Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warnings:

No Archive Warnings Apply, Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Hayden Pike, Yuna Hollander

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Explicit Sexual Content, Angst, Enemies With Benefits, Secret Relationship, Slow Burn, slow emotional burn at least, Forced Proximity, Enemies to Lovers, Found Family ish, Montreal, Montreal Metros, Boston Raiders, References to Canon, Flashbacks, Banter, shower scenes, yes those shower scenes, Sexual Tension, needy by ariana grande, POV Shane Hollander, POV Ilya Rozanov, shane is mean to ilya, ilya likes it

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2025-12-14 Updated: 2026-02-08 Words: 70,388 Chapters: 14/?

On Thin Ice

Summary

A few seconds later, a news anchor’s voice grows to startling clarity. A clip plays of Rozanov shooting from the goal crease and making it into the net.
“...Montreal Metros to acquire center Ilya Rozanov from the Boston Raiders for the upcoming season. The two teams have sustained a bitter rivalry for years, and it has only worsened worsened with Hollander and Rozanov’s participation. All of this makes the trade an unlikely one; however, it seems to be just the right time for the Metros to snag a star like Rozanov. After many lackluster performances from the Metros these past few months, it only makes sense…”
The anchor continues as a clip of Rozanov from a post-game interview last year plays—he’s shirtless and sweaty, smirking into the camera. And then he does that…that wink. Shane just stares up at the screen, dumbfounded. He’s not listening to the details anymore, but the words echo in his head.
Metros to acquire Ilya Rozanov…
His team to acquire Rozanov.
“This is bullshit,” he mutters, turning and trying not to stomp off like an upset child.

OR: Ilya gets traded to Shane's team and Shane is not happy about it

---

i was coerced into writing this

Chapter 1

The whole gym stops to watch the news. Shane’s lost in the motion of the rowing machine—quads burning, Lykki Li in his headphones, sweat dripping down his temple. On the other side of the training facility, athletes have forgotten their lift to go linger by the TVs. It’s on Canada’s biggest hockey channel, as usual, but Shane stops rowing when a familiar face appears on the screen. Curious about the crowd that has gathered, he takes out his headphones and gets up from the machine. Walks over, all sore and sweaty. 

“S’ going on?” He mumbles, staring up at the screen. It’s Rozanov’s face—of course it is. He’s smirking at the camera from behind his helmet as he skates by. The clip must be from a game in the last year—his hair has just recently grown out like that. Shane hates that he knows this. 

“Turn it up!” Someone calls from the other side, “Yo! Where’s the remote at?”

A few seconds later, a news anchor’s voice grows to startling clarity. A clip plays of Rozanov shooting from the goal crease and making it into the net. 

“...Montreal Metros to acquire center Ilya Rozanov from the Boston Raiders for the upcoming season. The two teams have sustained a bitter rivalry for years, and it only worsened with Hollander and Rozanov’s participation. All of this makes the trade an unlikely one; however, it seems to be just the right time for the Metros to snag a star like Rozanov. After many lackluster performances from the Metros these past few months, it only makes sense…”

The anchor continues as a clip of Rozanov from a post-game interview last year plays—he’s shirtless and sweaty, smirking into the camera. And then he does that…that wink. Shane just stares up at the screen, dumbfounded. He’s not listening to the details anymore, but the words echo in his head.

Metros to acquire Ilya Rozanov…

His team to acquire Rozanov. 

“This is bullshit,” he mutters, turning and trying not to stomp off like an upset child. There’s loud chatter in the room. A bunch of Canadian athletes working out together, witnessing arguably the biggest player in the league get traded. Shane feels sick. 

“You know about this?” Anderson, Shane’s trainer, is waiting by the rowing machine, hands on his hips. 

Shane avoids a response. Grabs his water bottle and takes a long drink. Tells himself his heart pounding is just from the cardio—not Rozanov’s face on the TV screen. “No,” he mutters finally, bringing the water bottle down. “None of us knew.” 

“Crazy,” he shakes his head. “Ilya Rozanov. The Russian.” 

Out the gym windows, the sun is shining in Boston. It’s a gorgeous summer day. 

Anderson continues. “You just saw him a couple months ago, didn’t you? At the MLH awards?” 

That they did. It all comes rushing back to Shane then, and he instantly loses all the progress he’s made on repressing the memories. Las Vegas. Rozanov’s penthouse…

Touch yourself. 

It’s a good thing Shane’s already red from the exercise. His eyes are trained out the window, avoiding Anderson’s gaze. “Yeah,” he shrugs, trying to play it cool. “They made us do some stupid shtick for the audience before the show started.” 

Anderson chuckles. “Yeah, I remember that. Good shit.” 

Shane’s phone is buzzing furiously. He could bet money that it’s his team group chat, all going off about the news. He wants to punch Coach Reilly, who as far as Shane knows, didn’t tell anybody about this. As team captain, he feels a little fucking insulted that he’s found out this way–on the TV in a public gym.

Anderson hands Shane a towel. He grabs it without a word and wipes his forehead.

Anderson seems to sense Shane’s irritation. “What? Not friends with the guy?” 

He shrugs. “Doesn’t make a difference, does it? He’s on the team now, whether I like it or not.” 

Anderson laughs. “Jeez, man. Lighten up.”

Shane glances down at his watch. 1:20 PM. He’s supposed to meet his mom for lunch today in the city. It was meant to be casual, but now he has the feeling she’ll have a lot to say about this news. 

“I better go,” Shane mumbles, grabbing his bag from nearby. Anderson nods.“Sorry to cut this short.” 

“All good, man,” the trainer just shakes his head. “You’ll pay for it tomorrow morning. Pre-season’s coming up. No excuses now.” 

Shane just nods, already headed towards the exit. He moves past the guys still huddled by the TV, speakers loud with mentions of Rozanov’s stats from last season. He glances by once, and it’s a clip of him at the award show, grinning as he stands behind the podium. Next to Shane. And he’s in that tux. 

Shane almost slams into the wall by the door before correcting himself. He’s gone red with fury by the time he’s left the gym.  

Unbelievable. 

________________________________

Las Vegas, two months ago

“Touch yourself,” Rozanov said, his voice rumbling in that deep, Russian accent that Shane hadn’t heard in months. He shifted on the bed, equal parts uncomfortable and turned on. Rozanov was watching him through hooded eyes, and even if Shane had been fully clothed, he still would’ve felt naked under that gaze. 

The room was silent besides that–Rozanov’s one command, and Shane’s uneven breaths. He tried not to look as concerned as he felt. “What? I—”

“Show off for me,” he tilted his head a bit, studying Shane with a bored, almost amused interest. “I want to watch you.” 

He squirmed nervously. “You—what?” 

Rozanov rolled his eyes. “It’s my special night, Hollander. I want to watch. Come on.” 

Shane huffed out a breath, even as every inch of him flushed red. Of course. He hadn’t heard from Rozanov in months, not since the last time they’d met in Montreal. And now he wanted to waste time playing these stupid games, instead of just…just—

Shane hated how needy he felt. It was taking everything in him not to scowl and spit, are you going to fuck me or not? He wished he could’ve forgotten about it after that first night—when they’d met in Montreal in Shane’s apartment. He wanted it to be a one-time thing, wanted it to be mediocre, maybe, so he could’ve moved past it like it was nothing. Like this whole thing was just a…fluke. 

That hadn’t happened, though. Instead, Shane had thought of that night constantly. The heat and the passion and how attentive Rozanov had been. All of it. The worst part was that Shane hadn’t gotten so much as a text from Rozanov since then, which bothered him more than he’d liked to admit. And now they were here, together finally, and Rozanov was… 

“Well?” Rozanov asked. 

“But I- I’ve never–” Shane doesn’t quite know what to say. 

He grinned. “I thought maybe not. So—” he gestured with the hand that wasn’t holding the drink “—show me. How do you touch yourself, Shane Hollander?”

Fuck. He wanted to protest, just for the sake of it, but it was suddenly obvious how much the idea excites him. Rozanov’s eyes flick down to his briefs, and Shane knows any argument he could make would be pathetically weak.  

“Give me some of that vodka, at least,” he said, a bit desperate. “I’m too sober for this.”

Rozanov only shook his head. “No. The vodka you can have after. As reward.”

His body thrummed with heat. The anticipation was too much to bear, and suddenly, Shane knew he would do anything if it meant getting Rozanov’s hands on him at some point. 

He shuts his eyes, shifting his legs a bit wider on the bed. Shane leaned back against the headboard. And at the first tentative touch trailing down his abs, grasping himself through his boxers, Shane was gone. He moaned out loud, and watched the heat fall over Rozanov’s expression with great pleasure. 

It was worth the wait, he decided. Those months without a single word from Rozanov had been entirely worth the wait. 

_________________________

Present

Shane has calmed down only a little by the time he reaches the cafe spot to meet his mom. Not by much, really, but he’s tired from his workout and is dying for some avocado toast with eggs to make himself feel better.

He hasn’t bothered to check his phone, even though each buzz is an incessant reminder of what he’s probably missing. Whatever. He’ll check it later, or he won’t. 

His mom is on him as soon as he sits down. “Shane!” She all but screeches, taking off her glasses and folding them with deceptive calm. “Did you get the news?” She hisses. 

Shane gives her his best poker face. “What news?” 

She narrows her eyes. “About Ilya?” 

“Oh that,” he sighs, with exasperation. “Yeah, I think I heard something about that. Car crash. Fatal injuries, right?”  

“Shane,” his mom chides. She doesn’t look amused. Tough crowd, he guesses. “This is a big deal. Why didn’t you tell me earlier? I had to find out on the way here—on the radio. Not ideal circumstances.” 

He picks up the menu, but she dismisses him. “I already ordered. Salmon and brown rice. Now explain yourself, young man.” 

Shane frowns a bit. “I wanted the avocado toast.” 

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

He sighs. “I didn’t know, okay? Coach didn’t tell me. I don’t think he told anybody. I just found out a couple of hours ago at the gym. It’s all over ESPN.” 

“Well, I for one think this is a great opportunity,” his mom continues, smoothing out her dress and gives Shane one of those winning, Hollander smiles. “Think of all the press you two will get. Rivals turned teammates. It’ll make headlines every time you two step onto the ice.” He stops himself from rolling his eyes, and looks out the window instead. The thought that Rozanov would be what gave him the most attention in the media. Just the fucking thought pissed him off. 

“I don’t need more press,” Shane says sullenly. 

“No,” she says slowly. “But it would be nice. Especially after last season.” 

He looks at her. “What is that supposed to mean?” 

“Honey, we both know it wasn’t the best run for the team,” her gaze softens a bit. “We lost in every game that counted, especially late in the season. I think it’s good Ilya’s joining. You two will push each other to be better.” 

“Better,” he scoffs. “He won the fucking Cup, Mom. How do you get better than that?” 

She crosses her arms. “I can tell you’re not happy about this. But behaving like a child won’t do anything to solve it.” 

There it is. That Hollander pragmatism. That Yuna Hollander pragmatism. Shane knows she’s right. But it doesn’t make him want to punch Rozanov’s face any less.

“Wow, Mom,” he can’t help but grumble. “I didn’t know you liked him this much.”

“I don’t!” She exclaims. “He’s an asshole—we both know it. I’ve never seen worse sportsmanship from a player. But he is our player now.” She snaps her fingers, “We’ve got to roll with the punches.” 

What if I punch him? Shane just nods. “Yeah, you’re right.” 

“Don’t worry,” she continues, probably noticing the distressed look on his face. “It’ll just be like any other season. Me and your dad will be there to support you whenever we can. It’s going to be great. We’ll come to every game we can, of course. I have a good feeling about this.”

