mean when they say they can’t get enough of head, why they’re always seeking it out. If this is how it’s supposed to feel, hot and heady and overwhelming, Shane fucking gets it. 

Shane’s cock blurts pre-come, and Rozanov makes a muffled, pleased noise around him. His hands span the width of Shane’s thighs, thumbs digging into his flesh. 

His stomach tightens, and his mouth falls open. He curls his fingers into Rozanov’s hair, tugging fitfully. 

“Rozanov,” he pants. His eyebrows furrow, breath leaving him shakily. “Rozanov, you’re gonna make me come.” 

Rozanov groans around him, mouth opening wider as he sinks low, low, low, nose brushing Shane’s pubic hair. 

Rozanov, the motherfucker, stays there far longer than any human should be able to, and winks up at him.

“Oh, fuck,” Shane whines, dick kicking. “I’m — I’m serious, I’m gonna–” 

Stubbornly, Rozanov remains where he is, pulling back only to bob his head again. His eyes flicker open, the oceans of them watery and glittering, and Shane knows he’s a goner. 

The breath whooshes out of him all in one go, orgasm washing over him as he spills into Rozanov’s mouth. He barely manages to moan, the sound catching in his throat.  

Throat contracting around Shane, Rozanov swallows. 

“Shit, Rozanov,” he garbles. He doesn’t think he’s ever felt like this while having sex with someone else, so unguarded and unashamed. There is no space to feel embarrassment, to feel self-conscious. Rozanov eliminates the space with Shane, worming his way in, in, in, until he’s the centre of his gravity, the easiest thing in the world to believe in. 

Dazed by this realisation, Shane nudges Rozanov with his heel before scooting up and collapsing, turning his face into the sheets. He isn’t hiding, he tells himself. He’s just… taking a break. From looking at Rozanov. It’s only fair; the guy’s pretty fucking intense. 

With a heavy, put-upon sigh, Rozanov lies down, half on top of Shane. His soft dick rests against the meat of Shane’s leg, and it feels — right despite the fact they’re basking in a moment that does not belong to them, a moment that is altogether too domestic. Too soft. 

“I want…” Rozanov pets down Shane’s stomach, fingertips trailing down to his inner thigh. There, he presses a gentle knuckle below his balls, readjusting to nudge closer to his asshole. 

Flames lick at the back of Shane’s neck, heart still pounding. “But you … I’ve already–” 

“So?” Rozanov arches an eyebrow. His hand remains where it is. “Sex is not just about getting to come. It is to feel good. I can make you feel good.” 

Shane stares at him, surprised at his own body when it flushes at the thought of having Rozanov inside of him. In any capacity. 

“Plus,” Rozanov murmurs. “I want to be inside you. Someday, maybe all the way.”

Goosebumps erupt on Shane’s skin, impossible to disguise. “Yeah?” 

“Very much.” Rozanov nips at his shoulder. “Your ass, Hollander… fuck.” 

“You like my ass?” Shane asks, words half-muffled by the duvet. 

Rozanov doesn’t answer him, fingers halting instead. Brazenly, Shane parts his legs further, inviting him to touch, to explore. To take. 

“Is this a yes?” 

“Yeah,” he exhales, nodding small. 

“One second.” Rozanov rolls off of him and gets up. 

Shane closes his eyes and listens to him rummage around, clicking his tongue once before he returns. He opens his eyes in time to watch Rozanov plant one knee between Shane’s legs, and one on the other side. 

He clicks a bottle open – lube, Shane realises – before his hand slips between his legs again. Nerves slam into Shane again, and he tenses. 

“I will be gentle,” Rozanov says quietly. His hand disappears again. When it returns, he presses a warmed, slicked finger to the most vulnerable part of Shane, rubbing gently over him. 

He doesn’t do more than circle him for a long minute. In increments, Shane finds himself relaxing, falling into the gentle rhythm of it. When Rozanov hums, finger stilling to prod with more coordination, Shane doesn’t tense. 

Rozanov slips his finger into him slowly. It’s an entirely foreign feeling — a steady, alien pressure. It doesn’t hurt, but it feels weird. He’s thought about doing this many, many times before, but never found the privacy, time and bravery to go through with it. 

Shane’s thighs flex, body twitching under the attention as Rozanov begins properly pumping his finger in and out. His cheek is resting against Shane’s sweaty inner thigh, his eyes flickering between Shane’s body pliantly opening up for him and his flushed, wrecked face. 

He can’t look at him. His eyes squeeze shut, hands finding purchase in the mess of the hotel’s once-pristine white sheets. Rozanov takes this opportunity to turn his head, kissing softly along the sensitive flesh of Shane’s inner thigh. Shane shudders, hips rolling to push the finger deeper inside him. 

He swears he feels Rozanov smirk against his skin.

Teeth nip teasingly, and Shane whines, squirming in place. The discomfort of the stretch has disappeared completely, replaced with thigh-trembling pleasure. 

Rozanov kisses his thigh again, lingering this time, as he eases a second finger in alongside the first.

Shane’s hand snaps down, grabbing at Rozanov’s hair, tugging just once as he exhales shakily.

The fingers inside him halt. “Too much?” Somehow, despite not being the one currently stretched out over two perfect, thick fingers, Rozanov sounds breathless and ruined.

Shane feels his thighs twitch, foot shifting against the mattress as he tries to bear down on them. “No, no. Fuck. Don’t stop. Don’t—”

Gently, Rozanov shushes him, fingers plunging deep inside him, nestling into Shane’s body. “You are shaking,” Rozanov whispers, awed. He thrusts his fingers in and out, at an almost languid pace, just letting Shane’s body adjust to them.

It’s still so much, especially after his first orgasm already pulled him undone.

“Please don’t stop,” Shane finds himself begging, without even meaning to. “Don’t stop, don’t stop—”

And then Rozanov curls his fingers, grazing something inside of Shane that feels like a livewire. 

“O–oh,” Shane manages, legs spreading wider.  “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he cries out, spine arching. “Fuck. There. Fuck—fuck.”

“Is this only word you know now, Hollander?” 

“Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you.”

Rozanov laughs, forehead knocking against his thigh as with more precision, he strokes over that spot in him again, resuming the pumping of his fingers. He strokes over it with every pass he makes.

Heat coils low in Shane’s stomach, making it nearly impossible to focus on anything but the sensation of Rozanov’s fingers thrusting inside of him, curling delicately with every second pass. Pressing his face into the duvet, Shane groans, the sound long and low and brainless, like he’s some sort of animal. Like Rozanov’s reduced him to his base desires, and knows exactly how to fulfil them. 

Tightly, Rozanov says, “Is good?” 

“S’ so fucking good,” Shane slurs, words barely making it past his lips. 

It feels impossible — he’s barely overcome his first orgasm, but his breathing’s coming faster, thighs tensing, ass bearing down on Rozanov’s fingers. 

No way. No way is he about to come again– 

“Beautiful,” Rozanov breathes. 

“Rozanov,” he gasps, spilling all over himself. His eyes roll back, the overwhelming surprise warping into euphoric, mind-melting pleasure. 

He sags, body melting into a puddle of post-orgasmic goo. The digits are eased out of him, and unfortunately, wiped off on the sheets beside him. Rozanov moves up the bed, flopping next to him on his side, still facing Shane.

So, so gently, Rozanov lays a hand on his shoulder. 

“Okay?” 

“Head rush,” Shane pants. His mouth tugs into a grin, turning to look at Rozanov through half-lidded eyes. 

There’s a soft look on Rozanov’s face now, something he’s never really seen before. Shane flickers his eyes down the length of Rozanov’s body, exhaustion tugging at his eyelids. 

“Want me to…?” Shane nods at Rozanov’s dick, where it rests, swollen against his thigh. 

Rozanov smiles. “No. You are too tired.” 

Shane would argue, but a yawn big enough to crack his jaw escapes him. 

Laughing quietly, Rozanov says, “Told you. I have exhausted you, Hollander.” 

With that, Rozanov tugs Shane into his side, slinging an arm around him. 

Relaxing into his embrace, Shane hums. He lets his eyes flutter shut and decides that he’ll get up in a minute. He wants to bask in the afterglow for a little longer, wants to memorise the weight of Rozanov’s arm lying over his chest. 

He’s asleep before he knows it.

JANUARY, 2011

Four months later, Shane can admit that sneaking out on Rozanov wasn’t the classiest thing he’s ever done. 

He probably looked like a cartoon character, startling himself awake at 3 am on the dot, blinking wide-eyed at the dark ceiling. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep next to Rozanov. That’s not what they do. So, painstakingly, he had rolled out of bed and fumbled with his clothes blindly, sneaking out of the room without waking Rozanov. He had felt guilty, but also invigorated, like he’d gotten away with something illicit. Which he had. Fucking your arch-rival is definitely an illicit activity. 

But it’s been four months since then. Four months of clandestine, heated meetings, whenever they have time for it. 

Four months of Shane going certifiably insane. 

Because that’s something they do now. They hook up with each other. And he can’t tell anyone about it. Not Hayden, not Rose, not his parents - no one. 

Hayden sits down beside him with a heavy sigh, startling Shane out of his head. 

“Jackie’s pregnant,” he announces. 

Shane, who had been thinking about the pointers he would need to give Patrice later, blinks. “Again?” 

“Dude.” 

“What?” 

“Yes, again. She’s four months along.”

“Okay,” Shane says, bending down to lace up his sneakers. “Yay.” 

“You’re such a supportive best friend,” Hayden mumbles, tugging on a sweatshirt. 

“I’m running out of ways to say congratulations, man. I used congrats, last time. I thought ‘yippie’ would be inappropriate.”

Hayden smacks him gently over the back of the head. “Stop being a dick.” 

“Sorry.” 

Shane is being a dick. He’s been in a bad mood all day. It’s not entirely his fault — one of his teammates had sent a gossip article to the team’s group chat about Rozanov being spotted at some club at five in the morning, with two beautiful women draped over his shoulders, one of them kissing up his throat while he grins. Safe to say, it left a bad taste in his mouth. 

But he shouldn’t be taking it out on Hayden. 

He knows he and Rozanov are not monogamous. They’re not even dating. They’re not anything. Still, even though he’s not allowed to, he feels — queasy. Uneasy. 

Some people might say he’s jealous. But he’s not. He doesn’t care, or shouldn’t care, that Rozanov is fucking new people in every city he visits. Rozanov and Shane are … they’re nothing. 

So.

Grabbing his bag, Hayden says, “I was going to invite you to dinner tonight, but…” 

“Hey,” Shane says, taming his tense shoulders into submission — or he tries to, at least. “I’m happy for you. And Jackie. Tell her I said congratulations.”

“You don’t want me to tell her you said ‘yay’?”

“I don’t think she needs to know about the yay,” he mumbles.

“You can tell her congratulations over dinner,” Hayden says pointedly, eyebrows raised. “Tonight. Seven o’clock.”

“I, uh—”

“She’s cooking your special diet, man. I already told her you said yes.”

“I haven’t said yes.”

“But you’re coming.”

Shane should go. Not just because he wants to celebrate what is objectively another important milestone in one of his best friends' lives, but because he’s been isolating — maybe more than he should. Things are difficult these days — the secret, heavy and ghostlike, haunts him everywhere he goes. Rozanov’s face is on billboards, on his Instagram feed, in his stupid team group chat. 

Two weeks ago, in Boston, he kissed Shane’s temple right before pulling away and disappearing into the night. The spot still feels buzzy and warm when he thinks about it. He hates him. He hates what this is doing to him. He hates that he’s going to keep doing it, probably. 

For how long, he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know how they’ve kept it up this long. 

“Yeah,” Shane agrees. “I’m coming.”

MARCH, 2011

Rose Landry has a key to Shane Hollander’s place. Shane also has a key to Rose’s apartment, but it’s not often she’s there while working, and Shane isn't home a lot either. Luxury problems, his mom would say. The tragic downside to stardom, both in the hockey world and the movie world: you're never home. Their varying schedules mean that Shane doesn't use his key to Rose's very often, but he carries it with him on his keyring, snug beside his own. 

Shane kind of can't believe they've exchanged keys at all. He's never met anyone like Rose, never met anyone who laughs at his jokes the way she does. She trusts him, and when she asked him if he would like to have a key to her place (to let yourself in with, doofus, Rose had said when he'd asked why) he found that he did. He wanted that kind of closeness. He wanted a friend who felt comfortable coming and going, and felt the same about him in return. 

(He still gets a little itchy about having someone in his apartment, but it's different with Rose. She's safe. And not there very often anyway). 

Rose returned home from shooting in New York last night, and Shane is flying out tomorrow afternoon. They could have grabbed a coffee tomorrow (which they’ll probably still end up doing), but he wanted to see her right away. And so, with a skip in his step, he had made his way over to Rose’s place. 

When Shane opens the door to Rose’s apartment — he clocks the noise first. Something jazzy and soothing, with a romantic-sounding sax solo. He makes a mental note that Rose has become A Person Who Cooks To Jazz Music since he last saw her.

The hallway smells cozy and warm. Spices. Something hot and sharp that he can’t place. Maybe some cinnamon in there. It smells like a restaurant Shane wouldn’t know the right fork to use at. He follows the sound into the kitchen, but as he steps through the archway, he’s confronted by the fact that she’s not alone. She has company.

It’s no one he recognises, not from Rose’s Instagram or from any movie or show he’s seen — she’s tall, nicely put together, hair pulled up into a swishy ponytail. She’s standing very close to Rose. Like so, so close. She has one hand braced on Rose’s hip, and the other on the counter. The girl is laughing hard, head tipped back.

Rose is staring up at her with a look Shane hasn’t seen on her face before. Her eyes are wide, attentive. Distracted. Her cheeks flushed like they do when she’s tipsy. 

They’re both far more formally dressed than he expects Rose to be within the walls of her own home. She’s wearing a dark green, velvet-looking dress. Just looking at the fabric makes Shane’s skin itch a little. Her — friend (?) is wearing something navy, silky and shiny under the light. Beside Shane’s feet are two sets of heels, abandoned and tipped over.

Shit. He’s definitely interrupting something. Girls' night, maybe? He should go. Quickly. 

Shane takes a step back, his head colliding with a picture frame on the wall, rattling him. 

Head flying up to touch the back of his head, he says, “Ow.” 

Rose and her friend startle, but they don’t spring apart. Shane’s not sure why he had expected them to. 

“Shane?” Rose says, mouth halfway open. 

The girl looks at Rose, blinking rapidly. Under her breath, she says, “Shane Hollander?” 

“Me,” Shane confirms, grimacing. He feels apologetic for being Shane Hollander. He takes a step away from the wall, glancing behind at where he knocked against the corner of a painting. “Who is sorry for interrupting and, uh. Will go. Now.” 

“No, wait–” Rose takes a step toward him, so Shane takes a step back. 

Rose narrows her eyes. “Shane.” 

He takes another subtle step back. Rose’s date is looking at him intently, like she’s surprised that he exists, let alone is here in Rose Landry’s apartment. He kind of wishes he could poof from existence. He, somehow, steadily says, “Yes, Rose?” 

Another step forward. “Why are you running away?” 

“I’m interrupting.” Another step back. Again, he knocks into the wall. Into the exact same spot. Uh-oh. He’s out of steps.

“I gave you a key,” Rose points out, leaning against the kitchen doorway. “Which means you’re not interrupting."

Flickering his eyes to the girl standing behind Rose, Shane says, “I kind of feel like I am.”  

He’s seeing something that no one was ever supposed to witness — a private, intimate moment with— with someone Shane probably wasn’t even supposed to know exists. If it were him, he’d be trembling, his worst nightmare playing out in real time, but she’s just—she’s standing there. She doesn’t even look terrified. He feels terrified, right down to the core.

Rose rolls her eyes. “Okay, you’re interrupting a little bit. But, I don’t want you to— don’t rush out the door.”

“You… Rose, I can just go,” he assures her, soft.

“No. Living room, Shane. Pronto.” 

“I didn’t see anything, Rose. I promise.” It’s what she would do for him, he thinks, if things ever happened in reverse — not that they would. He would never bring Rozanov — or any man — back to his apartment. Not into the privacy of his space, where his life happens. It’d be too real. Too raw.

Rose turns to her date, her expression softening. “I’ll be right back. Shane and I just need to have a quick chat.”

“I was actually, uh,” the girl begins, grabbing her bag off the counter and striding towards them. “I think it’s time to call it a night. But text me. Later.”

Rose's shoulders sag a little, but she nods, stepping aside so her friend can grab her shoes from where they're stacked.

After her friend leaves, Rose grabs him by the wrist, leaving no room for argument, or even a word at all, and drags him toward the living room.

There, she all but shoves him onto the couch before perching delicately beside him, one leg hooked gracefully over the other. 

They lapse into a quiet, tense moment of saying absolutely nothing. Shane suddenly understands the concept of awkward silences. 

“So, um,” Rose says, sudden and jarring. “I guess I should probably tell you I’m a lesbian.” 

Shane feels his own eyes bug out, and immediately schools his expression. He must not be very successful, if the way Rose’s mouth purses around a smile is anything to go by. 

“Wow.” Shane wrings his sweaty hands together. “That’s— awesome. Um. That’s— that’s really brave. Thank you for trusting, uh, me.” 

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier,” Rose says. Voice a little softer, she says, “It’s just… you’re a hockey player, Shane. And I’m— me. But I kind of got the vibe that maybe we’re in similar boats. So to speak.” 

Stomach flipping, Shane echoes weakly, “Similar boats?” 

“Hey.” Rose reaches out, squeezing Shane’s forearm. “I might be totally wrong here. But if I’m not, I wouldn’t tell anyone. Ever.” 

Shane nods, vague and unfocused. He pauses then, realising what she’s implied.

“I don’t know what you’re implying.”

“I don’t know. I just — I’ve had guy friends before, Shane. A lot of them. And I’m not being cocky when I say most of them at least flirt with me a little. But you … you’re different.”

“Rose—”

“I’m going about this wrong. Look, I just … I could be entirely off base.”

“This whole time, you thought I was —” He doesn’t say the word. He’s never said it before. He’s never felt like he could, like he was allowed to, like it was his to have. He doesn’t finish the sentence—not even a diversion, or a shutdown. Just empty, harrowing silence.

“I suspected,” she admits, voice gentle. Her hand is still on his forearm. He glances down. Her nails are perfect. Everything about her is always perfect, and pretty, and pristine. She’s stunning. Breathtaking. Any straight guy would be falling all over her.

He’s never wanted to.

He was in awe of her, the first time they met, but it wasn’t — he knows he didn’t feel about her the way Hayden would’ve, or any of his other teammates might’ve in his place. He was fascinated by her. Instantly, he had affection towards her. He just wanted to know more.

But he didn’t want to kiss her.