A waiter arrives with their food. The smell of seasoned rice and fish wafts over, and Shane remembers how hungry he is. But as the plate is set down, his phone buzzes. Just once. In the moment, he forgets his mental vow not to check his messages in the middle of all this chaos. As if on auto-pilot, he pulls out his phone and swipes up the screen to check the notification. 

Lily: See you in September, Captain.

The shock of the name makes him slam the phone down on the table. His mom’s distracted by cutting into her chicken breast, so she doesn’t notice the flush that overtakes his face.

He can almost imagine Rozanov's smirk as he typed it out. It’s the first text Shane’s gotten from him in God knows how long. Close to a year, maybe, besides that one lone message from early June of that year. Penthouse 1. He starts to remember everything that happened in said penthouse and quickly pockets the phone, trying and failing to focus on the food in front of him. 

We didn’t even kiss. It’s the last thing Shane remembers typing out, almost sending, in a moment of utter weakness. Boy is he glad he didn’t send it now. 

His mom is still talking. “While we’re here, we should discuss the Reebok deal. Your contract’s expiring soon, and I think we should consider other options before renewing it. Specifically Nike sent me an email the other day–”

Shane nods along as she talks, but isn’t really listening. His heart is pounding. Something about the text just made it all feel too real. 

He’s going to see Rozanov again. Play with him. Not just once in a blue moon, not just get a few minutes with him in passing on the ice. Day in and day out. For god knows how long. 

__________________________

IcePulse Sports (July 28, 2014)
HEADLINE: From Enemies to Line-Mates? Hollander–Rozanov Rivalry Takes a Shocking Turn

“One of the league’s most iconic grudges may be forced into a truce as Canada’s own Shane Hollander and Russia’s Ilya Rozanov join forces in Montreal. Rozanov’s trade to the Metros for the 2014-2015 season was finalized earlier this morning. The Metros kept the trade under wraps as long as possible, but it was made final this morning: Rozanov has been traded to the Metros for the 2014-2015 season. But it’s not really the timeline of this event that has everyone curious. All around the world, hockey fans are worried about the real mystery: how the two players will fare on the same side of the ice. Will they make peace—or melt down?” 

___________________________

JJ has Shane and Hayden over for dinner a few nights later. His townhouse smells like garlic and tomato sauce, even with the balcony doors thrown wide open to let in the hot summer air. They hang out here when they can, just to chill after practice or sometimes watching American football. Shane usually feels like he can relax here, except now there’s really no point trying to do that. So he ends up at the sink, sleeves pushed to his elbows, elbow-deep in soapy dishes. He stares past his reflection in the window. The TV in the adjoining living room keeps looping the Raiders’ lowlights from the spring—missed shots, lazy penalties, a power-play disaster Shane still wakes up annoyed about.

Behind him, JJ and Hayden engage in an intellectual discussion about the future of all of their hockey careers. 

“Let’s face it,” JJ says, talking through a chunk of garlic bread, “Ilya Rozanov could fix our offensive play overnight.”

Hayden snorts, leaning back in his chair, legs stretched out to the table. “Not fucking likely. The guy’s a dick on skates.”

“That dick dragged Russia to the finals alone.” JJ points at the TV with the bread for emphasis. “Greatest offensive season in a decade.”

Hayden rolls his eyes. “Okay. Wow. Want his jersey? Maybe an autograph?”

“I’m just being honest,” JJ shrugs.

Shane focuses on rinsing a plate, saying nothing, until  JJ flicks a dish towel at the back of his neck. “Nothing from you, Cap? You’re awfully quiet over there.”

Shane doesn’t look up. “You two talk enough for the whole team.”

“So that’s a no comment then?” Hayden presses. “Even on your infamous rivalry?”

“Historic,” JJ echoes dramatically. “Borderline biblical.”

Shane shuts his eyes. He wonders if it’ll ever get easier to hear people call them that. Rivals. Opposites. Enemies. He wonders if he’ll ever find it funny, maybe several years from now. Once this is all over.  

We didn’t even kiss. The thought runs through his head, over and over again, festering and spreading like a sweet virus. Shane hates that, despite this whole mess, he still regrets not kissing Rozanov that night. Especially now that they will never get the chance to again. 

He scrubs the dish so hard it slips out of his hand, clattering into the sink. The sound brings him out of his thoughts. 

JJ laughs, sensing Shane’s irritation. He leans on the counter. “It’ll be great for the cameras,” he continues. “Rivals turned teammates. All that drama. The media's gonna go nuts.” 

Hayden raises a hand in mock solemnity. “A rivalry older than time—Canada vs. Russia, Hollander vs. Rozanov—destined to meet again in our humble, failing offense.”

“We should call the Kardashians’ production company,” JJ says suddenly. “Document the whole thing. Come on, I’m telling you—we could make millions.”

Shane finally snaps, turning to look at them. “Neither of you are helping, you know.”

“It’s true though,” Hayden shrugs. “Let’s face it—the two of you together? Preseason’s gonna sell out in under five minutes. People will be lining up at the first chance to see you two on the same team, whether it’s a shit-show or not.” 

“Thanks,” Shane mutters. 

“He’s kidding,” JJ clasps a hand on Shane’s shoulder. “It’s not going to be a shit-show. Probably.”

“Yeah. It’s not like the two of them have tried to kill each other every time they’ve shared the ice for years.”

“We were kids.” Shane says sharply.

“Uh-huh,” Hayden mumbles, playing with the remote. 

“Admit it.” JJ jabs a finger in Shane’s direction. “He brings out something in you. Like…the Hulk. Or Jekyll and Hyde. It’s like you get possessed. We’ve all seen it.” 

Shane rinses another plate harder than necessary. His pulse hammers as he shakes his head. “That’s not true.” 

“I can’t blame you,” Hayden sighs, shaking his head at the TV in the living room, still playing Rozanov’s highlights from last season. “Man. Just look at him. I’d be pissed if that guy walked into our locker room like that.” 

“He’s not even walking,” JJ says, pointing. “Look at that. He’s strutting.” He laughs. “What a fucking asshole.” 

Shane slams a dish down into the drying rack a bit too hard, and Hayden turns to him. “Oh, relax, Captain. We won’t say any of this to his face.”

Shane just exhales tightly. “You better not. We need to get off to a good start this year. Seriously.”

“It’s gonna be fine,” JJ comes up behind him, claps him on the shoulder again and shakes him a bit. “Might even be great. Maybe we need someone like him.” 

He finishes with the last dish, turns off the faucet.

“I know Shane does,” Hayden says to that, and the two of them start laughing again as they make their way to the couch. 

He grabs a towel to dry off his hands, breath uneven. Somehow feeling worse about this whole thing than before. 

This is such a bad idea, he’d said at the start. Before any of it happened. 

It feels like such an understatement now, it might as well be a joke. 

They were a fucking horrible idea.

Chapter 2

Shane is a man of routine. Every morning, he wakes up at six AM and goes for a run. Then he either goes back to the apartment to do sets of push-ups and crunches, or goes to the gym to meet Anderson for forty-five minute lifts followed by an hour of cardio. After he trains, Shane showers and eats while watching Sportscenter. He keeps a diet of whole foods. Majority of the time, it's a protein and steamed vegetables. He likes fish, even though his teammates think it’s gross—the macros can’t be beat. He only eats slow-digesting carbs like quinoa and barley, unless it’s a game day, and then he prefers a rice krispy treat as a quick energy source. 

After he eats, the rest of the day is usually dedicated to whatever brand deals Shane is currently working on at the time—meetings and filming commercials and such. If he’s not doing that, he’s going to the rink and training more, or he’s reading books on hockey. And this is all during the off-season.

In short, Shane eats, sleeps, and breathes hockey. It’s all he’s ever known. For a long time, he wondered if he was even meant for anything else. As in, relationships, a conventional career, and…fun. He didn’t know if he was capable of wanting things that weren’t hockey.

That was, until he met Rozanov.

_________

International Prospect Cup, Montreal — 6 years ago

Shane was sixteen years old—young by anybody’s standards, even for hockey. Even for the International Prospect Cup, which was twenty-under. And on the surface, he was just like any other teenager. Lanky and awkward, full of this nervous energy that couldn’t be dispelled no matter what he did. His mom drove him around everywhere because he hadn’t gotten his license yet and also made his schedule for him. 

But that year, he’d also been dubbed by the media one of two of the most promising prospects in the hockey world. He was one of only three sixteen year olds invited to the Cup that year, and was probably one of the best players there anyway. So calling Shane a teenager would’ve been inaccurate. Because he didn’t go to parties, or have girlfriends, or even go to normal school. 

He was an athlete, and his whole life was hockey. It had been that way for a very long time. 

Being invited to the tournament was an honor. He was excited to be there, in Regina, Saskatchewan. Everywhere he turned, there were athletes. People who were just as good as he was, if not better. Shane wanted to play against every single one of them, and he wanted to win. 

It was the first day of the tournament when he stepped outside to get some air and clear his head. He was set to go up against the US that day. But as confident as Shane was in his abilities, he was still nervous. So a couple hours before the game, he went outside to get some fresh air. He was walking around the building when he spotted someone leaning against the wall, hands stuffed into his pockets.

Shane neared the person. He looked young—older than Shane, but still. Even with the piercing blue eyes and brown curls sticking out under a black beanie, it took Shane a few seconds to recognize the player in front of him. 

It was Ilya Rozanov. Shane had first heard about the Russian player from his mom, who usually kept him up to date on what she called “players to keep an eye on”. He never usually heeded her recommendations, but after watching a couple clips of Rozanov on the ice, Shane couldn’t deny he’d been interested. 

He played like someone twice his age in brawn and confidence. A powerhouse on the ice with quick, tough hits. He might’ve been one of the best players Shane had ever seen his age, besides himself. 

“Hey,” Shane said. 

Ilya Rozanov glanced over, eyes sharp as they took Shane in. “Hollander,” he greeted with a friendly nod.

Shane raised his eyebrows, surprised that the boy already knew his name. “Yeah,” he confirmed. “You’re Rozanov, right? Ilya Rozanov.” 

“Yes,” he agreed, speaking with a thick Russian accent.

“Yeah, wow,” Shane shook his head in a laugh. “Russia, huh? What’s that like?” 

“Cold.” Rozanov replied, then pulled something out of his pocket. Shane glanced down to find a cigarette in his hand. 

What the hell?

“Oh, I don’t think we’re supposed to-” he started, but Rozanov cut him off with a laugh. He held the cigarette between his teeth as he pulled out a lighter and lit the end of it. Shane just watched, fascinated. 

He was an athlete. Probably one of the best players going into the draft next year besides Shane. And he was smoking.

“Okay, well…it’s nice to meet you.” Shane held out his hand to shake Ilya’s, the way his mom always taught him to do when he met another hockey player professionally. Her words exactly. Though Shane wasn’t exactly sure this could be considered professional. 

Ilya looked down at his hand, then back up at him. Shane tried not to feel nervous under his stare, but it was just so…intense. 

Are all the Russian players like this? He wondered as his heartbeat picked up. Ilya finally reached forward and gave his hand a firm shake. Then he took a long drag from his cigarette. 

“I guess we’ll be playing each other soon,” Shane started awkwardly. 

Rozanov let out a slow breath of smoke, watching him the whole time. “You play next, yes?” 

Shane nodded. Rozanov nodded too, taking the cigarette out of his mouth and pointing it in Shane’s direction. “You skate angry,” he said casually. “Is good. Makes you fast.”

Shane stared as his heartbeat picked up. He was used to getting feedback on his behavior on the ice–from coaches, other players, even the media. And yet, he didn’t think anybody had ever said something like that to him before—like they could see right through him. “

“Oh–thank you?” He managed eventually, then stammered out, “You’re good too. Strong. I…like to watch you play.”
And he didn’t understand why it felt strange, saying this to him, when hockey players said things like this to each other all the time. Casual, off-handed. Like a nice haircut or that’s a cool shirt. Somehow, admitting it to Rozanov felt more like a confession than a compliment. 