He realises, now, that she wouldn’t have wanted him to, anyway. It fills him with a relief that he doesn’t really understand.

Shane likes men. He knows he does. That’s not really a revelation. He’s had Rozanov’s dick in his mouth enough for him to kind of be past the point of deniability. 

It’s just, here, with her, he realises it’s not just that.

Or maybe he’s known for a long time. It’s not something he was purposely pushing away; it was just something hovering in the corner of his eye, begging for him to look at it — but he hadn’t.

Now, he turns, looking it — and her — in the eye.

“You’re not wrong,” Shane says. “About me.” 

Rose’s expression softens. “Okay.” 

He’s hit with a rush of emotion — relief, exhaustion, joy. His eyes burn with it.

Clearing his throat, he sags a little into the couch. She follows suit, relaxing against the plush cushion with him.

They both sit there for a moment, breathing. He wonders if anyone knows about her. If she’s ever been with a woman. If the girl he saw was a girlfriend or just a lover. If this thing — the gay thing — if it’s agony for her, too. If she feels like every day she doesn’t tell the truth is a lie. If she’s terrified, she’d lose everything if anyone ever found out. He has so many questions. 

At once, he realises, he’s never met anyone like him before. He’s never felt like someone understood him. Rozanov isn’t like him — he could choose to be with a woman and live a normal, simple life if he wanted. Shane can’t.

Or he could, but he’d be miserable. Pretending. Performing.

He has so many questions, and he realises, slumped beside her, that he’s got so much time to ask. They’ve got so much to talk about. He wets his lip, staring straight ahead at her weirdly large television, and thinks, softly, I’m so glad I met you, Rose Landry.

Shane’s head tilts till it knocks against her shoulder. He feels her exhale softly, like tension is flushing out of her body at the contact. He kind of wants to hold her hand. He doesn’t. Isn’t quite sure that’s allowed.

The silence isn’t uncomfortable. But eventually, he’s the one who breaks it. “Do you ever think about coming out?” 

Rose sighs. “Yeah. I mean, that’s the plan. I just… wanted to have a foot in the door. I wanted important people to know my name before I made any announcement.” 

“Are you worried they might blacklist you?” He asks. Sometimes, he thinks about what would happen if he were to come out. He’d probably ruin his career. He’d definitely ruin his reputation. Montreal would probably try to trade him. When his contract is due to end, no one would ever be willing to sign him again. He’d be ostracised in locker rooms, mocked on the ice, smeared in newspaper headlines. It would be endless. He would have to quit. 

He would lose the one thing he’s always been good at. 

So, it’s not really an option for him. He doesn’t think it ever could be. 

Hockey players just aren’t gay; they’re not allowed to be. 

But actresses can. She could. She’s brave, and talented, and perfect. He wants it for her. To be free.

Rose snorts. “Not anymore. Times are changing, you know? But— I don’t want my coworkers treating me any differently. It’s just easier like this.” She pauses, resting her head atop his. “Or maybe I’m a coward.” 

“I don’t think you’re a coward.” 

But Shane might be. Shane might be a coward, because he’s known about himself — in some capacity, at least — for years and hasn’t breathed a word of it to anyone, not even his parents. He wasn’t ever going to tell Rose, and probably wouldn’t have, even after she came out, if she hadn’t said that she had her suspicions about him. If she hadn’t nudged the closet door open, coaxing him out of it like one coaxes a sad, feral, stray cat out of an alleyway.

He might be a coward because he can’t even say the words out loud — say I’m gay to someone who’s just confided in him, someone who knows what he is, someone who is his friend. 

Like she’s read his mind, Rose says, “I don’t think you’re a coward either.” 

Shane’s face crumples. He can’t help it, squeezing his eyes shut against the swelling panic and the burn in his eyes. 

“Oh, Shane,” Rose says, soft and kind. “Come here.” 

He lets Rose tug him closer, tilting him until he’s sideways, his head pillowed by her lap. 

“Sorry,” he says, voice small and fraught as he tucks his hands close to his chest. 

Rose threads her fingers into his short hair, thumb rubbing a circle into the skin behind his ear. “You’ve got nothing to be sorry for.” 

For a long minute, neither of them say anything. They let the tension fizzle out and turn into something comfortable. Something familiar. 

Rose Landry is a lesbian, Shane thinks. That’s– still kind of insane. But it also… it also sparks something like relief in his chest. There’s kinship here. There’s an understanding between them now that wouldn’t be able to exist unless Rose had been brave enough to tell Shane about herself. 

Staring at the coffee table with his head in Rose’s lap, Shane says, “I’m gay.” 

Rose’s hand pauses momentarily before resuming her gentle petting. “I’m proud of you.” 

He can’t help it — he laughs. After a second, Rose joins him. 

It’s the sheer relief of having said the words, of being met with acceptance, that makes him want to laugh. A part of him sort of wants to dance, or make cocktails, or go somewhere sunny. 

He said the words. He told someone he’s gay, and the world didn’t end. 

“You know,” Rose says, laughter petering out into a sigh. “I think the world would be a lot simpler if you and I could just be in love, Shane Hollander.”

Shane turns, giving her a half-smile. “Yeah.” 

She continues petting his hair, snorting. “We’d be such a hot couple. You have the freckles and the abs, I have the face and the ass.”

Mouth falling open, Shane exclaims, “I have ass!”

Rose arches an eyebrow. “That you hide in slouchy athleisure.” 

“Fuck off.” 

Rose giggles, sliding down further on the couch, jostling Shane. 

Wiggling beneath him, Rose makes a small noise. 

“Hey, Shane?” she says. 

“Yeah?” 

“I kind of want us to be best friends.” 

Shane smiles, eyes closed. “I think we already are.”

APRIL, 2011

Rozanov pulls Shane aside at the next game they play together. He keeps a hand on his elbow as he leans in, whispering his hotel room number to him. Shane tells himself it would be stupid to go, and resolves not to. 

He knocks on Rozanov’s door at a little past nine. 

The sex is different this time. Slower. Sweeter. He still doesn’t fuck Shane. Though Shane can tell Rozanov really wants to — next time, he’d whispered, right against the shell of Shane’s ear, Next time I will fuck you, okay?

They make out, hot and heavy, for longer than they probably should, considering Shane has to get back to his room before Hayden notices he’s gone. Then, Rozanov blows him, once again having to be the most talented person in the room. Shane jerks him off while they kiss, and realises, the second their tongues touch, that Rozanov tastes like him.

He feels really normal about that.

He doesn’t even whine directly into the heat of Rozanov’s mouth, squeezing his dick a little too tight as he ruts against him, suddenly so, so hard again.

Shane comes a second time, only seconds after Rozanov spills over his knuckles. They stay there, hands still wrapped around each other's cocks, far past what is probably necessary. 

Almost absently, he wonders how often Rozanov has sex. If, after games, the rush of adrenaline takes him places. If he rendezvous at clubs, plans clandestine meetings in hotel rooms, and smiles into strangers’ mouths in hotel rooms. If he’s intentional, or if he simply falls into it, the way he fell into things with Shane. 

Is Shane just one out of a million? Or is he special? 

Is he special because he’s the only man Rozanov feels safe enough to fuck? Or is his gender of no concern to Rozanov? 

They separate, then, with Rozanov collapsing in a huff against the sheets while Shane makes quick work, crossing the room and grabbing a tissue from the box on the little dining table. 

“Hollander.” On the bed, Rozanov’s chest rises and falls rapidly. 

Shane looks up, still wiping the mess off his hand. “Hm?” 

Smoothly, Rozanov slips out of bed and approaches him, naked and shameless. Shane tries not to make direct eye contact with his dick. 

“Give me your phone,” Rozanov says, making a grabby gesture at him. “I will put my number in.”

Shane frowns. “Rozanov, I can’t— you can’t do that. What if our phones get hacked?”

“Hollander, trust me. I am not an idiot.”

Shane, reluctantly, fishes his phone out of his pants (which are discarded on the floor in a heap), punches in his passcode and hands it over. He watches as Rozanov taps at the screen, his name marked as Lily at the top with no contact photo. He tries to imagine what his contact photo would be if they could do things like that. Maybe a picture of Rozanov smiling wide — or a photo of them together, his arm slung over Rozanov’s shoulder. It’s a nice visual. A silly fantasy.

There’s another version of him that gets to have that. That gets to experience whatever this is in an easier way. 

His mind snaps back quickly as the phone is handed back to him. “Creative,” Shane mumbles.

“Thank you. I am genius,” Rozanov grins, crooked, leaning closer into Shane’s space. Shane leans back — not out of disinterest, but to grab Rozanov’s phone off the bed. He taps his own number in, hesitating when he gets to the other details section, looking up at Rozanov with his tongue pressed behind his teeth. He offers it back out, the section blank.

Rozanov types something in and pockets the device in his sweatpants. 

Shane frowns. “No, hey — what’d you put?”

Rozanov hums, sliding a knuckle under Shane’s chin and tilting his head up. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Silently, Shane squints at him.

“Do not be freak. I put Jane.”

“That’s stupid.”

“You would rather I put ‘Shane Hollander, bracket, hot dumb Canadian who loves my dick, bracket?”

“You’re not funny.” Shane finds himself leaning in, though, or — well, being gently dragged in by the little crook of his chin.

“I knooooow,” Rozanov drags out, grinning, and ends the word by sealing their mouths together. Shane lets him. Is helpless not to. His hand lifts and circles Rozanov’s forearm, not dislodging his hand, but just holding on. 

Any minute now, Rozanov will duck back out, and Shane won’t see him for weeks or months. He just wants another second. Another selfish second that can’t mean anything to either of them. 

Chapter 3: to see you this way

Chapter Summary

“Shane, how are you feeling about playing alongside your long-term rival?”

“Uh—” Shane clears his throat, ignoring Rozanov’s heavy presence beside him. “I’m feeling pretty excited about the entire team, if I’m honest. I’m surrounded by a lot of really talented players. I think we’re gonna kick ass.”

“Rozanov, same question.”

“Me?” Rozanov says, leaning over till their shoulders knock together. It almost looks accidental. “I think Hollander is just excited to not lose to me.”

A ripple of murmurs runs through the crowd of reporters, and Rozanov smirks, self-satisfied.

Beneath the table, Shane kicks him in the ankle, smiling bright and innocent as the next question is asked.

“Be nice,” Rozanov says under his breath.

“You be nice,” Shane shoots back out of the corner of his mouth.

Chapter Notes

hello! we would've had this out a lot sooner if i (jo) didn't get BODY-SLAMMED by the flu. i am on the mend now. so here is a chapter.

enjoy!

cw: death of a parent (ilya’s). nothing graphic is described, but we explore ilya’s grief. this will extend into the next chapter, but it is not the main focus going forth. 

Shane and Ilya keep hooking up, and every single time, Shane tells himself it doesn’t mean anything, and that this time will be the last time. He convinces himself that the fact that Rozanov never texts him is proof of that, that they’re on the same page, that this is nothing. That they are nothing at all.

And then, the hook-ups keep happening. 

And happening. 

And happening. 

Months pass, and intermittently, when their game schedules align, they fall back into each other.

They go at it on the ice, giving it everything they’ve got, then end up in a hotel room again (or sometimes, in Ilya’s apartment) and again, tearing at each others clothes, kissing like they’re starving for it, and making each other come undone, while never, ever, talking about it. 

He keeps waiting for Rozanov to fuck him. He talks about it while fingering him, about how tight he is, how hot Shane’s ass is, how perfectly he’d take it — but it never escalates.

Shane imagines it. Constantly. But he never finds the right words to ask for what he wants — for Rozanov to fuck him.

Rozanov doesn’t push.

Before he knows it, a year has passed since they swapped numbers, and Rozanov still hasn’t texted him. Shane kind of hates him for it. 

Shane doesn’t text him either, so maybe he’s a hypocrite. Maybe they’re both just idiots. Shane feels pretty stupid every single time he’s alone in an empty room again, sweaty, achey, and wishing he didn’t have to fall asleep alone.

He does, though.

Every time.

April 12th — 2012

SHANE: You awake?

ROSE: Awake and just got off set. 

SHANE: Want to grab breakfast? 

Rose Landry loved your message.

ROSE: YES PUH-LEASE! 

July 11th — 2012

SHANE: Men are dumb. 

ROSE: Uh-oh

SHANE: Dumb and hot.

ROSE: You’re so gay and stupid. I love you.

SHANE: I have a hickey. 

Rose Landry loved your message.

ROSE: Pike is SO gonna laugh at you 

SHANE: That is not comforting, Rose.

August 3rd — 2012

ROSE: I’m blue

SHANE: One sec, in a team meeting.
You okay? Do you need to call?

ROSE: No, Shane. I’m blue. They’re doing reshoots.

SHANE: I don’t get it. 

ROSE: [Photo attached]
I’m literally blue 

SHANE: Oooh. They’ve painted you again.
At this point you should let them tattoo you blue. 

ROSE: Would take a lot less time :/ 

SHANE: Well, you look blue-tiful

ROSE: Sigh. I love you.

SHANE: Love you too. Call later? 

ROSE: I’ll call you before we start filming :) 

SHANE: Can it be a video call

Rose Landry disliked your message.

ROSE: Go away

September 15th — 2012

SHANE: Do you ever get lonely? 

ROSE: All the time. Why? 

SHANE: I don’t know how to stop it
Being lonely 

ROSE: Easy fix, honeybug.
Come over? 

SHANE: Okay

November 5th – 2012

SHANE: My mom asked about you today.

ROSE: How is much beloved Yuna Hollander?

SHANE: Nosy.
She asked if we’re an item

ROSE: I told you we’d make a beautiful couple, Shane

SHANE: I’m rolling my eyes at you. 

ROSE: What did you say?

SHANE: That we’re madly in love and running away to the Maldives for our honeymoon. Duh.

ROSE: You dog.

December 17th — 2012

ROSE: Shane
Shane
Shane
Just walked in on my co-star sucking face with my makeup artist

SHANE: Wait, which co-star?

ROSE: The hot one 

SHANE: We have different definitions of hot, Rose

ROSE: Katalina. The one who I thought had been flirting with me for months.

SHANE: Shit
:(

ROSE: Fuck my stupid lesbian life!!!!!!!!!!!

DECEMBER 31st — 2012

ROSE: I AM COMING TO MONTREAL
TOMORROW NIGHT
FOR NEW YEAR'S EVE
WE ARE GOING DANCING
I KNOW YOU’RE BACK IN MONTREAL SHANE

SHANE: Rose, it’s four in the morning.
What happened to hello.

ROSE: My beautiful darling boy
I have been awake for twenty-five hours
Please do not say no :( 

SHANE: I’m not dancing

Rose has disliked your message

SHANE: One dance. 

Rose has loved your message.

ROSE: There’s that Christmas spirit
See you tomorrow!!!!!!!

All Star Game - Columbus, Ohio - January 2013 

The conference room is teaming with reporters and photographers, all of them shuffling into some semblance of order as they sit down. The microphones on the desk are already on (which Shane knows because he cleared his throat and it created a veritable tornado of feedback), primed and pointed at Shane and Rozanov. 

This is not their first rodeo; they have been interviewed together before. Shane’s ready for anything. 

“Shane,” says a red-headed reporter with thick round glasses, once everyone’s settled. “How are you feeling about playing alongside your long-term rival?”

“Uh—” Shane clears his throat, ignoring Rozanov’s heavy presence beside him. “I’m feeling pretty excited about the entire team, if I’m honest. I’m surrounded by a lot of really talented players. I think we’re gonna kick ass.” 

“Rozanov, same question.” 

“Me?” Rozanov says, leaning over till their shoulders knock together. It almost looks accidental. “I think Hollander is just excited to not lose to me.” 

A ripple of murmurs runs through the crowd of reporters, and Rozanov smirks, self-satisfied. 

Beneath the table, Shane kicks him in the ankle, smiling bright and innocent as the next question is asked.

“Be nice,” Rozanov says under his breath. 

“You be nice,” Shane shoots back out of the corner of his mouth.

Rozanov’s stupid hand reaches over, sliding onto Shane’s thigh and settling over the width of it, fingers splayed out. He squeezes, just once. Shane barely suppresses a visible shudder.

Shane doesn’t say much else during the rest of the conference. He keeps waiting for Rozanov to move his hand. He doesn’t. Not until they excuse themselves and head out the door.

It takes hours for Shane to stop feeling the ghost warmth of Rozanov’s touch.

They play fucking incredibly together. Rozanov is exactly as good by Shane’s side as he is when he plays against him — and as loath as Shane is to admit it, they just get each other, their chemistry is undeniable. On the ice, it’s as though they can read each other’s minds. Shane knows what Rozanov’s planning to do a second before he does it, getting himself into position and readying to receive right as Rozanov passes the puck to him every single time. 

Centering for Rozanov is electric. If he’s honest, he doesn’t think he’s ever had line chemistry with someone like he does Rozanov. A part of him is a little pissed about it, but the high of the win overshadows that annoyance by a mile.

Shane knows, before he’s even off the ice, that people are going to be talking about it. Two young phenoms, pure strength, instinct and years of training, putting the other team to shame by pushing their rivalry aside to work together. 

After the game, Yuna texts him to let him know they played one of the best matches she’s ever watched. Despite himself, Shane smiles. Making his mom proud — the biggest hockey fan he knows, not counting himself — is a wonderful feeling. One he would normally bask in, if he didn’t have plans. 

This time, Rozanov comes to Shane’s hotel room. 

Shane’s only been inside for fourty-five minutes when the knock comes, having had time to shower and — embarrassingly optimistic and somewhat uncomfortably — douched (thank you, YouTube). He’s perched on the edge of the bed, nerves humming under his skin — anxiety and anticipation tight in his chest in equal measure.

It feels different this time. He’s not sure why. 

When he tugs the door open, Rozanov is glancing side-to-side, aware, apparently for the first time since Shane’s met him, that anyone could be watching him loitering outside of Shane’s hotel room. He’s dressed down: soft sweats, a loose shirt that clings just enough to show the hard curve of his arms.

Their eyes meet, and Shane has to stop himself from doing something humiliating, like kissing him before he even gets inside, or dropping to his knees where he stands. Training and playing alongside Rozanov has been– good. Really good. Here, in Ohio, they didn’t have to be rivals. They didn’t feel like rivals. To anyone looking in from the outside, they might’ve even passed as friends, and not just fleeting teammates in an endless sea of games. They had even shared a drink at the bar the day Shane arrived, shoulders brushing casually in the middle of the sleepy Columbus hotel, like it had meant nothing at all.

Shane’s heart — like it had been then — is thundering in his chest.

He fists his hand into the front of Rozanov’s shirt and hauls him over the threshold. Rozanov looked poleaxed, mouth falling into a perfect, breathless ‘o’.

It’s all heat and tense muscle, a sudden pause where they lock eyes and neither of them are strong enough to look away first. Shane, using the grip he has on Rozanov’s shirt, is the first to break. He drags him in, but the kiss isn’t a collision, like the force of the pull inward would indicate it would be, it’s just– starving. He slots their mouths together and licks into Rozanov’s mouth, backing him up against the door. Rozanov just lets him — slipping his hand around Shane’s waist, grabbing a handful of his ass over his shorts and dragging him in impossibly closer, till Shane’s entire body is flush with his.

Their mouths move together slickly, and Shane’s already half-hard, aching in his shorts — he’s not sure if he was already on the way there, from anticipation alone, before Rozanov had even arrived. Rozanov twitches his hips into an unsteady roll, the hand on Shane’s ass encouraging him to meet the movements fluidly. 

“Fuck, Hollander,” Rozanov groans, right into the heat of Shane’s mouth. His free hand fists into Shane’s hair, dragging his head back with a sharp tug. His mouth finds all the sensitive sweet spots along the side of his throat, sucking and licking at the warm skin. It almost feels like he’s got them all memorised, the way he finds and targets them one after the other. 

He always sucks hard enough to make Shane keen and whine, but rarely hard enough to leave a mark. Often, desperately, in the throes of it, Shane wishes he would. He wishes he would bite until the outline of his teeth dents the side of Shane’s neck, a branding, a possession, something to say Ilya Rozanov was here. Something that Shane could keep, if only for a week, a day. Anything.

Hayden and the boys would rag him for it, like they have every other mark, and maybe it’d even end up in some mediocre gossip column, but he wouldn’t care. He just wants. Greedy, selfish, needy. He wants. 

Here, now, like this — beneath Rozanov’s perfect, coaxing, claiming mouth, he just wants to belong to him. He wants to be Rozanov’s boy.

The thought hurts. It sinks deep in his stomach, threatening to curdle the arousal swarming him, but Shane doesn’t have time for it. 

Shane Hollander does not want to be a cliché. He doesn’t want to be the closeted boy who falls for the first man to ever kiss him. But it’s hard not to wonder if that isn’t exactly what’s happening here. It’s hard not to wonder when he pulls back and watches Rozanov’s pupils blow wide as he stills. Rozanov doesn’t drag Shane in for a kiss, or shove him to his knees like Shane expects him to. Instead, he takes a second to drag his thumb across Shane’s bottom lip, pressing in right at the corner. Shane turns his head, barely an inch, and kisses the pad of his thumb.

Rozanov groans like he’s been struck.

When they kiss again, it’s rougher, messier, and after only a minute or so, Rozanov picks him up, carrying him to the bed even while Shane (weakly) protests at being tossed around.

Everything blurs after that.

He’s on his back against the Egyptian cotton sheets with Rozanov between his thighs, pressing two — then three — fingers inside of him, curling them skillfully while Shane grips helplessly at the blanket with one hand, the other crammed loosely into his mouth, poorly muffling the high-pitched, needy little noises being dragged out of him.

“R-Rozanov,” Shane grits out, lifting his hand away to gasp in a breath. “Y-You– ‘m gonna come,” he warns, hips stuttering helplessly, chasing the thrust of Rozanov’s long, talented fingers. “Right there, f-fuck, right there–”

Rozanov kisses the shaft of Shane’s cock, feather-light and almost reverent. “Do you want to?” he asks — almost conversationally. 

“Do I–” Shane lets out a broken laugh that turns into a choked off gasp. Rozanov’s fingers are so deep in him with every thrust, nestling right against the spot that makes something inside Shane spark, hot and scorching, and makes his cock twitch — untouched and leaking heavily — against his stomach. “F-Fucking yeah, yes. I wanna come. I– please. Please, I wanna come.”

He doesn’t mean to beg. Rozanov didn’t ask him to. It just tumbles out, and Shane doesn’t even have time to feel ashamed of it, because Rozanov whispers, beneath his breath, something in Russian and then bites into Shane’s thigh.

He’s surprised he doesn’t come then and there, with Rozanov’s canines digging into the meat of his leg, marking it with the indentations of them. Shane cries out, a lot louder than he expects to, and reaches back — for the headboard, for the wall, whatever he can reach, and braces himself. The pain is bright and shocking, and it should be unpleasant, but it’s not. He likes it. Wants it. Wishes he would never pull away.

He does, though. As Rozanov’s jaw eases off, blood rushes hot to the surface, a new wave of pain — duller, achier — coming with it. 

“You could come like this,” Rozanov says. “Or…”

Shane waits for the or. He’s hanging on by a fucking thread, but he waits, and waits, for two seconds, then three, then— “O-Or what? I’m—Jesus,” he manages, voice fraying, “d-don’t—I’m gonna—”

“Or I could fuck you,” he finishes, unmistakable amusement curling in his voice. “And you could come on my cock.” 

A shot of arousal zings through Shane, pooling in his stomach. Shaky hand snapping down to grip the base of his dick, he only barely manages to stifle an orgasm. 

“You’re an asshole,” he grits out, voice horrifically whiny. “You suck, you suck– you suck so bad.”

“You don’t want it?” He can hear the stupid smirk in Rozanov’s voice. “You don’t want my cock?”

Jesus, he does. He feels like he might explode; he feels emptier than he’s ever felt. He wants Rozanov to fuck him so badly that his eyes water. 

“What do you want from me?” Shane asks. 

“No, no.” Rozanov presses a kiss to Shane’s inner thigh, right over where he’d bitten him. “What do I want for you, Hollander.” 

An irrepressible shiver runs up Shane’s spine. “What do you want for me, Rozanov?” 

“I want to make you feel good.” Rozanov’s voice dips lower, timbre reverberating through Shane like the taught string of a cello. “I want to fuck you.” 

Shane bears down on Rozanov’s hand, back arching. 

“Please,” he tries to say, but even to his own ears, it’s more sob than word. It’s just a raw, wrecked, pathetic thing. Tears prick at his eyes, threatening to spill over as he tries to hold off from coming. “Please fuck me.”

Between his legs, Rozanov says nothing. Inside of Shane, his fingers twitch once, twice, before he pulls them out. 

“Okay,” Rozanov says, but it comes out sounding almost reverent. “Okay.” 

Shane watches as Rozanov grabs a condom from the drawer of the side table, sliding in onto his cock before slicking himself up. Shane listens, mouth watering, to the wet schlick noise of it and wants so badly to know what it feels like pushing into him, taking him. He lets his legs fall open wide as Rozanov looks down, lining the head of his cock up. 

Rozanov curves one hand around Shane’s hip, holding him in place as he guides the fat head of his cock into Shane. It’s not entirely dissimilar in feeling to Rozanov’s fingers inside him, but it’s an experience he’s not sure he has the words to describe. The pressure, unrelenting and filling, has less give than Rozanov’s fingers. While the fingers shift, curl and move to accommodate the tightness of Shane’s walls, Shane’s body, as it’s pressed inside of, has to stretch and adjust to let Rozanov in. It feels like he’s carving space for himself in him, pushing in, in, in, slow and careful, but it’s so much.

There’s no pain. It’s all just– pressure. Pushing.

Shane exhales through it, hand drifting without thought to rest over Rozanov’s. He doesn’t even notice himself knocking away Rozanov’s grip so that he can tangle their fingers together. The touch immediately anchors him, though, his mouth agape and head tilted back as Rozanov bottoms out inside him.

He waits, breath caught in his throat, for Rozanov to shift his hips, to roll them and fuck into him, but for a beat, then another, he’s just– still.

Shane’s eyes flutter open, finding Rozanov’s. Rozanov is staring down at where they’re connected, teeth sunk into his bottom lip as his eyes squeeze tightly closed, like he’s–

Oh my God. He’s trying not to come. Sex God Ilya fucking Rozanov is balls deep inside Shane for the first time, and is barely making it through the first thrust before he’s ready to topple over the edge. Shane, through the overwhelming sensation, manages to feel utterly thrilled at the thought.

“Feel good?” Shane asks breathily, mouth stretching into a shy smile. 

“Jesus, Hollander,” Rozanov manages, a gust of laughter following as the intensity of the moment is briefly eclipsed by easy affection. “Yes. Yes, you feel good.” 

Shane wants to trace the slope of Rozanov’s grin, but he doesn’t, curling his hands into the sheets instead. 

“Come on,” he urges softly. “Fuck me.” 

Rozanov watches him entirely shamelessly, eyes unencumbered by insecurity or discomfort. He’s entirely at ease with himself, which in turn puts Shane at ease. A feedback loop of good-more-please that Shane resolves to give himself over to entirely. 

Hand squeezing Shane’s hip, Rozanov eases himself out, then pushes all the way into him again, excess lube easing the glide. His cock curves deliciously inside of him, brushing up against his g-spot dully. 

Shane loses a breath and thinks, I’m never going to feel like this again. 

Rozanov sets a steady pace, shifting every couple of thrusts until Shane gasps, the change in angle sending a zing of pleasure up his spine. 

“Like that?” Rozanov pants, and Shane can only nod, melting into the mattress as Rozanov thrusts, his cock hard, and hot, and relentless inside of him. 

There’s an urgency to the way Rozanov’s fucking him now, eyes flickering all over Shane’s face as he gropes his chest, stomach flexing every time Shane makes a small noise of pleasure. 

“Closer,” Shane begs, tugging at Rozanov’s elbow. 

Rozanov obliges, hips stilling momentarily to adjust, catching himself on his elbow. This way, their noses are almost touching, their breaths mingling hotly. On the next thrust, Shane’s eyelids flutter, cock dribbling pre-come on his stomach. 

“You take me so well,” Rozanov pants, tugging at Shane’s ear with his teeth. 

You fuck me so well, Shane thinks deliriously. Clenching his jaw, he moans. 

Ducking his head, Rozanov fucks into him harder, biting back a filthy groan — and Shane almost sees stars. 

“Oh, fuck,” Shane chokes out, breathing coming faster and faster, in time with the flood of arousal pooling in his gut. He feels it deep in the throes of his chest, something hot and claiming securing itself by hooking its talons in between his ribs. 

“Beautiful,” Rozanov says, increasing the pace, the sound of their hips snapping together growing louder. He cups Shane’s face, eyes intense and entirely focused when they find Shane’s. Hips stuttering into Shane, Rozanov captures his mouth in an open-mouthed kiss, a low groan rumbling through him. 

Shane’s done for. He comes with a sudden, jarring gasp, cock kicking between their torsos. His back arches, hands flying to Rozanov’s back as he digs his blunt fingernails into him, moaning into Rozanov’s ear.

A pathetic whimper escapes him, and Rozanov swears, slowing his pace into a slow and steady grind, barely pulling out as he gyrates. 

“I’m going to come,” Rozanov gasps, mouthing along Shane’s jaw. 

“Yeah,” Shane breathes, using his legs to tug him into him, weak and spent. “Please.” 

Inhaling sharply, Rozanov fucks into him a little harder, stimulating Shane’s oversensitive nerves until Shane whimpers again. Pushing himself up on trembling arms, Rozanov locks eyes with him, panting and sweaty. 

“Please,” Shane says again. 

At once, Rozanov’s eyebrows furrow, mouth falling open as his cock jerks inside of Shane, spilling into the condom as he pants erratically. He keeps grinding into him shallowly, like he’s chasing the aftershocks, riding the wave for as long as he can. 

Shane full-body shudders at the sensation. It feels animal, feels primal, submitting like this. Wanting to submit like this, letting a man — letting Rozanov — come inside of him. Even with a condom in the way. Lax and loose beneath him, Shane clenches around him, eliciting a small, wounded noise from Rozanov. 

For a moment, it’s the most grounded Shane’s ever felt. 

“Fuck,” Rozanov breathes as he presses his open mouth to Shane’s neck, slumping forward, his slowly softening cock sliding out of Shane’s body. 

Panting up at the ceiling, Shane brings his hand up to thread his fingers into Rozanov’s hair. Rozanov lets him twirl a curl around his finger a couple of times before he groans, heaving himself off of Shane before collapsing beside him. 

He stretches before tying off the condom, throwing it in the vague direction of the bin. Shane wrinkles his nose, but doesn’t say anything. He’s entirely boneless right now; even if wanted to, he couldn’t get up to throw away the condom properly to make a point. 

Catching their breaths, they lapse into silence. 

Shane wants to luxuriate in the good-happy-comfortable moment, wants to lay here and think of nothing at all, feeling only the burn in his muscles and the subtle ache in his cock. But he can’t ignore the way his heart stumbles when he sneaks a glance at Rozanov. 

Something’s different. They’re different. And this wasn’t just getting off with a buddy. Not to Shane, and — and not to Rozanov either, even if he denies it. Shane’s sure of it. 

Something has changed. Rozanov is becoming something familiar. He’s already a steady fixture in his life, but this, it feels — establishing. Maybe casual sex isn’t supposed to feel like this, like it means something. But to Shane, unequivocally, it does. 

He doesn’t want Rozanov to leave. He doesn’t want this to be over, because he doesn’t know when he’ll see Rozanov next. He gets the absurd urge to ask him something. Anything at all to keep him here. 

Please, he almost says. Just talk to me about the weather. 

He turns his head at the same time as Rozanov. 

Rozanov, half-lit by the warm glow of the lamp, smiles at him like they could be friends. Shane swallows around the knot of shaky emotion in his throat, threatening to swell and choke him. 

Shane doesn’t think he does a good enough job at keeping his face neutral, at keeping the panic internal, because Rozanov’s smile falters. There’s a storm of muted conflict playing out on Rozanov’s face, something Shane only captures a glimpse of before Rozanov pulls the duvet back and slips out of bed. 

“I,” Rozanov starts, pulling on his underwear. His back is to Shane, muscles rippling as he bends to pick up his sweats. “I will see you.” 

Pathetically and without meaning to, Shane asks, “When?” 

Rozanov doesn’t stop moving, pulling his tank top on next. Evasively, he says, “Soon.” 

Pushing himself up on his elbows, Shane clears his throat. “Okay.” 

Tucking his shirt into his sweats, Rozanov turns to look at him. There’s a brightness to his eyes that feels manufactured, like he’s keeping his face neutral by sheer force of will. 

“I will see you,” Rozanov says again, hesitating before he puts a knee on the bed, leaning in to press a quick kiss to Shane’s temple. 

And then he’s across the room, grabbing his shoes without putting them on. He opens the door, looking over his shoulder to give Shane a half-sincere smile. “Goodnight, Hollander.” 

Shane nods once, small and unsure. “Night.”

JANUARY 20th 2013 

SHANE: Had a sort of revelatory experience 

ROSE: Oh?
Is this about how much muscle you’ve been putting on? 

SHANE: ? No 

ROSE: Because you could totally suplex an actual wrestler now I think 

SHANE: I don’t want to suplex a wrestler 

ROSE: Suplex Ilya Rozanov or something then 

SHANE: Why the hell would I do that? 

ROSE: …Because you’re rivals? 

SHANE: I am not a violent man 

ROSE: I know
I just think it would be funny
What was the revelatory experience if it wasn’t muscle-related? 

SHANE: I don’t know if I want to say now 

ROSE: Shane. Tell me immediately. 

SHANE: Not over text
But it was pretty vulnerable 

ROSE: Vulnerable sex? 

SHANE: I guess 

ROSE: That’s not vulnerability
That’s bonerbility 

SHANE: Jesus Christ
That’s so bad Rose 

ROSE: You love it ;)
Come over!!! 

Shane drags his sorry ass to Rose’s.

Rose’s apartment is a lot homier than Shane’s. For starters, she has an entire collection of blankets. Fluffy, hand-made, patchwork — you name it, she’s got it. It’s incredibly endearing, and Shane usually ribs her about it upon entering the living room, spotting the basket full of said blankets leant up against the couch. 

He does not rib her this time. 

The rest of the apartment is full of trinkets. She’s not a fan of minimalism, preferring instead a home full of what Shane would call junk, and Rose would call decorative keepsakes. He does like the pictures she hangs on the wall. He’s in one of them, smiling with his arm around Miles and Rose at a gala. The photo was only taken a few months ago. 

The kitchen is his favourite. The island is made out of a dark wood, vaguely reminiscent of Shane’s parents’ house in Ottawa. Rose has an entire drawer full of spices, and an additional spice rack on the counter. Shane learned quickly that she likes very flavourful food, and is an imaginative cook — sometimes to her own detriment. 

Now, Shane watches Rose steep two cups of tea before fishing the tea bags out. She’s on a vanilla-caramel tea kick at the moment, drizzling honey into her mug to enhance the flavour (or so she says) before raising an eyebrow at Shane, who shakes his head. She sighs, but puts the honey away. 

Together, they migrate to the living room. The same living room that they came out to each other in all those months ago.

“So.” Rose sits down, steaming mug cupped in her hands. 

Shane sits down too, sliding his own mug onto a coaster. Then, to buy time, he picks at his cuticles. 

As usual, Rose waits him out, busying herself with wiggling herself onto a throw pillow. She crosses her legs and rests her elbows on her knees, hunching forward to slurp obnoxiously at her tea. 

“There’s this guy,” Shane begins, words coming jagged and unsure. 

Rose’s eyes widen. “There’s a guy?” 

Shane nods, biting the inside of his cheek. 

“Since when?” Rose demands. “Who is it?” 

“I– I can’t say.” Shane reaches for his own tea, before changing his mind. Dropping his hands back into his lap, he says, “Or, I mean… Just, a while. On and off. And he’s not out, so I don’t– it’s complicated.” 

“That’s okay,” Rose says quickly. “You don’t have to tell me who it is. Just… tell me about him. Or the situation. Whatever you want.” 

Shane groans. “It’s– It’s a whole thing. We’re not even together, but I feel like… I feel like I’m going crazy.” 

Rose regards him curiously, taking a slow sip of her tea. “How crazy are we talking?”  

Well, that’s a can of worms better left unopened. 

“I think about him before I fall asleep,” he admits. “Every night.” 

Rose makes an excited little noise. “You’ve got it bad.” 

Scowling, Shane says, “I know.” 

“Shane,” Rose says. She waits until he looks up at her before she speaks again. “This isn’t a bad thing. I mean, we’ve talked about you hooking up before, but something a little more… steady, it could be good for you.” 

Flushing, Shane ducks his head. God, this might be the most humiliating day of his life. 

“The hookups,” he says, wrapping his hands around his mug now that all the blood in his body has fled to his face. “They, uh. They were with him. All of them.” 

For a long moment, Rose stares at him. Shane cleverly evades her eyes by closing his own. 

“Shane.” 

“Yes?” 

“Open your eyes.” 

“What could I possibly want to see?” 

A pillow hits the side of his face. Startled, Shane’s eyes fly open as he steadies his tea, shooting a look of betrayal Rose’s way. 