Shane turned to leave, ready to end this shit-show of an introduction already, but then Rozanov said, “You will not be so nice when we beat you.”

Shane turned back around at that—Shane Hollander once more, the best rookie in the world. He laughed at Rozanov, just a little bit arrogant. “That’s not going to happen.” 

Because deep down, he thought, they won’t. No one could win against Shane. 

“We will see,” Rozanov just shrugged, not looking the smallest bit worried. He glanced at Shane again. “You are fast—but you think too much. Too nervous.” Rozanov’s eyes traveled down and back up his frame. The corner of his mouth ticked up in a smile. “It will not be hard to beat you.” 

Shane knew shit-talk. It was practically a part of the job in a sport like this. So it didn’t make sense why Rozanov’s words in particular got under his skin, making him narrow his eyes in irritation.  

This fucking asshole, Shane thought to himself. Who does he think he is? He wanted to wipe that smug look off of Rozanov’s face, but it probably wasn’t the best idea to try fighting another player in a place like this. So he just nodded, reaching out a reasonable hand while forcing a smile. “Well whatever happens, it was nice to meet you. Good luck out there.”

Rozanov stood up off the wall, ignoring Shane’s hand. He started walking off in the other direction, flicking ash down to the pavement.

“See you in the finals, Shane Hollander.” 

The words taunted him, long after the game where they lost the cup to Russia.
_________

It’s not that he’s nervous about the first day of training camp. No. Shane doesn’t get nervous about hockey. It’s just by chance that he wakes up before dawn that morning, before any of his alarms, and shoves on some workout clothes to go down to the apartment gym before the sun has come up. 

Eyes on the prize. It’s the motto his mom has drilled into his head, the one that he repeats before every game. Eyes on the prize. 

A good season—that’s the prize. And if he can manage not to lose fucking face in front of Rozanov in the process. Well, that’ll just be an added bonus. 

Shane hops on the bike and goes until his legs are burning and there’s sweat dripping into his eyes. He doesn’t even put music on. The whirring of the pedals fills the silence and quiets his thoughts until the sun rises. It’s better than lying awake in bed and staring up at the ceiling. This, at least, calms him down a little bit. Being in bed and thinking of Rozanov does just the opposite. 

Shane had to stop himself many times over the past couple weeks from texting him—when are you flying in? Did you get an apartment? Who are you staying with? 

Do you want me to show you around? 

They’re both in the team group chat for this season, and have been receiving messages from Coach Reilly regarding their schedule for training camp. But Rozanov hasn’t said anything besides the See you in September, Captain, which Shane has opened to reread more times than he’d like to admit.

September it is. Now or never. 

When there’s no more time to waste until he’s due at the rink, Shane finally leaves the gym. He washes off quickly and stands in front of his closet deciding what to wear for way too fucking long considering he’s just dressing for hockey practice. Just regular old hockey practice. 

After the short drive to the training facilities, Shane gets out of his car and shoulders his training bag. The parking lot is mostly empty, to his relief. Shane likes to be early when he can, so he can get his head in the game before the others come in.

Being back at the rink makes him relax a bit, and as he walks to the doors, Shane thinks maybe he can talk to Coach, ask why he wasn’t informed about the trade beforehand. Maybe he’ll even get an advanced look at their preseason schedule.

These thoughts are the reason he doesn’t notice Rozanov as he heads towards the doors.

“Hollander,” he calls from a few feet away.

His voice makes Shane freeze. He looks up, almost convinced he’s made up the sound out of pure delirium. But then he’s right there.

Rozanov leans against the parking meter like he’s posing for a magazine cover—black hoodie, black sweats, duffle bag next to his feet. A cigarette hangs from the corner of his mouth, his smile ticked upward in a lazy crescent.

Shane feels his heartbeat quicken. They’re alone. It’s a warm morning in Montreal, Shane’s home city, and they’re at his rink, and by all accounts, he should have the home-court advantage. Rozanov just moved here. He knows nothing. 

But all of a sudden, Shane is…off-kilter. Disoriented, like he’s just been placed in a world where gravity works backwards. Rozanov, in his city.  

Shane blinks a couple of times. “You shouldn’t be smoking.” It’s the first thing that leaves his mouth.

Rozanov rolls his eyes like it’s a private joke between them. “Relax. Is only one.”

He takes it out of his mouth, lets out smoke that goes billowing in the air between them. Shane catches himself staring and looks away. “Sun’s not even up, Rozanov.” 

“Yes,” he affirms. “What are you doing here?” 

Shane scoffs. “It’s the first day? I have to be early.”

“Have to?” He repeats. “Or like to?” 

His eyes flick up to meet Shane’s, reading his expression, the way he’s clutching onto his training bag for dear life. 

Fuck this.

Shane takes another step toward the door, feels his eyes tracking the movement. Rozanov doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. He just watches him with that look—heavy-lidded, unreadable, like he’s already dissecting him. The air between them feels charged already.

And for one stupid second, Shane pauses, thinking something’s about to happen. Something he won’t know how to stop. Rozanov looks like he might say something, might even reach out to grab Shane’s arm and pull him in close, like—

The sound of tires crunching on gravel breaks the moment clean in half. A car pulls into the lot, headlights sweeping across both of them. Doors slam. Voices carry.

Shane jerks back a little. Rozanov’s expression shutters instantly, cigarette dangling back between his fingers like nothing happened.

JJ’s voice hits them first. “Yo! Shane! You beat me here? What the hell, man—did you sleep outside?”

He rounds the corner, backpack slung over one shoulder, yawning. He slows when he notices who Shane’s standing with.

“Oh.” A beat. “Rozanov. You’re early too?”

Ilya flicks ash to the pavement. “Is first day,” he says. “I am polite guest.”

JJ’s brows shoot up. “Right. Cool. Uh… Coach said breakfast starts in, like, fifteen minutes if you guys wanna head in.”

Shane clears his throat, forces something like a nod. “Yeah. Sure.”

Rozanov drops the cigarette, crushes it beneath his shoe, and picks up his bag. He heads inside wordlessly, and Shane feels a little relieved after the doors slide shut behind him. JJ claps him on the back, oblivious. “C’mon, man. See? He didn’t try to fuck with us at all. We’re going to be fine.” 

He watches the muscles in Rozanov’s back as he walks down the hall.

Who’s we?

Shane says nothing as they follow him in. 

_______________________

It is, all in all, not as bad as Shane was expecting. The first day is mostly semantics—they don’t even make it onto the ice until after lunch. But it’s nice to be back nonetheless. The familiar scent of clean ice, detergent, and that faint, metallic tang of skate blades hits him as soon as he walks through the door. Inside, the facility buzzes with that early-morning activity. Trainers pulling out equipment. Staff wheeling crates down the hall. A couple teammates were already in the cafeteria, coffee in hand, chatting in low voices.

Spirits are high when Coach Reilly pulls them into a meeting room to discuss their performance from last season, and then carefully highlights all the things they can improve on. Carefully, meaning he pulls out their film and stops at certain moments to scrutinize their performance. The lectures make Shane’s head hurt and he’s pretty sure it makes everyone else nearly fall asleep. 

About two hours in, he finally addresses the elephant in the room. “Oh, I forgot to mention. We’re welcoming someone new this season.”

All eyes go to Rozanov. He leans back in the chair, head tilted as he studies the screen. He doesn’t look fazed one bit as Coach addresses him. “We’re excited to have you on the team, Rozanov. I trust you’ll get to know everyone pretty well during training, so I won’t waste time with introductions.” 

Rozanov only stares. “Yes,” he says. 

Shane thinks the two of them are perfect for each other. 

They finally get to warmups sometime around noon. Then skates, then light drills where Coach already starts pairing them off. JJ talks off Shane’s ear as they pass the puck back and forth, working through different passes. Shane steals a couple glances down the ice and sees Rozanov working with Comeau, one of their defensemen, looking not at all nervous to be with someone new. Even in a completely new environment, he seems to maintain that air of arrogance about him. 

Must be nice, Shane thinks.

By the time the day finally ends and he’s peeling off sweat-soaked gear in the locker room, his body is exhausted—not from practice itself, but just from being back—and his nerves are still thrumming. All he wants to do is go home and sleep the rest of the day away.

Somewhere down the row, Rozanov says something. More than a couple of his teammates laugh in response.

______________________________

BOS @ MTL — Feb 12, 2011 — Centre Bell, Montréal, QC

It’s the third period. Three to three. Shane hasn’t played yet. He sits on the bench, knee bouncing impatiently. It’s his first year on the Metros; Rozanov’s second for the Raiders. He knows he should be fine sitting out, but the crowd’s screaming. He doesn’t want to wait anymore. 

The announcer’s voice filters through the speakers. 

“Desjardins talking to McCann and St. Pierre. It’s probably the last face off of the game. Who are they sending in? The crowd seems to have ideas.” On the other side, Shane watches the Boston coach lean forward, patting Rozanov on the shoulder. “Are they gonna do this? Are they gonna give the people what they want?” Rozanov enters the rink; Shane watches. 

“Desjardins is gonna give it to them! Is Reilly gonna do this too?” 

“All right, fuck it,” Reilly yells from behind Shane. “Hollander, get out there and take the face-off. Let’s give ‘em what they want.”

Shane’s up before he’s finished the sentence, hopping over the border and skating up to the line. He knows he’s got this. The crowd roars just from seeing the two of them enter the ice. 

“....Reilly’s done it! And there you have it, folks! It’s Ilya Rozanov versus—”

“Shane Hollander,” Rozanov muses as Shane reaches him, as if savoring the way the name tastes in his mouth. He smirks. “Will you disappoint them?”

Shane’s gaze drops to the ice, zeroing in on the puck. The crowd is echoing around them, but Shane tunes them out. Does his best to tune Rozanov out too. 

Eyes on the prize.

 “No,” Shane returns. And fixes his mouthguard into place.

_______________________________

That first week passes in a blur of setting routines.

Shane wakes early every morning, drives through the sunrise, getting to the locker room before anyone else. He uses the silence to his advantage, taking the time to calm himself because he knows he needs it.  They get through film sessions and drills on the ice and team workouts. Shane, for the most part, tries to act like Rozanov doesn’t exist, even though it becomes pretty much impossible. Because despite how cold and standoffish Rozanov can be when he wants to, he makes fast friends with the team. The rookies, especially. In the gym, Shane works through their lift with Hayden quietly in the corner and watches as he holds court by one of the other racks. They all seem dazzled by the Russian accent and his stories from Boston and Shane doesn’t feel jealous at all that he is able to make friends out of them so quickly. 

“He’s not so bad, y’know—Rozanov,” Shane overhears one of his teammates say in the locker room. 

“Yeah,” another agrees. “He’s kind of funny actually.” 

“Nah, he’s definitely an asshole,” JJ quips. Shane gives him a look, but secretly, he’s kind of thankful. “I don’t trust him.” 

“Well, obviously,” the other cedes. “I’m just saying. Might not be so bad with him on the team.”

Might not be so bad. Shane, oddly, doesn’t feel comforted by the thought. 

_______________________________

During the week, Coach warns them there’ll be line testing coming up, but Shane doesn’t realize what that means until Friday morning, when he’s skating toward the bench and hears Reilly bark, “Hollander, Rozanov, Quinn — you’re together.”

Shane stops short. “Together?”
Quinn gives him a sympathetic wince. “Sorry, Cap. I don’t make the rules.”

“Do not apologize, Quinn!” Rozanov says delightedly, skating past them to the blue line. “This is dream team, yes? Come on.” 