“Me, asshole,” Rose says. “I’m beautiful. Feast your eyes on me.” 

Elbowing the pillow aside, Shane says, “You’re mean.” 

“You’re meaner,” Rose shoots back. “You’re withholding information from your best friend.” 

“I just…” Shane searches fruitlessly for the right words. Sighing, he tips his head back. 

There’s no way to describe Rozanov, or what he is to Shane. No easy labels he can slap over their relationship, no definition that fits the bill. They’re not friends, but Shane feels inexplicably close to him. They’re not partners — not by any stretch. Lovers sort of makes sense, but– eugh. It’s reductive. And Shane isn’t exactly keen on calling himself a lover to Rose’s face. 

Rozanov makes him soft. He invigorates him. He gets on his damn nerves. He makes Shane want to tackle him sometimes, but just as often, he inspires a feeling of bizarre warmth in him. There is a part of Shane that craves closeness with him, a part of him he thinks remains tense until the moment Rozanov’s touching him again. 

At times, Shane thinks all he really wants to do is hug him. 

Pressing his thumb into the corner of his eye, Shane summons the courage to speak. 

“We went all the way, for the first time,” he says, voice catching. “And I– I’ve never, with a man before. But he was… it was good.” 

Rose smiles into her cup of tea. “He rocked your world?” 

“You could say that,” Shane says, huffing a laugh. Dropping his hand, he sucks in a breath. “He left, right after. Which– that’s what we do, I guess. But the actual– sex, it was, like…” 

“Wow?” Rose supplies. 

“Wow,” Shane confirms. He swallows, buzzing with unchecked, frenetic energy. He doesn’t want to stop, now that he’s starting to talk about it. 

“It’s like I believe in magic, with him,” he says, heat flooding his cheeks. “In– in bursts. Intervallically. Like, when I’m with him, sometimes, it feels like anything’s possible. Like things could actually work out.” Shane turns his head. “Do I sound crazy?” 

Rose looks at him then with an expression he’s seen her wear before, but never directed at him. Her eyes glimmer, mouth turned into a half-pout. She looks caught between joy and anguish. It’s as jarring as it is confusing. 

“What?” 

“Just… Shane.” Rose shakes her head. “I’m sorry. That you can’t have that all the time.” 

“I can’t have it at all,” Shane corrects. “Every time I see him, I feel like it’s the last time. Every time should be the last time. But– but I also feel like I’ll die if I don’t.” Groaning, Shane despairs, “Jesus, I am crazy.” 

“You’re not crazy,” Rose says immediately, and Shane’s overwhelmed with affection for her. He likes her so much. A part of him wishes he was capable of falling in love with her, and she with him. 

But… this is better. This, her friendship — he’s glad he can appreciate it for what it is: devotion, with no caveats. She’s here, on this couch with him, because she likes him. Because she wants to be a part of his life as much as he wants to be a part of hers. 

He might be the luckiest person in the world. 

“He sounds nice, for what it’s worth,” Rose adds softly. “If he makes you feel this way.” 

A strangled laugh escapes Shane. “He’s an asshole.” 

He realises his mistake a moment too late, spotting the flicker of recognition in Rose’s eyes the second the words have left his mouth. 

The first time he had met Rose, he had called Rozanov an asshole. Shane Hollander does not make a habit of calling people assholes. It wouldn’t be far-fetched for Rose to jump to the (right) conclusion, to ask him outright. 

But she doesn’t. Instead, she purses her lips around a smile and nods. 

“We should watch Brokeback Mountain,” she says decisively, and Shane’s so surprised he chokes on a laugh. 

She looks pleased, having successfully startled him, as she sets her tea aside and grabs the remote off the table. 

She doesn’t bring up Shane’s tragic love life again that night. And Shane knows, without having to ask her, that she will keep his secret. She knows that he’s gay — has for more than a hot second, but this secret, the Ilya Rozanov secret, hangs so, so heavy over him, a weight he doesn’t know how to ease. Now, though, the weight feels shared. He’s made no confession, not directly, but she knows. Finally, someone else knows.

And she didn’t react in disbelief, or upset, or any of the things Shane has spent months — years now — fearing. She just blinked. Looked at him knowingly and nodded. While the movie plays, he finds himself looking over at her, and thinking, in another world, another universe, he thinks he could’ve loved her in the way that society wants him to. He’s glad, in this one, that even though he doesn’t, he thinks he might get to keep her forever anyway. His sexuality doesn’t feel like a failure, like something he has to try to overcome just to have her.

She’s here because she loves him.

Hayden and Rose are his best friends, but in a way that Hayden could never be, Rose is his confidant. She’s the easiest person in the world to hand his secrets off to.

She holds them in her hands, careful, safe and steady, like she’s holding his very heart.

Out of the blue, about a week after his night with Rose, Rozanov texts him. Not about anything serious — sticking to the inane. Shane figures Rozanov’s as paranoid as Shane is about the media somehow gaining access to their messages. 

It doesn’t take long for Shane to text him first, a couple of days later. He’s embarrassingly relieved when Rozanov replies. 

Truthfully, Shane has no idea what could’ve inspired Rozanov’s sudden change in behaviour – why he texted him suddenly or texted him back when Shane reached out first – but he doesn’t risk asking in case it makes him stop.

JANUARY 31st 2013  

LILY: Good game tonight. 

JANE: I know.
You watched it? 

LILY: Not on purpose
Was on at the bar. 

JANE: 🖕

FEBRUARY 5nd 2013 

JANE: Why are people saying you’re in Denmark?

LILY: What?
I am in Boston 

JANE: Huh
Okay, well they’re saying you’re in Denmark. 

LILY: This is not true
Is cock and ball story 

JANE: Lily
I think it’s supposed to be ‘cock-and-bull’ story 

LILY: How is this any better? 

JANE: Beats me.

FEBRUARY 11th 2013 

LILY: I saw Rose Landry’s photo of you 

JANE: What? Where? 

LILY: Instagram 
You look stupid 

JANE: You don’t like the cowboy hat? 

LILY: I did not say this

FEBRUARY 27th 2013 

JANE: I think the Devils’ coach should tell Petterson to be more aggressive 

LILY: Are you pretending to have intelligent thoughts? 

JANE: Fuck off 

LILY: It’s cute 

JANE: 🖕

LILY: Middle finger is unoriginal. 

JANE: 👹

LILY: That man is scary
Do not send him to me again. 

JANE: 👹

LILY: Disgusting.

MARCH 2nd 2013 

JANE: How’s the snowstorm treating you?
Read

MARCH 4th 2013 

JANE: You played slow tonight
Sorry. That came out wrong.
Are you hurt?
Read

MARCH 10th 2013 

JANE: Good luck tonight
Read

Shane has no idea why Rozanov stops replying to him. He would think the man had died were it not for the fact that he has his browser set to alert him of anything written about Ilya Rozanov, which tells him Rozanov is playing with less finesse than usual but is very much alive. 

The absurd amount of gossip rags published with Rozanov’s stupid face on them don’t exactly make Shane feel any better. 

Still, only two weeks pass before Shane sees Rozanov in person again. It’s entirely by happenstance, a fleeting thing, catching sight of him in the lobby of a hotel Rose is staying in while filming, and Shane’s staying in with his team. The Boston Bears and Montreal Voyagers are playing against each other tomorrow afternoon, and Shane’s spent a days workshopping a way to politely tell Rozanov fuck you, answer your stupid phone. (He’s decided he doesn’t need to be polite about it). 

They’re in Boston. Rozanov has a house here. Shane doesn’t know why he’s in a hotel, shoulders hitched high as he turns down a hallway and disappears. 

He doesn’t know, until the rest of Rozanov’s team exits the elevator. They look jovial, bickering amongst themselves. They’re not dressed for practice, so presumably, they’ve already finished for the day. Which begs the question: why did Rozanov leave in such a hurry? 

Without saying a word, Shane takes hold of Rose by the elbow and steers her down the same hallway Rozanov went down. 

“What’s happening?” Rose whispers, craning her neck to look at the lobby behind them. 

Shane peers down the hallway, spotting a door furthest down. Rozanov must’ve left that way. 

“Bears are here,” Shane whispers back, turning his attention back to Rose. 

When Rose’s mouth falls open, Shane rushes to say, “The team. Not– there are no real bears here. Sorry.” 

Rose smacks him gently on the arm. “I am aware, thank you very much. I just– does that mean Rozanov is here?” 

“He just left,” Shane says, nodding at the door down the hallway. 

Rose turns around to look at it, forehead wrinkling. “Hm.” 

“Hm?” 

“Weird.” 

“Why is it weird?” 

Rose gives him a look. “He’s the captain. Why did he sneak off?” 

Shane doesn’t know. There could be any number of reasons. The real mystery is why he was here at all, if not to be with his team. He seemed sort of keen on leaving. 

Maybe he was on his way to meet someone. 

A pulse of jealousy flares to life in Shane’s stomach, twisting painfully. Maybe that’s why Rozanov’s stopped replying to his texts. Why he never texts him first anymore. 

Furiously, Shane shoves the thought away. 

Mumbling, he says, “Maybe he’s meeting a girl, I don’t know.” 

“Mhm. Right,” Rose says, so disbelieving Shane almost rolls his eyes. 

Neither of them have acknowledged yet that Rose knows Shane’s mysterious guy is Rozanov. Shane hasn’t brought it up because– well, there’s a chance Rose doesn’t know. And if push comes to shove, it’s always good to have plausible deniability. Rose hasn’t brought it up because, with this, she’s following Shane’s lead. She’s nice like that. 

“Sorry,” Shane says after a moment. “I just– kidnapped you. You’ve got an early shoot tomorrow, I’ll–” 

“Don’t be stupid,” Rose interrupts. “I was a necessary part of your little… reconnaissance plan.”  

Huffing a laugh, Shane says, “I wasn’t trying to spy on him. Or the team. I just– I didn’t feel like talking to them.” 

Rose tilts her head. “Why not?” 

“They don’t like me.” 

“Why not?” 

Shane gives her a flat look. “We play against each other, Rose. Sportsmanship only extends so far.” 

“With Rozanov too?” 

Shane clenches his jaw, heart skipping frightfully. “Rose.” 

“Just–” Rose sighs, squeezing his arm. “Text him.” 

Shane looks away. 

“Pretend I didn’t say that,” Rose says, voice quiet. 

“No. No, Rose, it’s– fine. It’s fine. I’m sorry.” 

Shane folds her into his arms, hugging her close. 

“I know we don’t talk about it,” Rose says, cheek against his shoulder. “But I’m here for you.” 

“I know,” Shane whispers, voice thick. “I know, Rose. Right back at you.” 

Over Rose’s shoulder, Shane spots a young woman holding a camera, comedically ducked behind a large, potted plant. She snaps a few photos of Shane and Rose, and Shane detaches himself from her. 

“We’ve been spotted,” he says, nodding subtly at the plant-woman. 

Rose’s lips twitch. “Guess we should call it a night.”

Shane returns to his own hotel feeling off-centre. 

He makes himself a cup of tea and sips it morosely in the hotel armchair. It doesn’t taste half as good as Rose’s tea, and he feels kind of stupid, drinking tea all on his own. 

It’s dangerous, letting himself sit in silence. His head keeps returning to that moment at the hotel, the split second he could see Rozanov before he vanished. 

With a heavy sigh, he slithers off the armchair and scoots over to the bed on his ass, slipping his phone out of his pocket. Planting his feet on the floor, he sets his tea down and thumbs over to Messages. 

Stomach fluttering with nerves, he clicks Lily’s contact. 

MARCH 26th 2013 

JANE: I saw you at Four Seasons.
Read
Lily, come on.
Read
Answer me. 

LILY: Why were you at Four Seasons? 

JANE: He lives.
She*
I was with Rose. 

LILY: Rose Landry? 

JANE: Yes.
Were you with your team? 

LILY: A little. I was there for other reason. 

JANE: What other reason? 

LILY: It is not important. 

JANE: Fine.
Are you okay? 

LILY: Why are you asking me this? 

JANE: Please just answer the question.
Pretend I’m someone else for a minute if you need to. 

LILY: I will not pretend.
And I will be okay. 

JANE: But you’re not okay right now?
Read
Lily? 
Delivered

Frustrated, Shane exhales through his nose. His thumbs hover over the keypad, halfheartedly trying to talk himself out of it. But this is what he does best: telling himself he won’t, and doing it anyway. 

He doesn’t expect Rozanov to pick up. Silently, a little pathetically, he mouths please.

It only rings three times before Rozanov answers.

Shane blinks. “You picked up.” 

Voice low and quiet, Rozanov replies, “You called.” 

It makes it sound so much simpler than it is. Like Rozanov might pick up, day or night, if Shane called. Like it’s a given. 

Shane knows it’s not. 

He tries not to read into the words — tries not to think about the implication at all, and does anyway. This is also something he’s good at, leaning on what’s implied, but unsaid. 

Softly, he says, “Thanks.” 

Silence. 

“There is a lot I have not told you,” Rozanov says, voice staticky down the line. 

Slowly, Shane lowers his head between his knees, phone still pressed to his ear. “I know.” 

Rozanov isn’t really a forthcoming person, as loud and brazen as he is. Not with Shane. He’s not quiet, or reserved, but he doesn’t tell Shane things. Shane doesn’t know his parents names, doesn’t know his favourite colour, doesn’t know what he does when he’s home alone, doesn’t know what foods he hates — all things someone should know after knowing someone for this many years. All things someone should know after fucking someone for this many years.

But they don’t tell each other things. Guiltily, he thinks, there’s so much I haven’t told you either. So much that I wouldn’t even know where to begin.

He can’t be mad at Rozanov for not opening up to him, for not sharing his every secret. Rozanov doesn’t even know Shane’s gay. Doesn’t know that Rose Landry knows about them. Doesn’t know so, so much.

“A lot I cannot tell you,” Rozanov adds wearily. “Not yet.” 

I’m not asking you to, Shane thinks, I just want you to talk to me. Why did you stop talking to me? Why are you hiding from me?

“Did I–” Shane cuts himself off, biting the inside of his cheek. He braces himself like he would on the ice, preparing for an unexpected shove. He’s not sure where the instinct comes from. It makes him sound small and unsure. “Did I do something wrong?” 

At once, Rozanov’s voice softens. “No. No, Hollander. It is about me. My life.”  

The relief blooms starkly in Shane’s chest. He doesn’t want Rozanov to be hurting. Knowing that he’s not the cause of whatever’s wrong is– is good. He doesn’t ever want to be the one causing Rozanov any pain. 

Still, Rozanov is in pain. Something’s going on. 

“Can I help?” Shane asks. “I– I mean, just… Can I?” 

He realises that not only does he want to help — he’s desperate to. He wants to carry some of the weight that Rozanov is shouldering, wants to take it on and ease his burden. 

He shouldn’t feel like this. He’s not supposed to care like this. They’re not even friends. 

Still, traitorously, his heart aches to solve any problem on Rozanov’s plate.

The seconds tick by, the silence filled only by Rozanov’s breathing. 

“Hollander,” Rozanov says slowly. 

Just as slowly, Shane says, “Rozanov.” 

“You can help,” Rozanov says. 

“How?” 

“Take off your clothes.” 

A surprised laugh escapes Shane. 

“Sorry,” Rozanov says, clearly amused. 

“It’s fine,” Shane says, a small smile playing on his lips. “I could– I could do that. In person.” 

“You want to seduce me, Mr. Sex Appeal?” 

Shane breathes through another laugh, letting his eyes flutter shut. “I want to see you.” 

“I–” Rozanov pauses, shuffling on the other line. He mutters something under his breath in Russian. “One second.” 

Shane catches the start of a high-pitched sound right before Rozanov mutes himself. 

Shane waits. And waits. Four entire minutes pass before Rozanov unmutes himself, sighing down the line. 

Rozanov doesn’t say anything for a second, then, surprise evident, he says, “You did not hang up?” 

“No,” Shane answers. Why would he hang up? He’s been aching to talk to Rozanov for months now, desperate to hear his voice, to know he’s okay. If he’s honest, there’s nowhere else he’d rather be than on the end of this line — except, maybe, settled in Rozanov’s lap, holding his face.

“I will come to hotel,” Rozanov says. “Text me the room number.” 

“Are you sure?” 

Rozanov huffs a laugh. “I’m sure.”

Thirty minutes later, a quiet knock startles Shane into action. He’s across the room before he knows it. 

Shane cracks the door open slowly. Rozanov’s wearing an unreadable expression, something taught and fragile that’s trying not to be. 

Slender fingers suddenly wrap around his wrist, rescuing his hand from his pocket. Rozanov takes a halting step forward, warm thigh bumping his own. The smell of cigarettes and faded cologne overwhelms Shane, the familiar scent blending with the oxygen, encroaching on Shane’s senses. 

Shane’s not expecting Rozanov to kiss him, dragging him in close while he leans against the door to shut it behind him. Still, he yields. It’s so easy to yield. 

He licks into Shane’s mouth languidly, bleeding the taste of clean spit and smoke thickly onto his tongue. He kisses him like he wants to want it, but cannot quite convince himself. Pressing a hand to Rozanov’s chest, Shane pulls himself an inch away.  

“Rozanov,” Shane murmurs, lips touching Rozanov. 

Rozanov drags Shane’s shirt up by the hem, and Shane lifts his arms, helping the process along. It gets discarded somewhere to the left, and then, like he can’t bear to be apart — like the distance physically hurts — Rozanov darts back in, kissing feverishly at Shane’s neck. 

“Rozanov,” Shane repeats. 

Rozanov pauses in his assault of Shane’s throat, he exhales, the sound of it trembling. Pulling gently at the soft hair on the back of Rozanov’s neck, Shane urges his head up. 

It’s intoxicating, having Rozanov right here in front of him. As much as he sees him on TV, it never feels like enough. The memories he carries with him smudge and distort when he revisits them too often, turning the both of them into faceless bodies, acting out scenes that feel impossible and out of reach. Replaying moments that don’t feel like they belong with him, snatched away by time. 

It’s not out of reach here. 

But when Shane takes a second to drink in Rozanov’s expression, despite how little they’ve done, he looks raw. Ruined. Not in the way that he should.

Shane has the sudden urge to wrap his arms around him, to tuck him close into his chest.

“I missed–” Rozanov pauses, kissing Shane hard again, like he’s trying to silence himself. Then, fingers splaying over Shane’s lower back, he says, “I missed this. Fuck. Your ass, Hollander. It drives me insane.”

Carefully, Shane extricates himself from Rozanov and takes a step back. 

“You don’t want this.” 

The deafening hum of silence follows, the kind that always seems to appear with the midnight hour. It’s dangerous, meeting this late. At such a confessional time of night. They both know that. 

Still, Rozanov doesn’t look away when he says, “I always want you.”

Shane bites back a sigh. The confession, as heavy as it is, is still a deflection. Even their honesty is clouded in something else, always avoiding the truth that’s needed in the moment, even if it means offering a different one. 

“You don’t want to do this, Rozanov.” Shane grabs his discarded shirt up off the bed, and pulls it back over his head. “It’s– Jesus, man. It’s okay.”

When his eyes set back on Rozanov, he looks– panicked, like Shane is already one foot out the door.

“I know you want it, Hollander.” Rozanov steps closer, curving his hand around Shane’s neck, dragging him in till their lips are only an inch or so apart. “And I am hard. Ready to go. Why are we arguing about this?”

“Because you still don’t want it. I know what you’re like when you wanna fuck me, Rozanov.” He knows the difference between desperation and hunger. Knows the difference between distraction and real, genuine lust. “I’m not stupid.”

“Okay, so what?” Rozanov scoffs, dropping his hand away and stepping back. “I go back home? I don’t know what you want–”

“I’m not asking you to leave,” Shane stresses, “I’m just saying we don’t have to fuck.”

Rozanov looks at him for a long second. 

Shane’s breathing hard, his eyes trying to convey that he wants Rozanov to stay, so that his mouth doesn’t have to say it. He knows this isn't their version of normal. But they don’t call normally, either. So, maybe, things are changing– shifting. Can’t this change, too?

“Rozanov,” Shane says, voice ragged. “Just tell me what’s wrong. Let me help. Let me help you.” 

Something like pain flickers across Rozanov’s face, mouth seemingly tugging down of its own accord. 

“It is irrelevant,” Rozanov says. 

“Not to me,” Shane replies. He needs to understand. 

For a long moment, he thinks he might have gone too far. Rozanov stands like a pillar amidst a storm, preternaturally still and steady. Any second now, he’s going to leave. He’s going to leave, and he’ll go back to ignoring Shane’s texts. 

But then, movements slow and subdued, Rozanov nods. His gaze darts away, hands hanging limply by his sides. “Okay.” 

Shane doesn’t dare say anything. He just waits. 

He’s a silent witness to the way Rozanov drags his feet over to the bed, slumping when he sits on the mattress. He hangs his head, and Shane doesn’t know what the right to do here is, so he just sits down next to him. 

“My father,” Rozanov starts, voice hard. “He is sick. Maybe dying. I don’t know.” 

Shane sucks in a breath. “Rozanov… I’m– I’m sorry.” 

Rozanov laughs raggedly, pulling hard at his own hair. “He is a piece of shit.” 

As soon as the words have left Rozanov’s mouth, his face twists up. 

“Oh, fuck,” Shane breathes, reaching for Rozanov before freezing. He is so ill-equipped for this. He doesn’t know what the rules are, what lines he risks overstepping. He’s never been very good at comforting in the first place– whether it be friends, or family, or– whatever they are. He’s always fallen short, never known where to put his hands, never known the right things to say. “I-Is it cancer?”

“No,” Rozanov answers, flat. 

“Is it–”

“It’s деменция. You call it dementia. He– he forgets. He is forgetting everything. Me. My brother. His own wife. All of it.” Rozanov laughs, humourless and pained. “He even forgets he is dying.”

A stab of painful sympathy shoots through Shane. He wants so badly to hug him. Wants so badly to be allowed to. He can’t fix this — he knows he can’t, but he would do anything to make this lighter. Easier. “Rozanov– fuck, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“It is fine,” Rozanov bites out, hands scrubbing furiously at his eyes. His entire body is trembling, torso poised like he’s bracing for a kick to the stomach. 

There is not much Shane knows about Rozanov’s family, or what his life in Russia is like, but he knows Rozanov. God help him, he does. And this, watching him shrink in on himself like a little kid — he can’t do it. Not if he can do something to help. 

Quietly, tentatively, he says, “It’s okay if it’s not.” 

Dropping his hand, Rozanov glares at him. His face, flushed and severe, rearranges itself into a scowl. But Shane sees past the manufactured anger. To anyone who knows him, he looks really, really sad. 

Shane doesn’t think, letting instinct carry him as he tips himself into Rozanov’s space, wrapping his arms around him. 

Inhaling sharply, Rozanov tenses. 

“I am fine, Hollander.” There’s an awful shake to his voice. 

Shane hugs him a little tighter, squeezing his eyes shut. He’s not sure he’s doing the right thing — he’s not sure of anything — but Rozanov doesn’t shove him away, so maybe… maybe this is okay. 

Mouth pressed to Rozanov’s shoulder, Shane mumbles, “Hug me back, asshole.” 

Rozanov tentatively wraps his arms around Shane, returning the embrace. 

A little bit of tension unspools in Shane’s chest. 

“Sorry,” Rozanov says, voice thick. He turns his face into Shane’s neck, his cold nose pressed to his pulse point. 

Rubbing a circle into Rozanov’s back, Shane shakes his head. “Don’t be.” 

“But I am.” Rozanov drops his head, forehead finding Shane’s shoulder. “I am being childish. Selfish.” 

“You’re not,” Shane insists. 

Breath hitching, Rozanov whispers, “I am.” 

Shane blinks away the tears gathering in the corner of his eyes. The lump in his throat feels like a fire-warmed rock, impossible to swallow around. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, turning his head into Rozanov’s honey-brown curls. 

“Don’t,” Rozanov says through clenched teeth, body convulsing like he’s repressing a sob. Like he won’t let himself cry.  

“I am.” Hesitantly, Shane threads his fingers through Rozanov’s hair, holding him. “I’m sorry he’s a piece of shit, and I’m sorry he’s dying.” 

A moment passes. Half a breath escapes Rozanov, shoulders shaking. He’s so tightly coiled, Shane worries he’ll shake right apart. 

“Rozanov,” Shane says. Then, gently and carefully, cradling the word safely in his mouth, he says, “Ilya.” 

Ilya sobs. It’s a horrible, anguished sound — something that tears out of him like it’s unwilling to part from him, digging its claws in on its way out. 

Chest constricting, Shane does the only thing he can do: he holds him. 

Ilya sags against him, like the force of his sobs are hurting him. He presses his forehead to Shane’s shoulder, crying like a little kid. 

It takes a long time for Ilya to calm down. Shane worries that he won’t, when the crying ebbs only to return tenfold like he’s panicking, like the grief feels insurmountable. 

“Ilya,” Shane whispers, holding him close. “You need to breathe.” 

Jerkily, Ilya nods. His gulping in air, his chest a staccato rhythm of tight breaths. 

“Breathe,” Shane says again. 

Eventually, Ilya’s able to draw in a shaky breath without expelling it convulsively again. He leans his weight into Shane like he’s exhausted himself, his wet face pressed to Shane’s neck. Shane presses his own face damp into Ilya’s hair. 

It hurts to love someone. It hurts when they’re hurting. When there’s nothing to offer but comfort. 

His heart throbs painfully, and he has to focus on keeping his own breathing stable. 

He loves Ilya. Oh, fuck, he loves him. 

Shane squeezes his eyes shut, shoving the realisation aside. This is not about him. 

With a wet sigh, Ilya pulls away, sliding his hands down to cup Shane’s elbows. It’s a small touch, gentle and grounding. 

“Can you stay?” Shane asks quietly. “Just to sleep?” 

Eyes red-rimmed and shining with unshed tears, Ilya lowers his head. He looks older, all of a sudden. The lines on his face stand out, eyes dull in the low light. 

“It would be stupid,” Ilya says, congested and wobbly. 

“You’ve had my dick in your mouth,” Shane whispers conspiratorially, aiming to inject some levity into the moment. “This? This doesn’t scare me.” 

Ilya blinks wet, sad eyes at him. After a moment, his lips twitch up. “Promise?” 

“I promise.” 

“Okay.” Ilya nods, hands squeezing Shane’s elbows weakly. “Okay. I will stay.”

The trip to the airport the next morning is routine and uneventful. He's in a mood - has been, since Ilya had woken him with a soft kiss to his brow, telling him in a whisper that he had to go meet his team. The sun had barely been up, but they had made it. They had spent an entire night together. And still, Shane had to watch Ilya slip out of the room, sleep-soft and rumpled. 

Shane wants to keep Ilya safe. He wants to be there for him - and last night, Ilya let him. 

But it's not enough. Ilya's alone again, surrounded by people who don't know about his predicament, who have no clue to even ask about his father. And Shane's leaving, because one of them always has to. One of them always has to leave. 

On the flight home, in between (semi-successfully) tossing peanuts into his own mouth, Hayden turns to him, and asks, “So, did you see her?”

Shane has his headphones on — one ear off, one ear covered. He kind of wishes both were on so he could ignore the question. He’s not quite sure who she is, but he’s certain he doesn’t want to find out.

Unfortunately, due to social expectations, engagement is required. He gives a vague, noncommittal hum, eyes still fixed on the tiny screen in front of him that is playing Warm Bodies.

“Your Boston girl. Lily,” Hayden clarifies, flicking another peanut into the air. He misses catching it, instead it collides with the bridge of his nose, and ricochets down onto Shane’s thigh. 

Shane flinches hard, his body already wound too tight. He swipes the peanut — and its accompanying little grains of salt — off of his leg like it’s burned him. “What?”

Hayden snorts. “C’mon, man. You only sneak out of the hotel when we’re in Boston. Half the time when I’m in the same room. How many times am I supposed to buy the just visiting a friend thing? I know all your friends.”

“You don’t–” He swallows around the lump in his throat, fighting for nonchalance. Panic gnaws at his bones, telling him that he’s been found out, his brain racing ahead of reality. Hayden knows the truth, he knows about Ilya, he knows about Shane, he’s going to tell everyone, he’s–

He inhales, deep. Then exhales, shaky. He forces his shoulders to loosen. “You don’t know all my friends, man.”

“I kinda do,” Hayden says, lolling his head to the side. His sunglasses fall down from atop his head and land wonky on his face. “I don’t care, bro. You’re single. You’re allowed to hook-up.”

“We didn’t hook-up.”

Hayden’s mouth quirks. “Thought so.”

Shane finally turns his head, frowning. “Huh?”

“You’re not usually this– tense after you guys hook-up. You sleep like a baby on the plane.”

Hayden says it so casually, like he’s been taking notes on Shane’s post-coital behaviour, which– ew. He’s the worst. 

Plainly, Shane says, “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Or, I’m a genius.”

Shane gives him a flat look.

“Whatever, man,” Hayden says, gesturing vaguely. “Did something happen? You’re all wound up.”

Unable to keep the eye-contact going, Shane turns his head, staring back at his movie. On the screen, the zombie character is bleeding in the water. Bleeding red. Something they’re not supposed to do. 

Corpses don’t bleed, the girl whispers, clutching at his wet shirt, voice trembling. Shane’s chest twists. 

The movie isn’t subtle about its message — love is strong enough to pull a man back into motion, to bring back to life a thing long dead. To make it hurt, react, move, love.

Shane swallows hard.

Ilya did that to him, if he thinks about it. Shane had convinced himself so hard that being gay, and in turn, being in love, wasn’t an option for him — not in the way he was built to have it. 

Hockey players just aren’t gay, and they certainly don’t fall for each other.

But Ilya makes him feel like he’s allowed to be gay — maybe, even, that he’s supposed to be, that it’s okay that he is. Makes him want to hurt, and ache, and suffer, if it means getting to have him. Right now, loving Ilya Rozanov is agony, but it’s better than nothing. It’s so much better than the nothing he’d resigned himself to.

The thought leaves him unsettled, queasy in the pit of his stomach. He tries not to think about the stupid movie. Or Ilya. 

“Nothing happened,” Shane answers. The lie tastes acrid, burning the back of his throat. 

Hayden rolls his eyes. Mouth full of peanuts, he says, “Whatever, man.” 

Shane’s life, these days, seems to be a long line of whatever, man’s.

Shane is sitting at his own dining room table, the morning light streaming in through the large windows. It’s a normal morning. A slow morning, if he’s honest, which is rare for him.

He almost jumps when his phone starts buzzing on the table. He lowers his protein smoothie, furrowing his brow. 

Lily. 

He pushes his glasses up his nose, heart thumping as he answers.

Neither of them says anything for a beat, they just breathe down the line together. 

Then, into the silence, Ilya says, “He is dead.” 

Chapter 4: too hard to say

Chapter Summary

“Okay, fine,” Shane sighs, slumping back against the couch. “Don’t tell your fake boyfriend about your secret girlfriend.”

“She’s not my girlfriend,” Rose corrects.

Shane smiles immediately. “So it is about her.”

Rose exhales. For a moment, she braces herself before her shoulders sag in visible defeat.

“It was one night,” she says. “One good night, a great night, even — but I don’t think it’ll happen again. It probably shouldn’t.”

Shane does not believe her for a second. Says, “That’s what I said about Ilya.”

She turns fully toward him now, one perfect eyebrow arched. “You still say that about Ilya.”

Chapter Notes

hey guys welcome back!!! we are SO freaking excited for this chapter oh my goodness. this story has lowkey become the rose and shane show because we Love Them, which we can’t apologise for simply because they’re awesome and we keep projecting OUR friendship onto them. which is lovely. every weird little gay boy needs his ex-theatre kid lesbian

this chapter is emotional, but very squishy, tender and lovely. nothing suspicious about that :)

anyway. keep in mind we are playing with the timeline A Lot. enjoy!

cw: brief mentions of death. coming out scene.

There is no media coverage about Ilya’s dad dying. No gossip rags, no articles, no announcements made by the Boston Bears. Ilya’s dad dies, and Shane feels like he might be the only person on this side of the planet who knows about it. 

He hopes that’s not true. Hopes Ilya has people in his life to lean on when circumstances make it impossible for him to reach for Shane — if he’d even want that. He hopes, desperately, that Ilya is not doing this alone. 

He’s pretty sure he was the first person Ilya called when he found out his dad had died, but the man hasn’t reached out since. 

But Shane reaches out. A handful of times.

JANE: Hey. 
[Delivered]

JANE: Call me if you need to. Or want to.
[Delivered]

JANE: Please tell me you’re okay, Lily.
[Delivered]

Ilya never responds. Shane’s not really sure he expected him to. He realises, after the third text, that he doesn’t really know how Ilya deals with big, devastating events. When you know someone for five years, you tend to have some idea of what they’re like — whether that be under duress, during a good week, when they’re miserable, or terrified — but neither Shane nor Ilya is familiar enough with each other’s moods to say they know them well. Not really. 

In some way, they’d only just begun to be when this happened. 

But time passes. Ilya still doesn’t reach out. Shane plays against the Boston Bears the week after Ilya’s dad dies, and Ilya isn’t there. 

It’s weird, playing against Ilya’s team without Ilya standing with him in the face-off. The Metros win. Shane doesn’t really feel the same satisfaction about it that he normally does.

Later, it’s reported that Ilya was away due to a family emergency. No one asks any questions. 

Quietly, keeping his eye out for any news alerts pertaining to Ilya, Shane worries.

Three and a half weeks later — Boston 

Shane sort of can’t believe he let Rose convince him that going to a club was a good decision. He’s never enjoyed clubbing. He barely goes out at all, if it isn’t team-related. And yet, here he is. In a club. In Boston. 

He does his best to dance, swaying stiffly with a mysterious drink Rose had pressed into his hand half an hour ago. Secretly, he’s plotting to leave. But he also doesn’t want to abandon Rose, even with Miles here, somewhere. Last he saw him, though, Miles had had his face buried in another man’s neck, so. 

Shane turns, narrowly avoiding a stray elbow to the ribs as his gaze flickers over the dancefloor. 

The world stops spinning. Shane feels the pulsing bass in his bones as it decelerates, the oscillating sound waves humming through his teeth as he slows to a stop. He doesn’t move. He can’t move, not when Ilya is here, dancing like he’s one with the music. Like his dad didn’t just die. 

Ilya Rozanov is a vision to behold. The dizzying strobing lights paint his face a monochromatic purple, his mole streaking a small shadow across his cheek. His shirt is untucked, halfway unbuttoned, revealing a slice of skin, a glimmer of the cross resting atop his breast. 

He looks young like this, surrounded by beautiful people. Soft, yet concomitantly untouchable. 

Shane can’t tear his eyes away. Ilya stares right back at him, eyes fixed and reverential. 

A hand squeezes his bicep, and Shane startles. The music rushes back around him as heat floods his face. 

All at once, the world resumes spinning, and Rose quirks an eyebrow at him. She’s here for an event at the same time he is, but for a completely separate event. He’s grateful to not be here alone, having spotted Ilya for the first time in weeks. Though he doubts he would’ve come out at all, had she not been here. He’d probably be getting a late-night workout in. Cardio, maybe.

“You good?” She asks.

“Yeah,” Shane says over the music. “Yeah, just—“ 

His eyes flicker back to Ilya, who’s no longer facing him. Rose follows his eyeline. 

“Ooh.” She nods. “Loverboy’s here.” 

“He’s not—“ 

Rose cuts his protest off by cupping her hands around her mouth and yelling, “ROZANOV!” 

It’s a move so bold that Shane’s almost impressed, and maybe he would be, if he weren’t so horrified. 

Shane winces, ducking his head. Rose is loud when she wants to be. 

Unfortunately, Ilya must think so too, because he looks their way. His lips twitch up as he finds Shane in the crowd, but as he spots Rose, his face smooths into something neutral. Even across the dancefloor, he can see Ilya flicker his gaze between the two of them, his tongue pressing into his cheek as he turns his attention away from them.

Out of the corner of her mouth, Rose says, “Someone’s jealous.” 

Desperately, Shane says, “You’re drunk. Go away.” 

Rose smacks his arm. “You’re so rude when you’re stressed. Come on, I want to meet him.” 

With that, she grabs a hold of Shane’s elbow and drags him across the dance floor.  

As they get closer, Shane’s eyes flitter about seeking an exit, but Rose is stronger than she looks. Once they’re only a few feet away, Shane realises with a tightening dread that Ilya Rozanov is very much not spending this night alone. Of course, he wouldn’t be. There’s a stunning woman on his arm, wearing a bedazzled blue dress. She’s decorated her body with gold jewellery, which complements her dark skin and accentuates her collarbones. 

Shane’s pretty sure he’s seen her on Ilya’s Instagram once or twice, or at least Ilya’s been tagged in a few of her photos. Not that he checks the photos tagged in the section of Ilya’s profile regularly, or anything. He just had it pop up on his timeline or something, probably.

She’s even more stunning in person. Beautiful in a way that is kind of unbelievable.