Shane is quiet as he skates up to the line, between the two of them. His eyes flick to his lift, unwillingly, and Rozanov's mouth is curled into the faintest smirk. Like a challenge. 

A minute into their shift, deep in the offensive zone, Rozanov flies ahead, not bothering to wait for Shane to catch up. 

“Quinn!” Shane calls, warning the rookie before sending a pass his way. The puck skates right by Quinn as he fumbles on his skates for just a second too long, and Hayden gets it on the other team. 

Shane curses under his breath as he skates off for Hayden towards the blue line. 

The issue is not that they’re bad, necessarily. Shane will say a lot of things about Rozanov before he says he’s a bad hockey player. But they don’t talk, don’t even look at each other on the ice. Well, maybe Rozanov is looking, but Shane’s certainly not looking back. And he knows even the best two hockey players won’t mean shit on the same team if they’re not communicating. 

At one point, they collide going after the puck, shoulder to shoulder, hurtling for the boards. 

Rozanov’s laugh echoes as they slam into it, hard. “Wake up, Hollander,” he chirps, swiping the puck away and getting off Shane. “You are not the only one on the ice, yes?” 

Even as they skate off, Shane feels the heat of Rozanov’s body through his gear. 

The drills get sloppier from there — or maybe just Shane. He’s off-kilter, making mistakes he hasn’t made in years. Missing passes and sending shots way too wide, as if he can’t even see where the goal is. He chalks it up to being out of practice, even though that makes little to no fucking sense. 

“Sorry, Cap,” Quinn says sheepishly as they skate back to center ice, the other line just having scored a goal on them. “I think I’m off today, or something. I’ll try to–”

“No, no,” Shane says quickly, cutting him off. He lets out a heavy breath as Rozanov takes his sweet old time getting back to the center, laughing with some of their other teammates about something. “It’s not your fault, Quinn.” 

“Okay. That’s good. Are you sure, though? Because I feel like I—” 

Shane’s too busy staring off in the distance to listen, though. 

Another shift. Rozanov is on the other side, this time. Shane feels a deranged sort of glee as he swipes the puck away from him, shooting off for his offensive zone. “Fuck, Rozanov, they let you sleep on the ice back in Russia?” He quips, sweat beading on his forehead. God, it shouldn’t take this much effort for him to crush Rozanov like this. 

Rozanov doesn’t miss a beat. “I like to use the Cup as pillow.” He smiles wolfishly. 

Shane skates off before he gets angry enough to punch him in the face. By the end of practice, he’s vibrating with frustration. Adrenaline. Everyone heads toward the showers, stripping pads, laughing, tired in an easy, satisfied way. 

At the end of practice, Reilly gathers them all up to go through starting line-ups before they hit the locker room. Shane slumps against his stick, exhausted, sweat beading down his back. He’s not expecting anything crazy. If Reilly knows what’s good for him, he’ll put Shane and Hayden together again. A dream team. He wouldn’t break them apart—not for Rozanov. Shane doubts, after the performance they gave today, that Reilly would dare—

“...Hollander, Rozanov, Quinn,” he lists off at the end, not even glancing up. “...Pike, Berkes, Bouiziau…” 

Shane stares, aghast, suddenly wide awake. He can’t be serious. Can he? Shane is vaguely aware of Reilly dismissing them, his teammates walking past him to the locker room and chatting listlessly. Rozanov shoulders past him, a shit-eating grin on his face, Quinn following close behind. 

His eyes sparkle, kind of. “Well, this should be fun, huh?” Quinn smiles. 

Shane does his best to smile back for the kid. “Yeah, man. Of course.” 

He lingers for a second before heading into the showers. “You coming?” 

“Be right there.” Shane nods, even as he walks towards Reilly with a purpose. 

Shane waits until the last of the team filters toward the locker room. The echo of skates on rubber mats fades, replaced by the hum of the rink lights and the distant clatter of gear. Reilly is bent over the bench, scribbling something onto his clipboard, jaw set in that familiar way that means he’s already thinking three practices ahead.

“Coach,” Shane says.

Reilly doesn’t look up right away. “Cap.”

“I wanted to talk about the lines,” Shane says evenly.

Reilly finally straightens, tucking the clipboard under his arm. He studies Shane for a second — really studies him — like he’s trying to read something written between the lines of his posture. Shane realizes, belatedly, that he’s still breathing a little too hard. That his gloves are clenched tight in his hands.

“Yeah? What’s up, kid?” 

Shane says. “I don’t think it’s working.”

“Oh, come on,” he claps Shane on the shoulder. “It’s been one practice. Don’t beat yourself up.”

“But– But-” Shane stammers out, kind of shocked. “Did you see us out there? I mean—Rozanov, I–I don’t know if it’s the best. For us to be on the same line. I feel like this is a bad choice.” 

“You guys just need time to adjust,” Reilly says lightly. “I get it, man. The whole rivalry thing. It’s gonna take time to work out.” 

He feels his heart racing with something like panic. If he can’t get out of this, he’ll be with Rozanov. Every game, every single time he’s on the ice. Rozanov will be right there with him. Shane doesn’t know if he can handle that. 

“It’s not about that,” he says, too quickly. Then tries belatedly to rein it in. “I just don’t think we have chemistry, is all.” 

It sounds like bullshit, even to his own ears. Reilly raises an eyebrow. “Really? You and Rozanov?” 

“Really!”

He stares at Shane for a second, disbelieving. Then he turns. “Go hit the showers, kid.” 

“Coach!” Shane is affronted, feels dismissed, like he’s nineteen all over again. Don’t call me kid, he wants to shout. 

“I mean, I knew you’d be above complaining about Quinn,” he continues, starting to pack stuff up on his desk. “Even though he’s a nervous mess around you. But Rozanov? I mean, you two are the best players in the league. It’s a miracle that we got you two on the same team. Now you’re gonna complain that I want you guys playing together? Come on, man.” 

Shane stiffens. “It’s not like that—” 

“What’s it like, then?” Reilly finally turns, pinning Shane with a no-bullshit look. Shane blusters for a second, searching for something to say, but he just ends up opening and closing his mouth like a fish out of water. Reilly nods, a bit sympathetic. “Look. You’re captain. So captain him! Just because you two have been battling it out since ‘08 doesn’t mean he’s above taking orders. Don’t let him intimidate you.” 

“I am not intimidated by him.” Shane declares, even red and slightly shaking. 

Reilly doesn’t glance over, maybe taking pity on him in this right state. “Okay,” he says finally. Reilly gathers his bag and shoulders it, facing Shane once again. And Shane gets the feeling that as much he wishes it wasn’t true, this conversation is really close to being over. Which means he’s lost. 

“Look, it’s just week one,” Reilly says. “Give it time. Things will improve the more we work on it. And like, relax, okay? I know the guy can be an asshole—it’s part of his appeal. But you don’t have to love him to play some damn good hockey.” 

With that, Reilly walks past Shane and heads out of the rink.

Shane wants to argue more — he really, really does — but his body’s aching, sweat dried tight on his skin, and all the anger in him feels like it’s eating its own tail.

He storms off toward the showers. Inside, steam billows over the tiled surfaces, but it’s mostly quiet. Everyone’s already left. Shane trudges towards the showers, stripping off his gear as he goes. All he wants to do is go home and sleep the rest of the day away. Maybe book a one-way flight to Thailand and disappear for a few years. 

After all his clothes are neatly folded in a pile on the bench, he steps inside on autopilot. Not a moment later does Rozanov appear in his line of sight. Back turned, steam curling around him, head tilted back under the spray. Shane’s breath catches. 

He runs a hand over his hair, water cascading down the long lines of his spine, all the way down to his ass. Shane forgets everything he’d been furious about. It all just…dissolves, like sugar escaping through the spaces between his fingers as he clasps them into a fist. 

He stares for far too long before Rozanov senses him. He finally turns around, just enough to meet his eyes over his shoulder. Something flickers in his gaze, challenging him.

Shane crosses his arms over his chest instinctively.

“Hollander,” he murmurs, voice slipping low with amusement. 

“Why are you still here?” He accuses sharply. “Everyone’s already gone.” 

Rozanov turns fully, facing Shane with a smirk as he runs a hand down the expanse of his abs with soap. “I can’t take my time?” 

He’s almost shocked by how quickly the want hits him, leaving him breathless. He pushes it down instantly, looks away with a huff, reaching for the soap dispenser on his own shower, determined to ignore him. 

Rozanov hums. “You are angry.”

Shane swallows, throat dry even in all this steam. “I’m not.”

“You are,” he corrects. Shane spares him a glare. “Is okay. I would get angry too, if another player looked like me.” Water runs down the side of his neck, down the slope of his shoulder. His brown curls stick to his forehead and neck, all soapy and begging for Shane to run his hands through them. And yeah, kind of. 

Rozanov grins wildly, and Shane huffs out in disbelief. “You’re such an asshole.” He says automatically. 

 “Come on,” Rozanov goads over the sound of running water, not seeming the least bit bothered that they’re both naked and the last time they were both naked, they— “Where’s your welcoming spirit, Hollander? Is your duty, as Captain, to make me feel at home. Yes?” 

“Yeah? Fuck that.” Shane mutters, bending his head low under the stream of water. He knows it’s a weak retort, but it doesn’t really matter at this point. All he wants to do is go home and try to forget about the fact that Rozanov is still going to be in his city when he wakes up tomorrow. Shane is so lost in thought that he doesn’t even hear Rozanov approaching through the showers, until all of a sudden, he’s right there, under the same shower stream as Shane, all up in his space.

Shane glances up slowly, meeting his gaze after a long beat. Rozanov is already staring down at him. “Well? You haven’t welcomed me yet.” 

“Fuck off!” Shane tries with more bite, taking a step away. He tries to hide how flustered he is, the way those green eyes are right fucking there and Shane has nowhere to hide. “Go back to your own shower, man. I’m serious.” 

“What is the problem?” Rozanov sounds just a little too amused for Shane’s liking. A second later, he feels hand sliding around his arm in a calloused, firm grip. It grasps on, possessive. 

Shane whirls around, trying to back out of Rozanov’s grip. It just lands him against the tiled wall, and Rozanov takes the invitation to step closer. For a heartbeat, for one terrible, exciting second, Shane thinks they might kiss. 

He pushes Rozanov back, just a bit. His heart is pounding, but the sound of the water drowns it out. “What the fuck?” He hisses. Rozanov just stares. “Someone could walk in.” 

“Yes,” he agrees. Waits a moment. “So…what is your address?” 

He huffs out a breath. “Unbeliveable,” Shane mutters, then walks away, shower forgotten. He grabs the first towel off the rack and wraps it around his waist, storming out of the showers as Rozanov calls out, “Hollander!” 

The door slams shut as he leaves. 

_______________

Shane’s lacing up his sneakers when Rozanov walks in again, towel hanging low on his hips. He glances up for a mere second and thinks, we’ve been here before, haven’t we? And looks away before he can get a good look at Rozanov’s muscled form. Knows better than to risk it at a time like this. 

“These facilities are nice,” he says, offhandedly. “Almost as good as Boston, you know. But not quite.” 

“Go back there, then,” Shane mutters. It’s mean, cold, and the entire opposite of what Shane is supposed to say as team captain. But, he says it anyway. “If you miss it so much.”

Rozanov doesn’t seem to take offense, though. Just hums thoughtfully. “I would if I could, trust me. I don’t think I like Canada very much so far.” He opens his locker with a loud rattle, and even a few feet away, Shane can feel his gaze on him. “It’s not as friendly as I was expecting.” 

He huffs, face going red. Shane fumbles with the laces of his shoes, wanting to get out of here as soon as possible. “You can’t…do that anymore,” he mutters after a beat of silence, quieter than before. “We can’t,” he amends. 

“What?” Rozanov asks. 

Shane takes a breath, then says, “We need to start fresh. We’re going to be playing together a lot, okay? For the sake of the team, and everything. Us…it’s not s—” safe, he almost says, then stops himself. “It’s not an ideal situation. Obviously. Let’s just forget all about it.”

A moment passes with Shane holding his breath, waiting for Rozanov’s response. 

“All about what?” He asks eventually. Purposely being obstinate. 

Shane narrows his eyes, standing from the bench. “You know what.” He challenges.

It earns him a smirk. Rozanov steps closer, bridging the space between them, enough that Shane can feel the heat radiating off his naked body. Until they are inches apart. Even fully clothed, Shane feels Rozanov’s presence under his skin, a burning heat that he shuts his eyes to fight off. Rozanov seems to notice his reaction. “This?” He teases, voice quiet. Almost a purr. 

The word snaps him out of it, at least. Shane backs up, putting space between them, his face burning. “Exactly this,” he snaps, though the sound is uneven. His hands curl into fists at his sides. “It’s over. We should just forget about it.” 

Rozanov considers this for a second, tilting his head. “For the team?” He asks. And it sounds like a challenge. 

“For the team.” 

They stare at each other for a long beat. Shane wonders if Rozanov can tell how close he is to breaking. Wonders if he knows that he just has to take a step forward, to come a little closer, and Shane will collapse against him, pressing his face into the crook of his neck. He hopes it’s not as painfully obvious as it usually is. 

Rozanov seems lost in his own thoughts, until he finally nods. A small, almost imperceptible smile spreads across his face. “Team first,” he says slowly. “How professional, Captain.” 

The words are taunting; why wouldn’t they be? Shane feels like he’s holding his breath as Rozanov turns back to his locker.  “Very well,” he says once he’s a few feet away. He opens his locker and the metal sound breaks the silence. “We will forget. Is…clean state, da?” 

“Slate,” Shane murmurs in correction, standing up and grabbing his bag. “Yeah. It’s a clean slate.”

He doesn’t spare a glance at Rozanov as he lets his towel drop to the floor. Doesn’t want to make this any harder than it needs to be. 

When he’s almost at the exit, Rozanov calls out, “See you on Monday, Hollander.” 

The words sound taunting.

Chapter 3

February 2011 - Montreal

They stand in Shane’s newly furbished bedroom, staring at each other. It’s kind of surreal, seeing Rozanov standing in his apartment. They’ve talked about meeting like this for a while, and yet, he can’t believe it’s actually happening.

Shane tucks his hands into his pockets, nervous despite everything. They exchanged small talk as he walked Rozanov to the bedroom. But now that they’re here…neither of them can think of what to say. Rozanov takes in the room, decorated by an interior designer Shane hired a couple years back. After what seems like an eternity, he finally looks at him again. 

Rozanov nods. “Come here.”

Shane couldn’t fight back a smile. “No. You come here.”

A grin breaks out on Rozanov’s face. He shakes his head, steps towards Shane, and the tension breaks. They crash into each other, warm bodies like magnets pulled together. Rozanov pushes him against the wall and kisses him roughly. Persistent, like a promise.

Shane sinks his fingers into Rozanov’s biceps and drags him closer.  He wraps his foot around Rozanov’s ankle. Without warning, Rozanov growls and grabs Shane’s thighs, hoisting him up against the wall. Shane gasps into his mouth. 

“Could fuck you just like this,” Rozanov murmurs into his mouth. “Against the wall. You would like that, yes?”

Would Shane like that? Probably. He shivers a bit, still spooked at the idea of what’s about to happen. What he’s agreeing to. He says nothing, but Rozanov seems to understand nonetheless. 

He just breathes, kisses the side of Shane’s head. “Hm, but not tonight. Tonight I will go easy on you.”

Shane can feel his smile. He turns his head, and they meet eyes in the darkness of his room. Rozanov wounds his arms tight around Shane, as if saying, it’s okay. I’ll take care of you. All of his worries vanish, like magic, and he smiles back.

The night is the most perfect one Shane’s ever known. 

________________________________

Training camp passes in a blur. After the first week, Reilly kicks the pace up brutally—earlier lifts, longer practices, endless line testing. Shane barely has time to answer his mom’s phone calls every evening before eating dinner and passing out, just to do it all again in the morning. But getting back into the swing of things is nice. Mostly.

“Come on, Hollander!” Rozanov yells across the ice, when he misses the goal during their first scrimmage. “Your mother can hit better than that!” 

Shane shoulders him into the boards on his way past. Accidentally. Sort of.

But Rozanov just laughs as he slams into them—loud, delighted, like Shane’s gifted him something.

Early-morning conditioning is worse. Shane is used to leading the pack during the rink laps, setting the pace, breaking the curve. But now Rozanov stays glued at his side—stride-for-stride, obnoxiously relaxed. Shane pushes faster; Rozanov matches. It makes Shane want to trip him with his stick. Or shove him into a wall. 

They get caught up in a lift one afternoon, leaving behind the assigned workout when someone—JJ—jokes about who can bench more. Rozanov looks over, raises an eyebrow. Shane can’t help himself. He nods to their bench. “Rack it,” he dares. And that’s that. 

The team huddles around them, cheering as they take turns. Stacking on plate after plate. Neither relent. By the end, Shane’s dripping in sweat, arms shaking with exhaustion. It’s fucking ridiculous. 

Especially when Rozanov beats him by fifteen kilograms.

He storms off to the showers after without a word, cranking the water ice-cold. Shane stands under it for god knows how long waiting for his pulse to stop hammering. Can’t tell if it’s the fury or blinding lust that’s got him this way. 

His mind replays that moment over and over again—Rozanov sitting up on the bench, sweat dripping down his chest, that smug tilt to his mouth. Looking only at him.

Yeah, the cold water is good for more than one reason. 

And then there’s the pettiest part of all: who can get to the rink first in the mornings. Shane’s always been the earliest. The captain. The standard. He finds he doesn’t appreciate the feeling of getting to rink and finding Rozanov there already. So he starts setting his alarm earlier and earlier—5:15, then 4:45, then 4:10. He drags himself out of bed, showers with his eyes half-open, drives through empty streets like a man possessed.

But every damn morning, he walks in and finds Rozanov already there.

Not slumped, half asleep in a fold out chair. But talking, standing with Coach a with a coffee in hand, telling him stories about his training back in Russia. Practices outdoors in blizzards and drinking games with teammates–stories that make Coach laugh loud enough to echo in the halls.

Shane just watches from the doorway, bag slung over his shoulder, hair still damp.

Rozanov glances up—just a small flick of his eyes. “Dobroye utro, Captain,” he says, voice thick with that mocking warmth.

Shane smiles back while clenching his jaw hard enough to crack. 

All in all, it’s a fucking disaster. And he can’t decide if their clean slate agreement makes it all better or worse. Because the rest of it is usual to them. The shit-talking and loaded glances and being rough on the ice—it’s all their convoluted form of foreplay until they get each other behind closed doors. Usually. But Rozanov sticks to his word. There are no more run-ins in the shower after practice. Besides their interactions in front of the rest of the team, he barely even acknowledges Shane. Which should be a relief. It’s what he wanted, wasn’t it? They’re being professional. Teammates. Pushing each other on the ice, and leaving it there. 

But it only pisses Shane off more. He almost…waits for it, on those days after the tightest scrimmage matches or roughest conditioning. He expects to find Rozanov leaning against his locker when he gets out of the shower, or waiting by his car in the parking lot after everyone’s left. Maybe even just a text—something snarky, some private joke for them to share. 

But he receives none of it. His mom was right—Rozanov pushes him to train harder. When they shut up long enough to focus on the ice, they’re unstoppable. Electric. Reilly soon decides to put them in first line together for games. Rozanov is, in summary, the perfect teammate. 

And Shane hates him for it. 

________________________________

“Alright, folks, puck’s about to drop here in Montreal, and this is a big one for the Metros. It’s just the start of preseason, but after the year they had? It’s about time for a fresh start—”

Reilly pulls Shane aside before they funnel out of the tunnel. The rest of the team is already moving, skates clacking against concrete, sticks knocking together. Shane tightens the strap of his helmet, the roar from the rink bleeding in through the walls.

“Look,” Reilly says, low. “I don’t need to tell you how important this is. You of all people will take it seriously.”

“—and of course, here comes their new secret weapon. The Russian. Ilya Rozanov joining forces with Shane Hollander—did we ever think we’d see the day? Former rivals, now wearing the same colors.”

Shane nods. “Yeah. I know.”

Reilly’s voice drops another notch. “We’re here to win. You remember last year, don’t you?”

He does. Well. It happens sometimes—teams fall into ruts, get stuck into a bad place and get out. They had two big injuries on the team early on in the season—49 losses to 33 wins overall. The media called their playoff performance their worst finish in a decade. 

“There’s a lot riding on this for Montreal tonight. Fans are skeptical—and honestly? They have every reason to be.”

So yeah, Shane knows what’s riding on this game. Their reputation, if nothing else. One bad season is a fluke. Two? That’s a pattern. 

“It’s true—Montreal didn’t exactly have a pretty ending last spring. Missed playoffs, couldn’t buy a goal on the power play. But adding Rozanov? Could be the spark they’ve been missing. Or it could blow up spectacularly. Either way, we’re about to find out.”

A heavy pat on his shoulder. “Adapt or die.”

The locker room door slams open, and all his teammates come filing out. Shouting, hitting each other on the back. At the very back is Rozanov, stalking out silently with a look on his face that could be either focused or simply uncaring. He looks at Shane, raises his eyebrows. It’s as if he’s challenging him, saying, are we doing this, or what? 

Shane turns away from Coach, joins the team as they walk towards the rink.

Eyes on the prize. 

________________________________

“All players down at center ice now. You can feel the energy in this building—fans are skeptical, and with good reason. A match against Colorado should be nothing for the Metros, but it’s time to see if their training has paid off.” 

The puck drops. 

“Hollander wins the draw clean—sends it back—Montreal with a fast start, they look dialed in early.”

Shane barely registers the noise. His world narrows down to the ice beneath his skates and nothing else.

“Here comes Rozanov for his first look—let’s see how these lines settle…Two-on-one developing—Rozanov carries—slides it across—Hollander shoots—big save! Colorado might be regretting underestimating their opponents here.”

Shane curses under his breath as he circles back. Rozanov doesn’t look at him. Reilly pulls him out soon, towards the end of the period.

“We’re seeing a lot of movement early—clearly some experimentation from the Montreal bench. Are they having second-thoughts on a solid Hollander-Rozanov tag-team?” 

By the second period, things start to settle. Shane gets pulled in with Hayden.

“Halfway through and Montreal leads 2-1. We’ve got a solid line featuring the Metros’ best Shane Hollander and Hayden Pike. Rumor has it they’re actually friends too.”

Shane exhales through his nose as he glides to the bench. Pike bumps his shoulder, grinning under his visor.

“See?” Pike says. “Told you I’d make you look good.”

Shane snorts, reaching for his water bottle. “Don’t get cocky.”

From the corner of his eye, he spots Rozanov stepping onto the ice with a different unit. He looks sharp—always does. Efficient. No wasted movement. Shane watches just long enough to clock his positioning, then looks away.

“Rozanov out there now with Bouchard and Lavoie—Coach Reilly clearly still testing combinations. Let’s see what the Avalanche is up to on the other end…”

Third period. The crowd is louder now, restless.

“Montreal still ahead, but this one’s tightening up. Fans waiting for something to give.”

Colorado pulls within one again. 2-2. Reilly wastes no time yelling out, “Alright Rozanov, you’re in!” 

Shane curses under his breath. 

“Is that what I think it is? Is this how the Metros are planning to save it all? There you have it folks—third period and the last line up! It’s Rozanov and Hollander.” 