As they approach, Ilya is leaning in close to her ear. He says, “Svetlana.” Shane spots where his hand is hooked around her elbow, three of his fingers pressed intimately against the inside of it. “Do you want–”

Rose and Shane, the dynamic duo that they are, come to a very sharp halt in front of them. Ilya’s eyes widen in surprise, his mouth parting. He looks like he did not expect them to come over. Shane did not expect it either. He’s standing, rather awkwardly, even for him, with her elbow now hooked with his. 

“Hello!” Rose greets, and if the circumstances of her greeting weren’t so awful, it’d be cute. 

“Rozanov,” Shane greets with a nod. His tone is — off. He aims for casual, but it just comes across as strangely bro-y.

Rozanov’s brow ticks up. “Hollander.”

Svetlana turns to them now, her eyes flickering to Shane, shock dancing in them, but it doesn’t last long. She spots Rose, and her entire demeanour shifts. Shane, admittedly, is mostly focused on Ilya anyway. Ilya, who is here, and not in Russia, and looks–

“You look–” Shane starts, then aborts. “Uh. You look okay.”

Ilya barely holds back an amused smile. “Is this a compliment, Hollander?”

Shane does not answer. He does open his mouth to say something else, but he’s too late.

“Svetlana Vetrova,” Svetlana says, voice smooth and pleasant even over the music. Her eyes haven’t left Rose once. 

Blinking wide eyes at her, Rose takes Svetlana’s hand and gives it a shake. It goes on for seven entire seconds, and Shane realises at once that 1. Rose is into Ilya’s date, and 2. Ilya’s date is flirting with Rose. 

His best friend, Rose. 

The world is a cruel, cruel place. 

“Rose Landry,” Rose says, and Shane almost rolls his eyes. She looks mesmerised. 

“Rose Landry,” Svetlana purrs. “I would like to buy you a drink.” 

“Yeah?” Rose breathes, starstruck. 

Shane gets the urge to shake her. He stares at the side of her face and beams a thought at her. 

You’re the movie star here! 

Rose does not seem to receive it. Or if she does, it just makes her slip her arm out of Shane’s. 

“Yes,” Svetlana smiles. She has a lovely smile. Shane’s eye twitches. “Will you come with me?” 

She holds her arm out, and Rose — smooth as butter — slips beneath it so Svetlana’s arm is over her shoulders. 

Svetlana’s eyes go soft and wide before she laughs, pulling Rose close. “Come on, pretty girl. Do you like champagne?” 

“I love champagne,” Rose gushes, grinning widely. 

Morosely, Shane watched Rose and Svetlana head toward the bar together without Shane. 

“I have been abandoned by my lesbian,” Ilya proclaims, shoulders loose as he swings into Shane’s personal space. 

“You have,” Shane agrees, before blinking very slowly. Kind of like a lizard. 

Lesbian, Ilya said. Is — is Svetlana a lesbian? Is she not Ilya’s date? 

What the hell.

“Is, um. Is Svetlana…” 

“A lesbian?” Ilya tilts his head. “Could you not tell?” 

“I– well, I wasn’t sure if–“ 

“Hollander,” Ilya interrupts, amused. “She is so gay. She is like if… if Freddie Mercury and Lady Gaga had a baby.” 

Vaguely shocked and wrestling with a very confusing pulse of relief, Shane says, “Right.” 

“Lu– Svetlana says I am lesbian catnip,” Ilya says. “I think it is because I am very funny.” 

Now, this is news to Shane. He had no idea Ilya had queer friends. He had sort of figured Ilya just… didn’t. But, no. Apparently, he has something akin to his own Rose, and– a plethora of lesbians, from the sounds of it. 

Shane gets it. Lesbians rule. 

In his head, he thinks, maybe it’s because Ilya is pretty. Pretty and kind — a gentleman, too. Not that he’s pretty like a girl, but he is pretty. He doesn’t say that. It doesn’t feel like something he’s allowed to say — not here, not in public.

“You sure it’s not a plot to steal your wardrobe?” Shane asks instead. 

Ilya’s eyebrows fly up, a surprised laugh escaping him. “You think they want my clothes?” 

Shane shrugs. “I’ve seen your Instagram. I saw the photo of Svetlana wearing your leather jacket. The dark brown one.” 

“How do you know this is my jacket?” 

Shane’s cheeks burn. “You wore it once, when we, uh–“ 

“When we…?” 

“Shut up. You know.” 

Ilya grins wickedly. “I do know.” 

“You’re an asshole.”

Laughing, Ilya knocks his shoulder against Shane’s. Again. It feels– purposeful. Like he’s dragged towards Shane by gravity, or maybe he just wants to touch Shane as much as Shane wants to touch him, even though they both know it’s ill-advised.

Shane really wants to hug him again. He has been thinking about it since he got the phone call from Ilya weeks ago. He can’t imagine what it’s like to lose a parent, but it kind of seems like the kind of thing someone should be hugged over. 

He can’t do that here. He can’t even touch Ilya without being worried someone will spot them. Realistically, Shane’s not sure they should be this close together at all in public, not when he knows anyone could be looking, or filming, or taking photos. 

He doesn’t walk away, though. Can’t. He needs to talk to him. To check on him.

“How are you doing?” He asks, voice hard to hear over the music, even to his own ears.

“What do you mean?” 

“With, um. With your dad. Going back to Russia, and everything.” 

Ilya’s eyes dart away from him. Under the lights, Ilya’s face is lit up by the purple, flickering lights, with dark shadows of it cast over his cheek, jaw and neck. There’s tension in the muscles of them. “I did not go back to Russia.” 

Shane frowns. “But your–” 

“I know. I took time away, but I could not go to the funeral.” 

Shane’s mouth feels fuzzy. “Oh.” 

For a moment, Ilya says nothing. Then, fingers feathering over Shane’s knuckles, he nods toward the door. 

“Come with me,” Ilya says. He grabs Shane by the wrist and begins making for the door. 

Just in time to spot them, Rose spins around. She spots their point of contact and grins widely, mouthing “have fun, loverboy” before turning her attention back to Svetlana. Shane trails behind Ilya loyally, hit by the chill of the night as they step outside.

Shane finds his body untensing as his nerves and senses are no longer being abrasively attacked by sound, light and the sweaty crowd.

Ilya drops his wrist. 

“Why, uh— where are we going?”

“Your hotel,” Ilya says, like it’s obvious. “I am going to call a cab.”

Shane wants to ask why they’re not going back to Ilya’s place. Surely he lives close by. 

He doesn’t. Apparently.

The second they stumble into Shane’s hotel room, Shane knows the sex is going to feel different. They’re both tired, pawing sedately at each other’s clothes. They strip in near silence, making the occasional noise of assent when hands start roaming, exploring the more vulnerable parts of each other. 

Shane sucks Ilya off with his knees braced on a pillow, Ilya’s legs hanging off the mattress. He swallows around him, loose and sloppy and not at all like he normally would, with a one-minded focus to be good, to be the best. 

He’s not worried about that this time. He’s barely thinking about making it good at all, really. He just wants his mouth to be full. Wants to taste Ilya’s skin and feel him pulse in his mouth. 

When Ilya comes, it’s with a ragged exhale, thighs tensing around Shane’s head. It blooms satisfaction in Shane’s stomach, bringing back some awareness of his own arousal, beating in time with his heartbeat between his legs. 

Ilya hauls him onto the bed, arranging him the way he wants before he ducks down, mouthing at Shane’s inner thigh. He takes his time with Shane, bobbing his head slowly. He focuses on the head, tongue pressed to the underside of it. It feels so good, and Ilya keeps going until Shane’s moaning with every breath he takes, cock twitching in Ilya’s mouth. 

His orgasm takes him by surprise, rolling through him like an endless wave. He succumbs to it entirely, gives his body over to the pleasure. Ilya keeps Shane’s come in his mouth until they lock eyes, swallowing with a wink. Shane pats Ilya’s head with a huff, half-amused, half-aroused laugh. 

On the bedside table, Ilya’s phone buzzes. He grabs it, and Shane stands on shaky legs, gesturing to the bathroom. 

Once he’s in the safe confines of the shower, he lets his thoughts drift. 

Ilya has barely talked about his father since he died. Not that he spoke a lot about him before that, either. At least not with Shane. But — Shane worries. 

But Shane isn’t Ilya’s confidant. Not really. They fuck sometimes, and they text even less. And one time, Ilya let Shane hold him. Because he was there. He was convenient. 

Maybe that’s all Shane ever was: convenient. A convenient man to fall into bed with, who Ilya knew would keep quiet about it. Maybe Ilya just clocked him as someone who wanted men, but was too scared to do anything about it, and definitely too scared to ever tell anyone about it.

Words Shane’s never wanted to wear are starting to feel familiar. Gay. Pining. Unhappy. 

Under the warm spray of the shower, Shane scrubs at his face. He can’t afford to think about this right now. Not with Ilya in the room next over. 

Shane’s used to victory. He’s made his life about it. But how is it supposed to feel, off the ice? 

Probably less lonely. 

When he exits the bathroom, Ilya’s still in bed. He doesn’t look like he’s in a hurry to leave, which is… not new, but Shane hadn’t expected sleepovers to become their new normal. 

He slips back into the bed, secretly pleased when Ilya hums and reaches for him, tangling their legs together. 

Shane can’t have this. He knows he can’t. But he can delude himself into thinking an occasional night like this is okay. 

“You okay?” he asks, face-to-face with Ilya. 

Ilya hums again. “I am thinking about… Pelmeni.” 

“What’s that?” 

“They are like…” Ilya yawns. “Dumplings. With meat.” 

Shane’s mouth twitches. “You’re hungry?” 

“It has been a long day,” Ilya answers, though it’s not a direct answer. He wonders if Ilya wants to ask to have dinner with him. He wonders if Ilya is ever scared about what he feels for Shane, too. 

He looks tired, eyebags more pronounced than usual. Shane wonders how he missed that earlier. 

Though, to be fair, he probably doesn’t look much better. 

“Pelmeni,” Shane says slowly. “It’s Russian?” 

“Da,” Ilya says, shuffling to get his arm out from beneath the covers. Quickly, in barely a flash, he notices a tattoo on the inner side of Ilya’s bicep that he’s never noticed before. It’s bright, green and half-hidden from view. He can’t quite tell what it is. Ilya’s birthstone, maybe? He doesn’t really get a good look, either, because his attention is stolen as Ilya touches his thumb to Shane’s lower lip and leans in to press a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. 

Embarrassingly, Shane flushes. Ilya seems pleased by this, eyes softening. “I miss some things. I have not been back in Russia for… a long time.” 

Shane’s eyebrows twitch up. “Really?” 

Ilya’s quiet for a moment, like he’s weighing his words. “I cannot go back.” 

“You couldn’t go back to Russia?” Shane flickers his eyes between Ilya’s quickly. “You couldn’t go home?” 

“Shane,” Ilya says, face twisting. “Russia is a business more than it is a country. I do not know if I want to go back. I have nothing there anymore. Nothing waiting.” 

Shane lets those words land, stomach twisting. “I’m sorry.” 

“I want American or– or Canadian citizenship. That is the problem. It…” Ilya sighs, frustrated. “I do not have the words.” 

“You could say it in Russian,” Shane suggests, keeping his voice quiet. He tries not to visibly thrill at the idea of Ilya securing citizenship here. Tries not to let his mind drift to the possibilities that come with Ilya staying. Permanently. 

Ilya hesitates, eyes flickering between Shane’s. 

“It’s okay.” Shane takes Ilya’s hand. He rubs his thumb over his knuckles, and Ilya exhales. 

Then, voice low, Ilya starts to speak. Shane hasn’t spent a lot of time around Russian-speakers, has only ever experienced the language peripherally, so he truly, wholeheartedly has no idea what Ilya is saying. Ilya watches him like he wishes he could understand him, though. Like he’s — like he’s confessing. Like this hotel room is a church, like the bed is a booth. 

Shane listens and smiles encouragingly. 

He catches a few phrases here and there, the word gem ringing in his ears (he remembers, distantly, a phone call he shouldn’t have heard, but the thought fades quickly), a sharp no in Russian, Svetlana’s name, and — another name. Lucía. He doesn’t know who Lucía might be, but he lets it go. He’s just a witness, right now. Ilya probably isn’t talking about him at all. 

He talks for a long time, and only when he’s finished does he take a shaky breath. 

The silence stretches between them like taffy. Shane lets Ilya take a moment, settling once more into the bed. He seems more relaxed, the lines on his face not as pronounced. 

“Feel better?” he asks quietly. 

“Yes.” Ilya nods shortly, head sinking into the pillow. “Thank you.” 

Shane smiles. “‘Course.” 

They’re quiet for long enough that Shane almost falls asleep. 

“I have a secret,” Ilya whispers. 

Half-awake, Shane blinks at him sleepily. “What is it?” 

“I cannot say.” Ilya’s eyes flicker between Shane’s. “But this secret, it is why things are complicated. It is why I didn’t go to Russia when my father died.” 

“Will you tell me someday?” 

“Yes. I promise.” 

“Okay.” 

“Okay?” Ilya blinks at him, eyes wide and unbelievably awake, considering how exhausted he must be. He looks like he expects Shane to push, to squeeze it out of him, to force him to confess. He won’t. For some stupid, insane reason, he trusts Rozanov blindly. 

“Yeah.” He brings a hand to Rozanov’s cheek, smoothing his thumb over the sharp line of his cheekbone. He nods, unsure if Ilya can even see him well enough in the dark. Then, “Yeah, it’s okay.”

Two days later, Shane’s phone buzzes while he’s in a hotel gym. Normally, he would ignore it, but his phone keeps buzzing. And buzzing. 

He has a game tomorrow to prepare for, and as much as he loves Hayden, he does not want to sit in a sauna with him for an unreasonably long time in the middle of the day, which he’s suggested they do no less than five times. 

Maybe he’s a little extra prickly. He doesn’t know for sure. It’s just– he’s been checking in with Ilya as often as he feels he can, and he’s been getting monosyllabic responses in return. Every ‘you okay?’ is met with a curt yes. It bothers Shane a lot more than it probably should. 

Sighing, he hops off the treadmill, wiping his face off with the hand towel before fishing his phone out of his pocket. 

News headlines. His phone has alerted him to a bunch of news headlines, because they all have Ilya’s name in them. 

And Shane’s name. 

Fuck. 

Heart in his throat, Shane presses the first notification. 

HOCKEY PRINCES SHANE HOLLANDER AND ILYA ROZANOV RIVALRY FAKE? 

Below the headline are three photos in a little collage, all of them taken at the club Shane ran into Ilya at. They’re blurry, but one of them captured the moment Ilya touched Shane’s wrist. 

Only when he’s skimmed half the article does he exhale. 

Okay. Okay, someone photographed Shane and Ilya at the club. It’s fine. It’s not incriminating. If anything, with the tightness of Shane’s shoulders, they barely look like friends. The article doesn’t seem to be insinuating anything about their dynamic outside of 

Leaning against the treadmill, he opens Messages. 

JANE: Are you okay?

LILY: You do not need to keep asking me this, Jane.

JANE: I mean about the photos.

LILY: Photos are of us standing together. It is nothing.
It is not like you are sucking my dick. That was later.

JANE: Right.

LILY: Are you not ok?

JANE: Of course I’m okay.
You’re right.
They’re not that incriminating.
We’ll be more careful.

LILY: Ok, Jane.

Shane stares at his phone until it goes black. 

He needs to call Rose. Now.

“Has Shane Hollander been keeping his real life on the down-low, all these years?” Rose reads from the article. She sounds a little like she’s doing an impression of a newsboy from the fifties, but if she is, it’s not a very good impression. “Is Hollander secretly friendly with long-time rival Ilya Rozanov? Is he dating movie star Rose Landry? Only last year, Hollander’s teammate Hayden Pike described him as incredibly boring and charmingly neurotic. Did Pike lie? Or did Hollander? We want answers!” 

“Stop,” Shane groans, dragging a hand down over his face. 

They’re holed up in a hotel room because Rose is the best. She had a driver pick her up from her hotel, driving the forty-five-minute stretch between them just because he called and needed her company. Because, to reiterate, she is the best. 

She’s lounged against the arm of the sectional couch, her socked feet tucked neatly into his lap. She’s entirely too comfortable for someone currently reading what could lead to his public undoing. “You are charmingly neurotic. I think Hayden was pretty spot on with that one,” Rose muses.

Flatly, Shane says, “I’m not neurotic.”

This, he can admit, is a lie. He’s pretty neurotic. He just needs something to argue with, really. It’s much easier to focus on that than think about the shit show that the reveal of these photos is. Ilya seems– fine about them, maddeningly calm, really — but he’s not exactly known for giving a lot away. Shane wishes Ilya would show him his cards, but they seem tight to his chest.

Shane feels uneasy about all of it. This is new — someone looking at them, really looking, and asking questions. Even if the article only assumes they’re friends, aimed as nothing more than a poke into their long-standing rivalry, it’s the first crack in the wall. It makes his skin itch thinking about what the next one could be. What if it’s a photo of them entering a hotel room? Or Shane outside Ilya’s apartment? What if hotel staff leak something? What if someone connects dots that he thought were once unconnectable? What if–

“Shane.” She nudges his thigh with her heel, dragging his attention back. He’s not sure if it’s the first time or the fifth time she’s said his name.

“I know,” he sighs, his eyes still unfocused. 

Rose pokes him again, this time with a socked toe and the action far more pointed. If she does it one more time, he’s going to nudge her feet down. Well. He’ll think about nudging her feet down. Really hard. He kind of enjoys the weight, so it’d really be punishing himself if he went through with it. “Has your team's publicist called you yet?” She asks.

They had approximately three minutes after he had hung up on Rose in the hotel gym. 

“Four times,” he admits. 

Rose’s eyebrows fly up. “You didn’t answer?”

“She scares me.” 

Rose snorts in response, but he really does mean it. She’s not scary in the traditional way, but public relations people in general are kind of nerve-wracking. He especially finds himself dreading this particular conversation, and any conversation ever that’s about Ilya Rozanov. Shane is profoundly, undeniably uninterested in talking about Ilya right now. Especially when things between them are so different. Tilting in a direction that he’s yet to know is safe or not.

“I don’t wanna deal with it,” he adds quietly.

“Shane.”

“I know, I know,” he sighs, tilting his head back against the cushions, staring up at the popcorn ceiling above. “I have to do something.”

Rose makes a face, biting the inside of her cheek. Then, casually: “You can just lie.”

Shane drops his head down and eyeballs her. “What?”

“My agent recommended it to me a couple years ago,” Rose explains. “When I first came out to her, I mean. She said to get a beard. All the big secret gay actors do it.”

“A beard,” he murmurs, voice faint and confused. “How are you supposed to grow–”

“A fake relationship.”

Shane blinks. “With a man?”

“Yeah.”

Shane tips his head back and blinks again, eyes on the ceiling. Twice. Then, “I’m a man.”