The moves are automatic. Passing across the ice, Shane and Rozanov say nothing to each other. They don’t have to. Together they score against the Seals once. Then again. It’s a last resort, and Shane pretends like he doesn’t hear the crowd erupting at their every move. 

When the final horn sounds, he’s more than relieved to be done. In the handshake line, Shane keeps his helmet on until the very last second. He doesn’t look for Rozanov.

“A win is a win, folks. 3-2 for the Metros tonight—not perfect, but promising. Hollander looked like himself again—and Rozanov flashed exactly why Montreal wanted him. Together, the two were a Hail Mary for the Metros. The only question is, will the pair stand the test of time? Or fall at first hurdle?”  

________________________________

September 24 - COL @ MTL (BROSSARD TRAINING FACILITY) 

Post Pre-Game 1

REPORTER: Shane, congratulations on the win tonight. Big changes this season. One of the biggest: playing alongside Ilya Rozanov after all these years as rivals. How’s that adjustment been?

HOLLANDER: Yeah, you know, it’s great. Really great. Team-first mentality, right? We’re all here to win, and Rozanov’s a hell of a player. And—teamwork makes the dream work.

REPORTER: There’s been talk about the two of you being a surprisingly strong pair in camp. Is this true, or just a cover-up story?

HOLLANDER: [laughs] No, nothing like that. It’s all love, man. The whole team…we’re really getting back in the swing of things. Rozanov fits right in. 

REPORTER: Some fans were excited — and worried — about the rivalry dynamic especially between you and Rozanov. Do you worry about that getting in the way of your performance as a team heading into this preseason?

HOLLANDER: [laughs again] Jeez, are you planning to ask me about any of my other teammates? Nah, I’m kidding. I’m not worried at all—we’re professionals. We know how to leave the history where it belongs. Rozanov brings great energy to the room. I couldn’t ask for more.

REPORTER:  Earlier today, Ilya said that he, quote, ‘enjoys pushing Hollander to be the best version of himself.’ Any comment on that?

HOLLANDER: [pause, clears throat] …Yeah. Sure. I’d say that’s accurate.

REPORTER 1: And do you enjoy doing the same to him? 

HOLLANDER: I like to think I do that to everyone. That’s what the best teammates do—push each other. 

REPORTER 1: So you would say Rozanov’s your best teammate? 

HOLLANDER: That’s not what I—

PR STAFF: Okay, folks, that’s all the time we have for today— 

Overlapping chatter.

“—You’ll get more time for questions before the next game.” A staff member pulls Shane out of the little net created by all the news anchors and leads him back towards the locker room. 

He’s clenching his jaw, face still red from the press. 

Pushes me to be the best version of myself? He’d slam the fucker into the ice if he could. Maybe do more. There’s no way to tell. 

________________________________

Shane fights the stupid urge to send him a text in the locker room or wait for him while everyone else leaves. It’s strange— seeing Rozanov during a game, and then not being with him after. He tells himself he shouldn’t. He can’t. It’s foolish, and he’s been too good to let himself stumble now. 

But after he drives home in silence, eats a quiet dinner while on the phone with his mom, Shane sits on the couch in front of the TV, staring at his phone screen open to Lily’s contact. 

Why did you say that during the interview? He types. Then erases it. You really need PR training, Rozanov. Erases that too.

I miss you. Come over. This one lasts the longest. Shane stares at the screen, his brain running through what might happen if he sent it. Would Rozanov see? Would he call him, ask for his address? Come over and listen to Shane babble for a little while about the apartment’s property value, and then shut him up with a kiss? It’s a fucking trainwreck of thoughts. 

And Shane doesn’t trust himself, so he shuts the phone off and goes to bed.

Because he knows if it rings, he’ll answer. 

Chapter 4

Shane sleeps past all his alarms one morning, drugged into deep sleep by the exhaustive practices and prying dreams, until his phone starts ringing, loud and startling. The sun pours in through the windows. It’s his mom—she’s coming over. Shane hangs up quickly and tumbles out of bed to get ready when he realizes he’s woken up an hour later than usual. 

His mom comes knocking on the door soon after—she’s brought groceries with her. “I didn’t know what you had,” she explains, toeing the door shut behind her. “And I know you won’t go yourself.” 

“That’s not true.” 

She hums like she doesn’t believe him and brings the bags over to the counter and starts unpacking them. Fish first. Then vegetables. She pauses when she opens the fridge, frowning slightly at the emptiness.

She turns to him. “Have you been eating?”

Shane fights the urge to roll his eyes. “Yeah. I eat all the time.” 

She gives him a look over her shoulder. “Every day? Three times a day?”

He shrugs, rests his elbows on the counter. “Practice has been long.”

“Mhm.” She rinses the quinoa, sets a pot on the stove. “And how are your energy levels? Are you sleeping?”

Shane hesitates. Just a beat too long. “Yeah.”

She watches him carefully as she lays out salmon on the cutting board, oven preheating. “You look wound up,” his mom says. “Like you did your rookie year.”

“Yeah.” He snorts. “Hence the title? Rookie.”

She nods to him. “You’d come home and sit exactly like that. Like you were bracing for something. Every night.”

Shane shifts on the stool. “It’s just the preseason, Mom. It’s a lot.”

“I know. Especially when everyone’s watching.” She adds carefully, “but is something different this year?”

He shrugs. “No.”

His mom studies him for a moment. “Is it Ilya?” 

Shane lets out a shocked laugh. “Ilya,” he repeats incredulously, ignores the spark that goes through him when saying his name. “What, are you two friends or something?” 

“Come on, Shane,” she chides. “Is it? I’ve seen the articles.” 

“What articles?” 

His mom shrugs. “Rivals turned teammates. They’re good on their own, but how will they do together? Did the Metros make the right move? It’s all anyone’s talking about.”

Shane scoffs. “I’m sure you’re exaggerating.” 

She looks up confidently. “Check YouTube.”

He laughs at that. “No, Mom, they won’t have articles on YouTube.”  He opens his mouth, then closes it. Shrugs instead. “I guess…there’s a lot of pressure.”

“There always is.” She waits. The oven clicks as she slides the tray inside. The kitchen smells warm, grounding. Safe. They’re quiet as his mom goes to the fridge and pulls out a Diet Coke and ginger ale, passing the latter across the counter to Shane. He opens it up while she watches him.

“You know what you need?” She leans back against the counter across from him. “A girlfriend.” 

He pulls back the tab so hard it rips clean off and clatters onto the counter. Shane stares. “What?” 

“You know what a girlfriend is, right?” 

He’s silent, kind of breathless all of a sudden. Shane lowers his head, watching the ginger ale fizz up in the can. “Where is this coming from?” 

“Your dad and I think you’re a little lonely,” she says. “I was contemplating moving up here for the season, just so you don’t have to come back to an empty place every night.” 

Well don’t do that. He almost says. 

“And your other friends—Hayden and JJ—they both have lovely girls waiting for them in the stands while they play, cheering them on. It would be nice if you had that.” 

“I do have that, Mom,” he says tightly. “The crowds chant my name when I get onto the ice. I don’t need one extra girl to do it, too.”

“Do you want me to set you up?” she asks, completely ignoring his statement. “One of my girlfriends has a daughter your age. She’s nice, humble. She just graduated from McGill in economics and works in the city now. Totally your vibe. Do you want to see a picture?” 

Shane just stares at her. “Is this why you came over? To present me with a girlfriend?” 

“No, Shane,” she laughs. “It’s just…”

She trails off, seeming to realize she’s not going to get anywhere with this. “It’s just a suggestion.” His mom turns and starts to busy herself with making lunch. After a few moments, she adds, “You know, you’re going to have to face it one day or another.”

Shane shakes his head. “Face what?” 

“That hockey can’t be your entire life forever.” Her smile is a little sad. Shane doesn’t say anything to that, but when she turns back around, he can’t help but smile bitterly at the irony.

God, he wishes hockey was the only thing in his life.

______________________________________

Las Vegas, MLH Awards 2014 

3 months ago

Shane burst through the door to the bathroom, breathing hard. The echo of Rozanov’s touch burned his back, and he twisted back his shoulders in an attempt to get rid of it. It didn’t go away. He checked quickly to make sure no one else was in the bathroom, then braced his hands on the sinks, leaning forward heavily. 

Fuck. Fuck. Shane told himself he wouldn’t let this happen. He promised himself he’d forget all about Rozanov, and he meant it. But now…

He’d never had a distraction like this. Shane didn’t know what to do about it. How was he supposed to act all normal around Rozanov, when they’d… 

A second later the door kicked open, and Shane straightened. Rozanov walked in, suit perfect, watching Shane like he knew exactly what was going through his head. He leaned back against the wall. They were quiet for a while.

Finally, he sighed. “Well?” 

Shane felt himself burning with anger. “Well, what? What the fuck do you want, Rozanov? You haven’t answered a text from me in like six months. You won’t even acknowledge I exist unless there’s a fucking camera pointed at us, and then it’s for some fucking clown show. So yeah—what the fuck do you actually want from me?”

He was breathless by the end, a little ashamed he’d admitted all of that so quickly, and then pissed off all over again when Rozanov said nothing. “Well?” He demanded. 

Rozanov tilted his head a little. “I want you to suck my dick.” 

Shane’s mouth fell open in disbelief as his blood pounded. “Fuck you.” He scoffed. “You are unbelievable. You suck my dick.” 

He turned away and caught a glimpse of himself in the bathroom mirror. He looked fucking ridiculous–all done up in a tux that made him look ten years older, his face flushed red with anger as he scowled. It looked more like a pout.

Rozanov came up off the wall and stalked towards him. Shane turned his head away, but Rozanov reached forward and took his chin in his grip and turned it towards him. He studied Shane intently, then tilted his face up. “Maybe ask nicely,” Rozanov whispered, breath hot on Shane’s face.

There was no hiding the angry tears that had made their way to Shane’s eyes. Rozanov said nothing about them, but Shane leaned into his palm nonetheless, embarrassed. “Please,” he heard himself murmur. 

Rozanov’s mouth ticked up, satisfied.

Shane felt himself melt inside at the sight. God, he really was a basket-case. And in that moment, he realized something about himself—something he’d been fighting off for a very long time. Somewhere along the way of entertaining Rozanov’s stupid texts and their rare hookups, Shane had actually started to care what Rozanov thought of him. It wasn’t that he liked him, at least, not in any traditional sense of the word. But in that bathroom, as his anger faded beneath Rozanov’s touch, Shane realized there wasn’t much he wouldn’t do, if Rozanov asked. 

The only thing he’d ever felt such a devotion to before was hockey. And that scared the shit out of him. 

It was just a good thing they didn’t see each other that often. Most of the time, Shane could act like Rozanov didn’t even exist. He bet their distance was the only reason his sanity was still intact. Shane couldn’t imagine what a disaster it would be if that ever went away.

______________________________________

Present

They win their next game against Washington—just barely. The score is 2-1, and Shane hardly considers it a win with how they played. 

“We’re getting sloppy out there, guys,” he says at the beginning of their next practice, as everyone laces up their skates. “That’s not how we wanted to play against Washington.” 

JJ interjects, “Hello? We beat them.”

“Hardly,” Shane says. “And hardly doesn’t cut it anymore. I need us to be faster and cleaner out there. It’s only a couple more games until the season starts. We need to feel confident going out there. Every time.”

Then Rozanov speaks up from beside him. Shane had been hoping to forget he was even there. “He’s right,” he says. Shane’s jaw ticks in annoyance. “Cleaner is better, yes? Worse for the other team.” 

I don’t need your help, he wants to snap, but thinks better of it. The less they talk, the better. So he just nods silently.

They get on the ice for scrimmage and Rozanov smirks when Reilly declares him and Shane team captains. It’s only the fifth face-off when Shane finds Rozanov across from him on the line. He stares through his helmet. Shane doesn’t dare to look back.

“Something wrong, Captain?” Rozanov says teasingly. 

It sets him off edge, and Shane jerks his stick on instinct before the puck is dropped. Coach kicks him out, and Shane can hear Rozanov laugh as he skates off to the bench.

JJ watches in astonishment. “That’s never happened before,” he says. 

Shane spits on the ground. “Shut up.” 

A few minutes later, he finds himself on the ice again. Shane digs in hard, body low, trying to shield the puck with his hip. Rozanov crowds him immediately, stick hooking around his blade, breath hot against the back of Shane’s neck.

“Move faster,” he mutters into Shane’s ear.

Shane grits his teeth. “Get off me.”

Rozanov bumps him — sharp, challenging. “Make me.”

The puck goes loose. Shane lunges. They collide shoulder-to-shoulder. Hard. Hard enough that the whole team reacts.

Hayden notices this time. “Jesus Christ—save it for Chicago!”

They’re chest-to-chest now, panting, neither backing down. Reilly blows the whistle so hard it echoes.   “Alright, reset, you two! It’s enough already!”
It must be obvious that Shane is fuming when they get off the ice. JJ speaks up first. “Dude,” he mutters when they circle up for water, “What is up with you today?”

“What are you talking about?” Shane mutters, brushing back his sweat-slicked hair. 

“You’re glaring at Roz like he kicked your dog or something.” Hayden pauses. “Did he?” 

Shane glares. “Shut up.”

Hayden stares at him dubiously. “So everything’s fine?”

“Yep,” he lifts up his water bottle and squeezes until water rushes into his mouth. Then squeezes harder. “Everything’s fine.”

“Right,” JJ says slowly. “This is how you usually act when things are fine.”

Shane hurls the empty water bottle at his head. 

______________________________________

TSN Montréal – Post-Practice Availability, September 27

REPORTER: Ilya, your trade from Boston over to Montreal this season has been one of the most talked about trades in all of hockey history. How has the transition been so far? 

ROZANOV: shrugs It’s warmer here. 

REPORTER: laughs I see. And the team? Do you feel like you’re getting along well with everybody, or is there more friction than you anticipated?

ROZANOV: With the team? Or with Hollander? 

REPORTER: grins Yes, you and him on the same team certainly has been the hot topic as of late. The two of you seemed unstoppable on the ice today. Do you anticipate it’ll continue that way?

ROZANOV: shrugs He has good days and bad days. 

REPORTER: So is it safe to assume the two of you have successfully put the rivalry behind you?

ROZANOV: winks at the camera Absolutely not.

Shane stands with his arms crossed, watching as Rozanov takes the questions from the reporters. They practically yanked him out of the locker room after practice—didn’t even give him time to put a shirt on. Shane bets it was on purpose. Once they’re done, Rozanov walks away, dries his hair with a towel slung over his shoulder. 

Shane scowls as he walks past. “You had to say that?”

“What?” He smirks. 

“That we’re still…rivals,” he scoffs. “That’s not true.” 

Rozanov lifts an eyebrow. “It’s not?”

Shane just shakes his head, gets off the wall to go back into the locker room. “We play for the same team now. End of story. You’re just feeding into the gossip.” 

“Boring as ever, Hollander.” He sighs as Shane walks away.

He looks over his shoulder and glares. “And will you stop winking at them? It’s inappropriate.”

Rozanov’s laugh follows him into the locker room. 

________________________

 “Hollander and Rozanov: Montreal’s Perfect Storm?”
…Sources say their practices have been ‘heated’ and ‘borderline explosive,’ but staff insist this is exactly what the team needs after last year’s collapse. Whether the pair becomes Montreal’s greatest weapon or its biggest disaster remains to be seen — but one thing is clear: they’re impossible to ignore.”

Excerpt from: SportsNet Montréal, October 2014 

Shane stares down at his screen as its light cuts through the darkened arena. He sits alone in the stands of the United Center. They won against Chicago tonight, and Shane waited for the crowd to clear before sitting high in the stands, looking down at the ice. It looks beautiful this way, all still and quiet. He needs to leave soon—the team is just about ready to ride back to the airport. But Shane just…needs a few minutes. 

He can’t take it. Being on the ice with Rozanov. Sharing the bench with him. All the time. He can’t compartmentalize, and he doesn’t know why he ever thought he could. His phone is still open to the article that his mom sent him about ten minutes ago. The cover picture is Rozanov on the ice, winking into the camera, in his old black and yellow uniform. Shane is long done reading the article, but his screen lingers on the picture. And he just…looks.

Fuck.

Chapter 5

Chapter Notes

“Change my mind so much it’s exhausting;

I still think about that night out in Boston.”

Shane listens to his own racing heart as he leans against the wall, hands braced on his knees to catch his breath. Sweat runs down his skin everywhere. Practices have been hellish—speed drills for hours, until some of the guys skate off the rink to throw up into trash cans. They’ve ramped up the intensity, with the end of the preseason right around the corner. 

He’s shaking, panting with exhaustion so hard he doesn’t notice Rozanov a few feet away, watching him. Until he whistles.

Shane glances up just in time to see the water bottle Rozanov tosses towards him. He straightens on instinct, catches it against his chest. He looks down at it for a second, blinking, slow to piece things together. 

Rozanov nods to the bottle. “Drink.”

The command runs straight through him. His body reacts before his brain can. Shane brings the bottle to his mouth, drinking deep. Only then does he realize how thirsty he is. He can feel Rozanov watching him. Something pulses in the air between them. After a few moments Shane stops, pulls the bottle away from his mouth. Holds it out back to him. 

Rozanov just shakes his head. “For you,” he says as he starts to walk past. And then winks. 

Shane stands there for a moment longer than necessary, watching him go, his chest rising and falling. 

Then he finishes the rest of the water. 

________________________

They play Colorado a second time in Quebec. It starts off slow—the Avalanche come out with a strong defense they can’t get past. Reilly gets fed up quickly and calls Shane in to cover the center during the first period. Then again, and again. He calls in Rozanov quickly after. It becomes such a pattern that he stops saying anything, just nods vaguely in their direction to signal them in. 

It’s always quick work when they get on the ice together. Because as much as Shane doesn’t want to admit it, he and Rozanov work well together. They act like children, trying to decide who gets to take the center, but when they’re not trying to tear each other's heads off, it’s like he and Rozanov have one mind—their instincts are perfectly aligned. 

Shane tries not to make anything of it. But when they carry the Metros out of the game 4-2, he can’t help but feel incandescent with the victory. And Shane hopes, against all better judgement, that he’ll somehow catch Rozanov. He wants to see what will happen if he does. 

But by the end of the night, they haven’t said a word to each other. Rozanov just nods as he walks past Shane in the locker room to leave. “Good work out there.” 

Shane’s brave enough to dare clapping him on the shoulder in response. “You too, man.” He says. Rozanov walks past without saying anything and he immediately thinks it was the wrong choice. 

What did you want him to do? Slam you against the lockers and kiss you? 

Yes. That’s exactly what he wanted. 

________________________

By the end of preseason they’re in pretty good shape. Definitely cleaner than last year, although it didn’t go as well as Shane had hoped. They walk into their first real game with 5-2 wins/losses. It’s good, all things considered. 

Their first real game is in Boston. The bus ride over is full of energy as usual—guys shouting over each other, music blasting from someone’s speaker, laughter ricocheting down the aisle. And as usual, Shane doesn’t join in. He never does. He claims a window seat near the back and lets the city blur past, headphones in but nothing playing. To focus.

When the bus finally slows, the noise outside cuts through the glass before he even sees it. Crowds outside are screaming Rozanov’s name. The bus pulls around toward the players’ entrance, easing past the crowd. One by one, the guys start standing, grabbing their bags, getting ready to leave.

Shane gets up too, and catches Rozanov still in his seat, looking out the window, in the direction of where they saw the crowds. It occurs to him then that it must be difficult, being back in this city. It’s probably the only home Rozanov has known outside of Russia, and now he has to play against them.

“It’s a warm welcome,” Shane says from behind him. 

Rozanov doesn’t turn. “Yes. But it won’t last long.” 

“No?” 

He glances up, meets Shane’s eyes. “Nobody likes to lose.” 

Shane smiles then. He dares to take the seat next to him, staring out the window to all the people in Boston’s colors. They have a few more minutes before they’re due off the bus. Shane asks, “Are you nervous to be playing here?” 

“I don’t get nervous.” Rozanov replies shortly.

“Yeah, but this is different, isn’t it?” Shane starts. Thinks maybe it wasn’t the right thing to say. “Not that you- not that you should be nervous. You shouldn’t be. We’ll probably be fine. Boston did well in their preseason—five and two, just like us, although we won against the teams they lost against, so I guess it’s not really-”

“Hollander,” Rozanov cuts him off. “Stop babbling.” 

“Sorry.” He mumbles. Rozanov looks back outside. Shane wonders if he recognizes any of these faces in the crowds—fans he used to have.  “Do you like Boston better?” He asks. “As a city? Or Montreal?”

A shrug. “I have not been in Montreal long.” 

“Yeah,” Shane agrees. He remembers when he first moved here, he didn’t first get out into the city until months later. He bets Rozanov’s just been going back and forth from his apartment to practice for the past couple of months. It makes Shane a little sad to think about. So he says, “God, it really is a great city though. Once you get to know it. And the sights are beautiful this time of year. You know, I could show you around if…if you-” 

Rozanov turns. Stares at him. “Show me around?” 

“Well…yeah.” Shane swallows. “If you want. Could be fun. You're new here--I can show you all the sights. Historical sites, obviously. But there's some great shops too. Restaurants, bars.”

"Bars," Rozanov repeats, sounding a little skeptical.

Shane rolls his eyes. "Well, yeah. What, did you think there was a prohibition here?" 

"You have been to bars," he states again, challenging. Rozanov has his eyebrows raised, studying Shane with a disbelieving look.

Shane glances away, a little miffed. "Yeah. With my parents, at least." 

"Ah," he nods. "Okay, makes sense now." 

"Fuck off." 

After a moment of silence, Rozanov asks, "So, you want to take me on like, field trip? Will we ride a school bus?" 

 Shane rolls his eyes. "Forget I said anything." 

"No, no, it sounds like fun." He waits for a second, and Shane can tell he's trying to keep his voice serious. "We can pack sandwiches." 

Shane goes to stand up, but then Rozanov stops him with a firm hand on his arm. Shane turns, glancing down at the point of contact. It should be nothing, really. But after weeks of being around him all the time, getting slammed into the boards during practice and seeing him in the locker room and never touching him, the feel of Rozanov's calloused palm along his forearm sends a jolt of pleasure through Shane that he doesn't expect, and has no idea what to do with.

"Is a good offer," Rozanov amends in appeasement, voice soft. "Thank you." 

"Yeah," Shane nods quickly, vaguely aware that they're on the bus still and are due in the rink very soon. His body feels warm all over. "Yeah, of course. We're teammates." 

Teammates. He feels the way the word rips across the heat between them, kind of cold and neutralizing, like a balm applied over a sore, aching muscle. Rozanov drags his hand away from Shane's arm, and he feels a flash of disappointment shoot through him, until the same hand lands under his chin, turning his face towards Rozanov. And then his gaze is being forced up, right into Rozanov's, and they're so close to each other it would take one breath for them to be kissing. 

He hums thoughtfully. "You would do this for any teammate?" 

Shane's breath hitches. He glances down at Rozanov's full, perfect mouth, then unwillingly drags his gaze back up. Rozanov smiles, just a little. "Yes," he says, lying. 