Drily, Rose says, “Hadn’t noticed.” 

Shane wiggles, dislodging her legs. 

“Uncalled for,” she huffs, sitting up straight and rolling her shoulders. “I’m saving your ass here.” 

“I don’t want to do it if it’s just for me,” he tells her. He doesn’t want her to put herself in any hot water for the sake of protecting his secret. This is his problem to deal with at the end of the day, and the other half of his problem isn’t even panicking about this. He’s just being– Shane about it. He is always always being so Shane about things. Maybe he is neurotic.

“My darling Shane Hollander,” she began gently, voice pitched soft, “trust me– having a hot hockey player boyfriend will do nothing but good things for my reputation. It’ll be great. For both of us. I wouldn’t have suggested it if I weren’t sure. I’m not that selfless,” she says, like she didn’t drop everything to be here for him while he panicked.

“You’re pretty selfless,” he interjects without thinking, but she doesn’t acknowledge it. 

“Plus… I– if I were to ever date anyone, that would help keep things under wraps. I wouldn’t be as much of a headline. Girls with boyfriends can get away with a lot of casual affection with other women.”

Shane slowly turns and stares at the side of her head. She is very, very purposefully staring ahead at the large television that’s mounted on the wall. The screen is black, reflecting the little light in the room and a faint, distorted version of them both. His eyes slide back to her as he squints. “Are you thinking about dating someone?”

“I’m not not thinking about it.” He watches as she begins fiddling with her fingers, her thumb rubbing over her knuckles like she’s scrubbing off something that isn’t even there. Rose Landry does not get nervous. He is growing more suspicious by the second.

“Are you not not thinking about anyone in particular?” he inquires, trying to sound at least a little bit like this isn’t an interrogation. It is one, but he’s trying to be subtle. Even if it has never been one of his strong suits.

“Shane.” It’s not an answer, not really, but to him, it absolutely is enough of one. It clicks into place something he should’ve asked about, and would’ve if he hadn’t been so caught up in his own mess.

“You went home with her,” Shane accuses, voice jumping a few octaves despite his best efforts.

Her hands still, shoulders tensing. Okay, so maybe he isn’t the king of reading body language most of the time, but that is absolutely a yes. 

“A lady does not kiss and tell.”

“I would tell you if this were reversed!”

“You already do.” She finally drags her eyes away from the television and slides them to him. She gives him a quick up and down with her gaze, lips twitching. “And you’re not a lady.”

“Okay, fine,” he sighs, slumping back against the couch. “Don’t tell your fake boyfriend about your secret girlfriend.”

“She’s not my girlfriend,” Rose corrects.

Shane smiles immediately. “So it is about her.” 

Rose exhales. For a moment, she braces herself before her shoulders sag in visible defeat. 

“It was one night,” she says. “One good night, a great night, even — but I don’t think it’ll happen again. It probably shouldn’t.”

Shane does not believe her for a second. Says, “That’s what I said about Ilya.”

She turns fully toward him now, one perfect eyebrow arched. “You still say that about Ilya.”

Shane huffs. “Okay, shut up.”

“You shut up,” she shoots back. 

“Fine,” Shane says. “Fine, okay. We’re both single and miserable. Case closed.” 

Rose groans, but doesn’t disagree.

A few days later 

The plan they come up with is simple enough. Rose has a month or two off from filming and general appearances, and is staying in Shane’s guest room for the entire duration of her free time. During said time, they’ll make multiple public appearances together, and they’ll be– intimate. With each other. Walk around hand in hand, some cheek kissing, the works. Probably no mouth kissing unless it’s an emergency.

They spend a long time ironing out the details over little vegetable sticks and hummus.

On paper, it’s foolproof. Mutually beneficial in every way possible. There’ll be a brief flare of attention at the start, sure, but eventually it’ll die down and maybe even taper off completely. Rose gets to be seen as what she actually is — an actress, a star, an icon in her own right — rather than a speculative dating option. And if she does pursue things with Svetlana (or any other girl), she’ll be able to do so without facing scrutiny and too much attention.

Meanwhile, Shane can keep doing… whatever the hell he’s doing with Ilya Rozanov. And he’ll get to keep playing hockey without being outed. 

They schedule everything out. The places they’ll be spotted, how they’ll ease into it, how public it gets and when. Shane will have time to tell Ilya and his parents face-to-face before it gets to be a problem, even if it takes a second for him to get the words out.

It’s airtight.

Or so they had thought.

The morning after they’re first seen together, just having drinks and dinner in a busy Montreal bar, their faces are everywhere. A fan of Rose’s snaps photos of them talking. A paparazzo catches the exact moment Shane’s fingers lace with hers as they head through the exit. Before they’re even awake, it’s viral. 

ROSE LANDRY STEPS OUT WITH METRO'S OWN SHANE HOLLANDER. FRIENDS…OR MORE?

SHANE HOLLANDER SPOTTED WITH SUPERSTAR ROSE LANDRY. SUSPICIONS CONFIRMED THAT THIS DUO IS THE NEXT POWER COUPLE?

WHAT HAS HAPPENED TO SHANE HOLLANDER? ARE THOSE HEART EYES WE SEE?

HOCKEY STAR SHANE HOLLANDER AND ACTRESS ROSE LANDRY SEEN GETTING COZY IN LOCAL MONTREAL BAR. ‘THEY’RE REAL CLOSE’ INSIDE SOURCE SAYS.

ROSE ‘RANDY’ LANDRY? ACTRESS SPOTTED WITH STAR HOCKEY PLAYER 

So much for foolproof.

They handle it the best they can, which is to say, they do nothing at all. This is, technically, what they had been hoping for. Just — less. Like, maybe two headlines less. 

Once again, Shane is surprised by his own stardom. One of these days, he’ll wrap his head around the fact that people actually know who he is. Probably. 

“Oh no.” 

Shane stares at his phone. It’s ringing, and they’re at Shane’s apartment, sitting with Rose at the kitchen island, and this is a disaster. Everything is a disaster.

He hasn’t gotten a chance to talk to his mom, or to Ilya, or to anyone about their plan. It’s only been a few days! And it wasn’t supposed to catch on this quickly. Severely underestimated, their combined fame has made this entire thing too big for Shane to fathom tackling just yet, and he is not in the mood to gripe at journalists for sniffing out a story he and Rose invented.

God. Everything really is a disaster. 

“What?” Rose asks.

“My mom,” Shane says numbly. “She’s calling me.” 

“Pick up,” she hisses. 

He does as he’s told, blindly following the instruction. He brings the phone up to his ear, and his mother does not waste time with a greeting, jumping straight in with: “Why didn’t you tell me you’re dating a movie star?” 

Shane cringes. 

The thing is, he could lie. The deal he’d made with Rose was a mutually beneficial one, after all — he could hum agreeably and go with it. He could let his mom believe that he’s dating Rose Landry. 

But he doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to lie to his parents. He was going to have to do this, deal with— this eventually. He’s already lied to them for years, has kept Ilya a secret — now, he has the opportunity to come clean. A little bit, at least. 

Sucking in a breath through his teeth, he says, “Because I’m not.” 

“What?” 

“Look, I– I want to explain, but it’s complicated. I’m with Rose right now.” Rose, beside him, raises both brows in his direction. “Can we come over?” 

“Sure,” Yuna says, stunned. “Sure. We’ll throw together some lunch. Or dinner?” 

“We’ll, uh. We’ll be there in a couple of hours. We’ll drive over now,” he says, shooting Rose a vaguely frantic look. She just shoots him back two thumbs up and slides off her barstool, phone in hand.

Shane is sitting on the loveseat opposite his parents, Rose in the loveseat beside his. His mom is on the couch next to his dad with her hands folded over her lap. They’re watching Shane build up the momentum to say what he needs to. Shane’s busy reminding himself that having a heart attack right now would be really inconvenient. 

Rose’s hand has settled beside his on the armrest, but she hasn’t made a move to hold his hand. She knows Shane gets a little antsy with too much sudden touch when he’s all wired, so instead, she gently pushes the side of her pinky against his — a soft, completely silent, It’s okay. I’ve got you. I’m here.

He swallows, hooking his pinky over hers as he looks to his father, and then to his mother. He closes his eyes as he finally, for the first time in his life, says: “I’m gay.” 

Yuna, who regretfully had just taken a sip of her herbal tea, chokes. She splutters, lowering her glass down onto the table before smacking a hand against her chest. As his mother catches her breath, his father sits forward, wide-eyed. He clears his throat, gesturing with her hand toward Rose.

“But your girlfriend…?” 

Rose smiles — polite and sweet as she raises her hand and waves. 

“Also gay,” Shane supplies.

“We’re each other’s beards,” Rose explains. “We’ve made a lesbian-gay alliance.” 

“Okay,” Yuna says, slow. Wide-eyed, her gaze flickers between the two of them. “Beards—?”

“You know, like—” Shane begins, though he himself hadn’t known till Rose walked him through it.

“No, no,” Yuna says. “I know what a beard is.”

“Uh—” David scratches at his jaw, blunt nails dragging against a few days' worth of stubble. “I’m not sure I’m keeping up.”

“Sorry– a beard, like– a disguise,” he says, keeping his eyes on the floor. “Everyone thinking we’re together means no one will suspect Rose, or–” He knew this conversation was inevitable, but knowing doesn’t make it easier. His heart is beating too fast, his tongue heavy as he tries to get out some of the things he’s left unsaid for years. It’s just been so long. “Or uh– or me. Of being gay.”

“But… Shane, why? Why do you feel the need to have a beard?” 

It’s a fair point. There are probably dozens of closeted gay men in the league who don’t need a beard, because they just don’t say anything. But his situation is more complicated.

It’s so endlessly complicated.

“I, um. Well– ” Shane can’t tell them about Ilya. He can’t explain what he’s truly worried about — which is his long-term sexual– whatever— situation. Can’t explain the Ilya Rozanov of it all, how bad it would be if Shane’s sexuality were speculated about, or even worse, revealed. It would ruin his career, his life, and most definitely whatever is going on between him and Ilya. Worse, it would be Shane’s fault. 

He can give them this. He can tell this one truth because it’s his truth. He hates hiding from them, he hates lying– but it’s the only way. It’s the only safe way forward. 

“He’s doing me a favour,” Rose cuts in. “I want to be taken more seriously, and this way, my dating life is less… mysterious. Every other interview I have, I’m being asked about who I’m dating, or about a break-up I never even had. It’s just… endless. If I have something — someone to point at, they’ll have to ask me actual questions.”

Shane exhales quietly beside her, squeezing her pinky with his own. 

“And Shane’s one of my closest friends,” she adds softly, squeezing his pinky back. “I feel so lucky to know him.” 

The room falls silent for a moment, but it isn’t tense. 

Eyes soft and curious, Yuna says, “Just… beards. Are they… I mean, it’s 2013. Is this necessary?” 

Shane looks away. He doesn’t know how to explain everything to his mom. 

Maybe this wasn’t necessary, maybe it was. He doesn’t know. But having Rose by his side, knowing they’re in this together — it’s been good. 

He’s terrified of being outed. That’s what it comes down to. And this, however morally bankrupt or cowardly or stupid it might be, is a solid way to keep himself safe. And Rose. 

“I think so,” Rose says, giving Shane a small smile. “And it’s not forever. We both just… we needed some time. To figure things out and find a way to exist without our sexualities always being at the forefront of everyone’s minds. Or — well. Making our sexualities less interesting to the average reporter, I guess.” 

Yuna nods, but she doesn’t look convinced. David isn’t faring much better, but he, too, stays quiet. 

“I — outside,” Shane blurts, standing on unsteady legs. “I just need some air.” 

Shane shakes his head at Rose when she shoots him a questioning look, avoiding his parents’ gazes altogether. 

He’s just overwhelmed. It happens sometimes. Nothing a little space won’t fix. 

God, he wishes Ilya were here. 

He’s only been outside for five minutes, standing on the deck, when the door opens behind him. His mom sidles up to him with her arms folded over her chest, looking out at the yard. 

For a while, they just stand there, breathing in the fresh air. His mom sneaks glances at him, like she’s trying to find the right words. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, so she doesn’t have to. He thinks, suddenly, that he might cry. “That it took me so long to say anything. I tried–” The sentence catches on the lump in his throat, but he forces himself to push through. “I tried not to. I tried to… I—” His nose scrunches, eyes misty. 

He tried girlfriends, he tried hiding, he tried pushing it down, down, down till he couldn’t even see it anymore — but it always came back. It always came back with a crooked grin, strong hands, and honeyed curls. He thinks if he’d never met Ilya Rozanov, his life would be so, so much simpler. So much lonelier, too. 

Additionally, without Ilya, he’s not sure he’d be half the player he is today. Playing against the best made Shane the best. Ilya has never been the root cause of any of Shane’s issues, as much as he’s added to the chaos. In all honesty, Ilya has made Shane’s life so much infinitely better just by being in it, even if only for the fleeting moments the universe allows them. He wonders if Ilya knows that. He doubts it. He doubts he’d be brave enough to say it out loud, even if he knew Ilya wouldn’t run away.

He exhales shakily, trying to will away the thoughts of Ilya. He looks down at the dirt, voice strained and teary as he says, “I thought I could do it. If I just tried hard enough not to be like this. But I couldn’t. I’m sorry, Mom.”

“Shane,” she exhales, voice wet. “Look at me.”

He doesn’t. Can’t. If he does, he’s going to break down, and he doesn’t want to do that, because his face gets all red when he cries, and the crimson rim around the edges of his eyes takes so long to fade. He sniffles again, shaking his head.

She grabs his elbow softly. “Shane, sweetheart. Please look at me.”

He caves then, gaze locking with hers. She takes his face in both hands, smoothing her thumbs over his cheeks just like she used to when he was little, whenever he was hurt or upset. He feels small again — like a kid who’s just admitted to doing something wrong. It feels like he’s cut himself open and showed her the aching, pulsing thing he’s been hiding from her for years and years — and she doesn’t even know the half of it. Doesn’t know his heart belongs to someone already. 

“Oh, honey,” Yuna says, voice wobbly. She swipes away a tear that trips past the line of his lashes. “You never have to apologise for this. Not to me. Not to anyone. I don’t– I don’t care that you’re gay, Shane. I really don’t. I care that you didn’t know you could tell me. I care that you’ve been carrying this alone for so long. And I’m so, so sorry, Shane. I’m sure I’ve said things over the years–” 

“Mom, it’s okay,” he starts to protest, but Yuna shakes her head. 

“No. No, I’m sure I have, even if I didn’t mean anything by it. That stuff sticks. I– I should have been your mother first, your manager second. So many times. I understand that now. Forgive me?” 

Shane’s bottom lip trembles, and he nods. “Yeah,” he manages thickly, shoulders slumping when she pulls him into an embrace. “I forgive you. Of course, I forgive you.” 

She hugs him tightly. “Thank you.” 

Face pressed to her shoulder, he cries. He isn’t stoic about it, and she doesn’t point it out. She just strokes his hair, rocking them back and forth. 

“For what it’s worth,” she says, minutes later, “I’m so glad you have Rose. I can tell she cares about you so much. But you have us, too, okay? Your family. We will have your back no matter what. If anyone gives you hell for this, they’ve got me to answer to. You get that, right?”

His mom is a force of nature — he wouldn’t want to be on her bad side. He manages a laugh as he pulls away to meet her eyes, soft and wet and undeniably relieved. “Okay, Mom.”

“I love you, Shane,” she says, suddenly very serious. “I love you. That will never change. I need to know that you know that.”

He lifts a trembling hand and puts it over hers, where it rests on his cheek. He remembers when his hand was so tiny that it was dwarfed by hers; now, his is bigger. “Yeah, Mom. I– I know. I love you too.”

She looks at him for a long moment, nodding once like she’s reassuring herself. Then, stroking his cheek with her thumb, she steps away. 

“Inside. C’mon, let's go,” she instructs, wiping at her own eyes — dabbing only, to avoid smearing her mascara. He’s seen her do it for years. “We have to save Rose from your father’s dad jokes.”

He makes a noise of protest, scrubbing hastily at his cheeks. “Rose laughs at my jokes; I think she can handle dad’s.”

“Well, she’s very polite.”

They end up sleeping over, which Rose thinks is hilarious. She pokes fun at all of Shane’s childhood posters, cooing at the baby pictures hung in the hallway. She laughed at him when a piece of spaghetti hit him in the eye as he tried to slurp it up, which was not funny, thank you very much. 

He’s so glad she’s here with him. He’s relieved and grateful that he wasn’t here alone. That he got to come out to his parents on his own terms, with Rose by his side. 

The next morning, they all gather in the kitchen for breakfast. Shane has to fly to Jersey later, and Rose has to jet off to Los Angeles.  

“My teeth feel looser,” Rose says, finger in her mouth. No manners whatsoever. 

Shane resists the urge to pull her hand out of her mouth. “It’s called bruxism.” 

“Huh?” 

“It’s like,” Shane waves vaguely at his own mouth. “When you grind your teeth during the night, or whatever, it can overstretch the ligaments. But they sort themselves out during the day, so it’s not dangerous or anything.” 

“My teeth are loose, but they won’t fall out,” Rose concludes. “Good enough for me.” 

“Coffee, anyone?” Yuna asks. 

“Yes, please,” Shane and Rose say in unison. Yuna, not so subtly, purses her lips around a smile as she turns to grab the coffee pot.

1 week later 

JANE: I’m flying in a day early to Boston for a meeting. 

LILY: Ok.

JANE: I got a hotel room. If you wanna come over.
It’s ok if you’re busy

LILY: You want me to come over?

JANE: Yes?

LILY: Does Rose Landry know you are inviting hot hockey players into your hotel room, Jane?

JANE: Yes.

LILY: What?

JANE: I can explain in person.

LILY: We do not do a lot of talking in person

JANE: I’m sure you’ll manage.

LILY: It is not me I’m worried about, Jane

JANE: Asshole.

LILY: Text me hotel and room number once you check in.
I will come.

Shane feels, oddly, like a new man. Or maybe not entirely new, but like he’s been changed. 

He wants to tell Ilya everything. Wants to tell him that he came out to his parents, that he said the words I’m gay out loud, and the world didn’t end. 

More than that, he wants to let Ilya in. On a deeper level. If he’s being completely honest, he thinks he’s wanted to do just that for a long time. Maybe since the first time they met. He sought him out that day, at the rink, idling in a hallway like some sort of super-fan, waiting for Ilya to come out of the changing rooms. 

And so much has changed since then. Shane’s changed since then. He’s willing to bet Ilya has, too. He just doesn’t know how to broach the subject, or if he even should. If he tells Ilya everything, then– things will keep changing. Probably. Unless Ilya decides things have gone too far, that they’re too close. 

It’s not a great feeling, not knowing how Ilya might react. 

So, pacing the length of his hotel room, he resolves to explain only what he has to. He has to explain the Rose situation, because burdening Ilya was never the plan. He doesn’t want him to think he would be helping Shane cheat if they have sex. He won’t mention Svetlana, though. If Svetlana hasn’t told Ilya about Rose, which seems to be the case, given Ilya’s reactions thus far, then Shane won’t do it for her. 

When there’s finally a knock at the door, Shane’s startled out of his reverie. 

He swings the door open to a very moody-looking Ilya. He had a whole plan, a plan that included an already half-formed speech that explained what Rose and he are doing, why they’re doing it and that it’s really for everyone’s benefit — all while not outing Rose in the process. It was a great speech.

Instead, though, faced with Ilya’s tired eyes and set jaw, he simply blurts out: “I’m not cheating on Rose.”

Ilya startles. “No?” 

“No,” Shane confirms, heart pounding. God, he should’ve waited till Ilya was at least in the room. He really doesn’t need the entire hallway hearing this, or even seeing Ilya Rozanov loitering there. For once, he’s the one who’s a detriment to their shared secret. “I– we’re not together. The media just thinks we are.” 

Ilya jerks forward, and in the span of two seconds, he’s kissing Shane. 

Sucking in a breath through his nose, Shane kisses back, fumbling to get the door closed behind them. It smacks shut, and Ilya walks him backwards, hands squeezing his waist, and then slipping down to his ass. 

When their mouths disconnect, Shane angles his head back. He did tell Ilya that they weren’t exactly good at talking, and he’d been right to suspect Ilya would not last very long without things dissolving into– well, this. But he’d at least hoped to get some of the details out before Ilya’s tongue was halfway down his throat. 

Not that he minds that all that much.

“I was going to give you a heads up after tomorrow's game,” Shane explains, breathing heavily. Ilya leans in, mouth ghosting across the side of Shane’s throat, right over his pulse point. Shane shudders. “But the news just got out too fast. The tabloids ran with it. I–”

“So, is fake,” Ilya clarifies right against his skin, cutting Shane off. He squeezes at Shane’s chest, fingers digging in just enough to make Shane’s hips twitch forward. 

Shane nods, eyes fluttering as his brain stutters.  “Ye– Yeah. Yes. It’s fake. I’m not–” His sentence trails off as Ilya thumbs at his nipple, rubbing slow, deliberate circles over the sensitive nub.

“Hm?” Ilya hums, pinching it between finger and thumb, and tugging. His breath is hot against Shane’s neck. “You are not…?” 

Just to make answering more impossible, Ilya begins sucking a mark, worrying the sensitive skin between his teeth.

“Uhn,” Shane chokes out.

He pulls back just enough to be able to watch Shane’s face as he tugs again. Shane can’t bite back the whimper that is dragged from him in response. “I do not think that is English, Shane,” Ilya chides.

Shane sucks in a ragged breath. “Fuck you.”

Ilya’s mouth twitches to one side, hand sliding down to Shane’s sweats. He tugs at the waistband, fingers scratching through Shane’s happy trail. “That is not how this normally works.”

“I-Ilya,” Shane manages, arousal pulsing through him, “You’re being such an–”

“An asshole, I know.” Ilya wraps his hand around Shane’s cock, giving it a soft squeeze, like he’s saying hello. “What were you going to say?”

“I’m not–” Another squeeze. “Fuck you. I’m not seeing anyone else. I’m–”

“You’re not fucking anyone else,” Ilya says, more of a statement than a question. His eyes blaze, boring into Shane intensely enough to give him pause. 

Shane shakes his head. “No.”

“Okay.” Ilya gives him a featherlight stroke, thumb brushing over the head of Shane’s dick. Right as he dips his thumb through the slit, he says, “Good.”

“What do you mean go–?” 

Ilya pulls his hand out of his sweats and gives him a shove. Shane lands on the mattress with a soft oof, cheeks flushing. Ilya towers over him, appraising him, before he gets his knees on the mattress. He slides over Shane, making room for himself between his legs. 

“Are you gonna fuck me?” Shane asks. 

“Yes,” Ilya answers easily. He covers Shane’s body with his own, mouth right beside Shane’s ear as he adds, “Until you are crying.”

That feels a little cocky. He goes to say as much, but then Ilya’s tongue, teeth and lips all work in tandem to suck deep, dark marks along his throat, leaving mottled bruising in their wake. Ilya does not rush through this, takes his time with each one till Shane is squirming beneath him, grabbing at his flank and digging blunt nails in. 

He doesn’t know how he’s going to cover them up for the meeting or his game tomorrow, but the thought that holds all of that concern flies directly out of the hotel room’s window as Ilya murmurs something that sounds eerily and dangerously close to mine as he sinks his teeth into the juncture where Shane’s throat meets his shoulder.

God, he wishes he were Ilya’s. Just as much as he wishes that Ilya were his. He wishes that his hands were the only ones to ever touch him, that his mouth was the only place that Ilya found pleasure in. He can’t ask that of him, even if he’s told Ilya that he hasn’t strayed elsewhere for this. 

But he wishes.

He wishes with his eyes screwed shut, his mouth ajar, and a litany of bitten-off curses slipping from him.

Still leaving claiming marks in his wake, Ilya descends down his body. He nips at the skin just below Shane’s last rib before sitting up, hand slipping between Shane’s thighs.

Wrapping his hand around Shane’s almost fully-erect cock again, tugging at it almost lazily. 

Ilya covers the sticky tip with the palm of his hand before his fingers drift, dry thumb pressed to the thin skin behind Shane’s balls. 

“Drawer,” Shane tells him, unmoored and floating. Then, to clarify, “Lube.” 

“Mr. Prepared,” Ilya says, amused. He stretches over Shane, retrieving the lube and the strip of condoms Shane had stashed there. Thankfully, Ilya does not comment on the condoms. Even though there are like– fifteen. 

It’s hard to look away as Ilya gets his hand wet with lube, slipping his hand between Shane’s legs. He pushes into him with deft fingers, taking his time opening him up, brushing his fingertips just so over Shane’s prostate to make him shiver. 

When he’s up to three fingers, he pulls out of him and grabs a condom with his non-sticky hand. He frowns at it, and then his wet hand, before opening it with his teeth. Shane fights a smile and loses. 

Condom on, Ilya settles once more between Shane’s legs, pressing a lingering kiss to the side of his neck, right over a bruise. The blunt head of his cock nudges Shane’s hole, slick and warm. 

“Come on,” Shane says quietly, anticipation and arousal flooding him. “Fuck me.”

Sighing with something like relief, Ilya sinks into him. 

As always, it’s a stretch. But Shane accommodates quickly, body opening for Ilya — welcoming him back in, again and again. 

Shane falls into the rhythm of it helplessly, fingers skating up Ilya’s arms as he listens to Ilya’s sighs of pleasure. His own dick is leaking; he can feel it bump against the swell of Ilya’s stomach, smearing the sticky pre-come over his fever-hot skin. 

He loves this. He loves sex, which is its own sort of miracle. Shane never thought– he never even considered it could be like this, every time. That it could feel this good, that someone else might learn his body enough to coax pleasure out of him like this. 

But Ilya did. Ilya does. 

“You don’t fuck anyone else,” Ilya murmurs, lips grazing Shane’s ear. He’s thrusting into Shane steadily now, hand on the side of Shane’s neck. It’s a possessive touch. Something hot and claiming. 

“I– I don’t,” Shane agrees, whimpering when Ilya stills, buried in him to the hilt. He grinds into him, lifting his head to meet Shane’s gaze. 

For a moment, it looks like he’s going to say something. He doesn’t. Instead, Ilya ducks forward to kiss him, soft and gentle and not at all like he normally would. He licks at the seam of Shane’s mouth, making a soft noise when Shane opens up for him. It feels like its own form of confession. 

Ilya ruts forward, fucking into him without pulling out more than an inch at a time, and Shane melts into it. He feels like he’s floating, angling his head so that Ilya’s thumb digs into his neck. Like he can read his mind, Ilya shifts his hand, fitting it over his throat without applying any pressure. 

He just holds, grinding into him, and keeps his hand where it is. Shane gasps pathetically below him, succumbing entirely to the zings of pleasure that come with every circle Ilya completes with his hips. 

“You will come like this?” Ilya asks, voice gruff. 

“What?” Shane pants, fighting to keep his eyes on Ilya’s face. 

“Without me touching your cock,” Ilya says, thumb caressing the skin above Shane’s pulse point. “I want you to come just from my dick. Can you do it for me?”

“I–” Like this, Ilya really could talk him into anything. Even if he wasn’t physically able to come without being touched, he thinks his body would be willed into compliance just because Ilya asked it of him. He is very, very capable, though. And teetering right on the edge of doing it. “Y-Yeah, please, please–”

Ilya squeezes his throat, just tight enough to slow his circulation. Shane presses up into it, biting down on the inside of his cheek as he rolls back, meeting Ilya’s slow thrusts.

“Fuck,” Ilya breathes. The gusty word punches out of him, his eyes wide as he stares at Shane. He loosens his hand around Shane’s throat incrementally, and all the noise in the room returns to Shane at once: the wet slap of their bodies connecting again and again, the hiss of the duvet meeting flesh, the way they’re both panting. 

“F-fuck,” Shane whimpers, eyes wet. “Ilya, I’m s-so close, please—” 

He squeezes his eyes shut, and a few tears escape him. Ilya’s nose grazes Shane’s, tongue darting out and dragging across the side of Shane’s face. He’s licking Shane’s tears. 

A groan escapes Ilya, shaky and low. His thrusts grow sloppier, turning into something frantic and wanton. Shane hiccups through a moan, pleasure licking up his spine in time with Ilya’s cock driving into him. 

He’s going to come. 

He’s crying, and he’s going to come. 

“Ilya,” he pants, back arching. He wants so badly to wrap his hand around himself, wants his orgasm to hit hard and fast — but he can be good. He can keep his hands on Ilya, blunt fingernails digging crescents into his back. “Please.”

“Fuck,” Ilya rasps. “Give it to me. I need to feel you come. Shane–”

Breath stuttering out of him, and in time with the sound of his own name, Shane comes. He almost doesn’t realise that’s what’s happening at first, pleasure building in short bursts, until it’s so overwhelming he cries out. 

He paints Ilya’s and his own stomach in ropes of white, clenching around Ilya as he pants. Animalistic, wounded noises escape him with every breath, mouth open and pointed at the ceiling. 

Above him, Ilya groans, peppering kisses all over Shane’s face as his cock jerks inside of Shane, spilling hot and messy into the condom. 

His mouth finds Shane’s as he slows his thrusts. He kisses him tenderly and slowly, calming the fire raging inside of Shane. 

The moment is molten. 

It takes several minutes for Shane to catch his breath again, moving only to let Ilya slip out of him and fall into bed next to him. His eyes drift closed for a beat as Ilya moves around — presumably tying the condom off and tossing it into a wastebin. He’s not gone for long, though. Shane’s eyes flutter open as he feels Ilya’s knee press into the bed, the mattress dipping beneath the weight of him.

Shane focuses on Ilya as he settles back into bed. How warm he is. How solid. He turns toward him, curling into his embrace, and Ilya lets him. 

Logically, Shane knows they’ve fucked before. They’ve fucked a lot harder than this, even, but for some reason, he feels… raw. In a good way. But he really, really doesn’t want Ilya to go. 

Ilya doesn’t go. Shane doesn’t ask him to stay, and Ilya doesn’t ask — he just does. He’s impossibly gentle as they rearrange to fit together, sweaty limbs helplessly intertwined, faces close enough for their noses to touch. A part of him does want to get up and shower, but he’s terrified to break the moment, to give either of them a chance to run. He presses his face against Ilya’s bear tattoo, exhaling slow as Ilya strokes the top of his spine.

Shane sleeps better than he has in weeks. 

The next morning, he wakes up before Ilya. He watches the slow rise and fall of his chest, the way his eyelashes fan over his cheeks. He’s beautiful. Beautiful and here, despite every reason he should not be. 

Not for the first time, Shane wonders about the secret. What it might be. Ilya had said it so carefully, had confessed to the existence of it under the safe cover of darkness. It’s been a while since then. And Shane had promised he was okay with not knowing, with waiting for Ilya. 

And he is. Of course he is. He’s not going to ask, because Ilya doesn’t want him to. All he knows, all he’s going to know until Ilya clues him in, is that there’s something in Ilya’s life that complicates things. More than they already are. 

But he’ll wait for him. He’ll wait for as long as he has to.  

SHANE: I have been mauled

ROSE: Huh?

SHANE: [Picture attached]

ROSE: HUH?
Oh my god. Shane, you got attacked.

SHANE: He’s so hot.

ROSE: Oh, my darling boy. We need to get you concealer and colour corrector. Stat.

SHANE: I don’t know what that means

ROSE: I will handle everything. I will send you links, and we can Facetime. In the meantime, a turtleneck is your best friend

SHANE: Turtlenecks make me want to die

ROSE: Then you gotta put a muzzle on your boy

SHANE: He’s not my boy

ROSE: Okayyyyyyyyy 

Shane can safely say that he never, not once, pictured himself in a fancy restaurant on a double date with Rose, Hayden, Jackie, and the twins. 

It was a spur-of-the-moment kind of thing. A rare night they were all available, organised over the phone in separate texting threads when they very easily could have made a group chat instead. Still, it worked out, and Shane’s a little grateful Rose and Hayden are not in a group chat together. He would never escape the ribbing. 

It’s an early reservation, on account of the little ones, and Shane’s secretly glad. He knows it makes him boring, but he likes going to bed in a timely manner. 

His chest tightens, sitting here beside Rose, watching Hayden try to convince Ruby that vegetables are good, actually. Ruby, who cannot speak yet, still manages to make her disagreement quite clear when she picks up a pea that she’s offered and tosses it across the table. Jackie watches Hayden with a soft smile, baby in her arms. Jade, who seems to be taking after Jackie more than Hayden, is half-asleep against Jackie’s front, babbling politely and incoherently as Rose asks her questions.

Shane never really thought he would want kids. But — seeing Hayden like this, happy and settled, it makes something in him ache. Makes him wonder if maybe, one day, he’ll be brave enough to consider having a family a real possibility. 

His brain isn’t helpful, reminding him of Ilya’s passing remark about trying to secure citizenship. It’s not like they would be able to… to be together, for real, in the future. Whatever they are to each other, it’s not forever. 

Thinking about it won’t help the matter, and it certainly won’t make him a good dinner companion, so Shane eats his tuna salad and cracks another joke at Hayden’s expense. 

Conversation flows easily between their little group. Shane is here with two of his best friends, after all. 

His attention is somewhat split, though. Ilya’s been texting him about a couch he wants to buy, and Shane is vehemently defending the couch Ilya currently has. The new couch is just — it’s too gauche. It’s not Ilya. Unfortunately, Ilya does not seem to understand this. 

He tries to be covert about it. He’s limiting himself to one text every five minutes, phone halfway under the table. This, he’s coming to realise, is not a strategy Ilya likes very much. 

LILY: Stop disappearing. 

JANE: I’m at a dinner. You know this. 

LILY: Boring.
Leave.
I will call you with pretend emergency.
And then I will buy the couch. 

“Who are you texting?” Rose whispers, leaning over to peek at his screen. Shane tilts it away from her, ignoring her pout. 

“No one.” 

“Sure,” Rose whispers back. Rose’s phone buzzes, and Shane arches an eyebrow. 

“Svetlana?” he asks. 

She taps his foot under the table. “Shut up.” 

His phone starts buzzing a moment later, and without looking at the Caller ID, he stands. “I gotta take this,” he says. Hayden waves him off, and Jackie’s too busy fussing with Jade to notice. Rose says nothing, pursing her lips around a smile. 

He’s pushing the restaurant door open before he knows it, the cool evening air enveloping him as he rounds the bend, answering the call with fumbling hands once he’s out of eyesight. 

“Hi,” Shane breathes, leaning against the brick wall. 

“Hello, Jane,” Ilya replies. The low timbre of his voice washes over Shane like some sort of balm. 

“I, uh.” Shane searches for the right words. “I don’t think you should buy the couch.” 

On the other line, Ilya laughs. “It is a good couch. You are being very — critical.” 

“Uh-huh,” Shane says, lips twitching into a smile. 

“Uh-huh,” Ilya copies. A door closes on his end, and he shuffles around. “Is it because it is grey?” 

“No.” Shane huffs a laugh. “I just — it’s such an ugly grey. I liked the green one you sent me the other day.” 

Ilya’s hum is crackly through the phone, taking on a muffled quality suddenly like he’s connected to speakers. 

“Are you driving?” He asks.

“Yes,” Ilya says. “I need to go to the store. My kitchen is very sad.” 

Something warm blooms in Shane’s chest. He closes his eyes and lets himself feel it, as stupid as it is to feel fond of the fact that Ilya’s driving to the store. It’s just — there’s something about it, about Ilya calling him just to keep him company on the drive there. There’s a domesticity to it that makes his stomach flutter.

“What are you buying?” 

He wonders if Ilya makes a grocery list. He doesn’t seem the type. Maybe he has a note in his phone where he jabs down essentials he’s run out of, or maybe he scribbles it on his hand. He wonders if he’s picky about brands or what his go-to meals are. Shane wishes he knew.

Suddenly, he finds his stomach a little tight, imagining himself with a list in hand as Ilya, behind him, pushes the cart along and makes stupid little remarks about Shane’s choices.

It sounds nice. Like the kind of thing he could easily have if he were someone else. But then, maybe it wouldn’t be with Ilya. And if it weren’t, he’s not sure he’d want it at all. 

He pushes that thought far, far down till it disappears into the recesses of his mind. He shakes his head, inhaling the cool air and forcing his heart to beat normally.

“Boring things,” Ilya sighs. “But I think I will buy frozen mango also. I want a smoothie.” 

Smiling, he replies, “Get some bananas too, then. It makes the, uh, consistency better.” 

“Okay,” Ilya agrees. “I will get ma– and bananas. An– so–” 

For a moment, Shane hears nothing. “Hello?” 

“—llo? Shane?” 

“Hi,” Shane says, amused. 

“Connection is bad,” Ilya grumbles. “Sorry.” 

“It’s okay,” Shane says, eyes skittering over the parking lot. He lifts his free hand, checking his watch. He’s only been out here for a few minutes, but if he lingers too long, someone might come out to check on him. “I should go back in anyway.” 

“Okay,” Ilya says, drawing the word out. “I will call tomo–” 

The call beeps. Frowning, Shane pulls his phone away from his ear. 

Walking slowly back to the restaurant’s entrance, Shane thumbs over to Messages. 

SHANE: Text me when you get home?
Or to the store
Just let me know you’re okay :)