"Ah, okay," Rozanov pretends to think for a moment, lips darting out to moisten his lips, which really doesn't help matters for Shane, who can practically feel his heart pumping out of his chest. "And what about..." He leans forward, the smallest about, lips brushing against Shane's. "This?"

And Shane feels heat erupt through him, something similar to relief coursing through his veins. Rozanov leans forward, kissing him lightly.Yes, yes, yes--

Bus. Game. Team. 

Fuck. 

Reailty comes crashing back in, and Shane rears back, skittering away like a scared animal, and the heat breaks. He goes so far back, Rozanov's hand falls away. And then he's pushing up to his feet, heart racing harder than before. How could he be so stupid? Anyone could've walked in, could've seen them out the window. Shane feels like a fucking idiot, betrayed by his own lack of self-control. 

Rozanov stares up at him coldly. "You are kidding." 

"What?" He asks, without breathing much. 

"I can't believe this!" He says, standing as well, rising to his full height in front of Shane. "What do you want from me? You don't talk to me for weeks. The entire season. Clean slate, you say. And now, this--you ask me on date? Why?"

Shane feels his face burn. "I didn't ask you on a date!" 

"Right," he shoots back, disbelieving. 

The words sting. Badly. Shane’s not going to cry—he’s not going to let Rozanov have that. “I don't know,” he says. “I just thought maybe we could…I don’t know!" 

“Fuck?” Rozanov says finally, almost taunting. “Is that it?” 

Shane scoffs, anger rising inside of him. He’s only half-aware that they’re in their team bus, and someone could come in at any moment. “What the fuck is your problem? No. You know what? Just forget it. I don’t know why I even bother.”

He turns and walks towards the front of the bus, suddenly feeling like he should’ve left ages ago. “I’ll see you out there, I guess,” Shane mumbles before leaving. Doesn’t even check to see if Rozanov heard him. 

________________________

They play awful against Boston. Worse than they did all preseason, maybe worse than they were on the very first day of training camp. And Shane can’t really explain why—but he knows he shoulders a lot of the blame. He just can’t focus, not for the life of him. He tries to ignore Quinn's dejected, sad face every time they skate back to the bench, after having played a weak center.

Reilly screams at them from outside the rink; Shane can hear the confusion in his voice. This was working before. What happened? And though no one says it, Shane can tell the rest of the team is thinking it too. 

Shane misses a wide-open shot. Rozanov turns the puck over twice. Even the announcers sound perplexed calling out the plays. He bets their team looks unrecognizable on the ice. Halfway through the second period, Reilly gets fed up and pulls them both out. They don’t get back on the ice for the rest of the game.

They lose in a humiliating 4-1. Afterwards, the locker room is dead silent. Not even angry or disappointed, just…shocked.

JJ unlaces his skates besides Shane and whispers, “What the hell happened out there?” 

Shane doesn’t respond. 

He has two texts from his mom. Is everything okay? What happened out there? 

Shane wishes he had an answer. He doesn’t. 

He showers fast and dresses even faster, desperate to get out of there. On usual game days, he’ll linger in the locker room, basking in the good cheer. Sometimes he’ll even deliver a post-game talk with Coach. But no one seems to be in the mood for talking, least of all Shane. 

The ride back is silent to the hotel. The rest of the team gathers to go out somewhere for dinner, but Shane can’t stomach the idea of any food right now. So he just lingers outside the hotel lobby, phone pressed to his ear when his mom calls.  Around him, Boston glows—streetlights spilling gold onto the sidewalks, traffic hissing past on wet pavement.

“Honey?” His mom asks when he picks up the phone. “Is everything okay?”

Shane sighs. “Why wouldn’t it be?” He watches a group of people cross the street, laughing as they walk into a bar. 

“Well…what…I’m just-” She's speechless. Speechless at how bad he played. 

“I know, Mom,” he says finally, after she’s done stammering. “Okay? I just…” 

There’s a pause on the line. “Are you okay?”

Shane exhales shakily through his mouth and starts walking again. And for one, terrifying second, he considers telling her everything. It’s Rozanov, he would say, and just the thought of his name is shocking. It’s so confusing and I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know how to see him everyday and act normal and I think I’ve been a jackass but so is he. But he can’t say any of that. So Shane just shakes his head. Says, “We just had a bad game. It happens.”

“Fuck Boston,” she says suddenly. “They have zero sportsmanship. I was just watching it on TV and I could tell. A bunch of smug bastards, all of them. No wonder Ilya acts like that in interviews.” 

That last part almost has Shane cracking a smile. Almost. “They did win, Mom. They're allowed to celebrate.”

“Not like that, they aren’t! Did they even say good game to you guys at the end? I bet they didn’t. They looked like they couldn’t wait to get the handshakes over with.” 

Shane sighs on the other end, almost relieved. She talks his ear off for a while, yelling about the other team. It makes him feel a little better, but not much. He decides he’s had enough of the day once she hangs up, and just wants to go upstairs and sleep it away. 

He half-listens while walking down the pavement, watching the city. He tries, and fails, not to picture Rozanov here—years ago. Shane wonders what bars he went to, if he’s been to this hotel before. If he misses going out and seeing people wearing his jersey.  

Don’t. 

After his mom hangs up, the silence settles in around him. Shane pockets his phone and goes back to the hotel, intending to sleep this whole day away and forget about it all.

Inside, he waits in front of the elevator alone. The doors slide open with a ding and he steps in. Then Shane turns to hit the button for the fourth floor—just to see Rozanov walking towards him. Surprise shoots through him. Fuck. Shane’s eyes dart down to the button. He presses it again, then again, slamming into it in rapid succession as Rozanov nears, but the doors won’t fucking close, and then he steps in beside Shane. Just before they close. 

Fucking perfect.

Shane lets go of a quiet breath as tension fills the elevator. They look straight ahead and don’t speak. It’s four floors up. How long can four floors possibly take? 

Ding. 1.  

In the corner of his vision, Shane can see Rozanov turn to look at him. Then he lets out a long-suffering sigh. 

Shane breaks first. “Don’t start.” 

“I did not say anything.” 

But Shane can feel him watching. He scoffs under his breath. 

Ding. 2. 

Shane shakes his head as he finally turns. “Will you stop looking at—” 

The words never finish. 

Rozanov grabs him by the collar and kisses him. Hard. Frustration, adrenaline, anger—all of it. Everything Shane thought he’d finally pushed down suddenly comes rushing back to the surface at the taste of Rozanov’s mouth on his. He lets out a muffled sound of surprise but instantly kisses him back. It’s pathetic, honestly, how quickly Shane gives in. How quickly the two of them descend back to this. 

A second later, his back hits the side wall of the elevator and Rozanov’s tongue is pushing into his mouth. His hand snakes between their bodies, running up along Shane’s abs, and he shivers. 

Ding. 3. 

Shane runs his hand through Rozanov’s hair and feels him harden against his stomach. It’s too much. It’s everything. In the back of his mind, Shane thinks, bad idea, this is such a bad—

The thought vanishes when Rozanov runs his fingers along the edge of Shane’s belt. 

Ding. The doors start to open. Shane shoves Rozanov back just in time, but the loss of contact is like being doused in ice water. They stand apart, panting, lips swollen, as the doors open and a couple stares at them from outside. Shane wastes no time getting out, practically bolting down the hall. 

“Hollander!” Rozanov calls out behind him. Shane can hear him catching up. “Hollander, wait!” 

Shane doesn’t stop. Or slow down. He hears Rozanov break into a run, but Shane’s still storming down to his room, determined. They just made out in an elevator. In public. 

People saw them. 

“Hold on!” Rozanov reaches him just as Shane stops in front of his room. He turns as he digs into his pocket for the key. “Let’s talk.” 

Shane laughs once—sharp, furious. “Oh, now you want to talk?” He finds the key and unlocks the door, opening it to go inside. “You’re unbelievable,” he mutters under his breath, then steps inside. 

Rozanov waits outside, breathless, looking almost a little…sad. He opens his mouth to say something, but Shane’s not having any of it. He grabs Rozanov by the front of his shirt and drags him inside, and slams the door shut behind them.

________________________

Ilya

He has learned not to try to expect Hollander’s next move, because he will always be wrong. But this— 

This still catches him off guard. 

Hollander shoves him back against the wall of the entryway, hard enough that the impact knocks the breath out of Ilya’s lungs. He barely has time to register it before Hollander kisses him hard.

“Fuck you,” he mutters against Ilya’s mouth, fist twisted tight in the front of Ilya’s shirt.

Ilya just nods. “Okay.”

Hollander pulls back just enough to glare at him. “Why the fuck did you think it was okay to kiss me in the elevator? Are you crazy?” 

Ilya says the first thing that comes to mind. “You liked it.” 

Hollander shoves him again. It apparently was not the right thing to say. “Fucking asshole,” he mutters. But then they’re kissing again. Ilya grabs the back of Hollander’s neck and tilts his head so he can deepen the kiss. 

Hollander makes a little sound at the back of his throat that goes straight through him. They’re both hard.

Fuck. It has been too long.

He breaks the kiss, breathing hard. In the darkness, Hollander stares at him, eyes blown wide in the dim light, anger forgotten. He looks restless, silently begging for something. Anything.

“Get on your knees,” Ilya says softly, just to see what happens. Fully expecting him to roll his eyes and mutter fuck off, or just shove him back against the wall. 

His breath catches in his throat as he instead watches Hollander sink to the floor. He keeps his eyes on him as he kneels, pressing his cheek against the bulge in Ilya’s pants and nestling closer. Then he turns, and starts to press hot, openmouthed kisses over the fabric.

“Christ, Hollander,” Ilya hisses out a breath, fingers tightening in his hair. And then, as if the sight wasn’t mindblowing enough, Hollander bares his teeth, bites down on the zipper, and pulls it down until Ilya’s cock is freed. No hands. He takes Ilya into his mouth and Ilya’s thoughts vanish completely — English, Russian, all of it gone. His hand slips under Hollander’s shirt, feels muscle flex under his palm.

Ilya swears under his breath, fighting not to come right there. Has he always been this…this— “Fucking perfect,” he exhales shakily as Hollander drags his tongue up the length and wraps his lips around the head. Ilya grips the back of his head, trying to control the pace. But Hollander just gazes up at him, mouth moving up and down in eager movements. The sight is too much to bear, and it’s enough to have Ilya hauling him up by the shoulders and crashing their mouths together again. He shoves Hollander back towards the bed. Hollander barely gets his shirt off before he’s falling back onto the mattress, breath knocked loose as Ilya follows him down. 

They strip each other clumsily, urgently. “Is been long time?” Ilya murmurs as his hand trails down Hollander’s back, then lower. Hollander shivers at the slight intrusion, back arching into the mattress. 

Still, he has the nerve to scoff into the pillow. “You don’t know that.” 

Ilya hums into a smile. “You fucked girls while I was away? Or men only?” 

He’s silent as Ilya works him open, letting out heavy breaths. Ilya leans down and runs his teeth along the side of Hollander’s neck. “Hm? Answer.” 

“No, I haven’t-” Hollander starts, but the sentence breaks off into a sigh as Ilya runs his tongue along the same trail his teeth just took. “I didn’t fuck anybody.” 

The confession is enough—in an instant, Ilya is over him, pressing Hollander fully into the mattress as he slides in. They gasp in unison. Hollander clings to Ilya’s arm, letting out short, punched breaths as his hips arch to meet Ilya’s thrusts. And if they were somewhere else, Ilya would dig his fingers into Hollander’s hair and pull his head back off the pillow so he could hear him. Every single sound. But they’re not. 

Ilya pushes Hollander’s head down with a strong palm and leans in close, pressing his mouth against Hollander’s neck. “Only me?” 

He moans into the pillow. “Yes. Only you.” 

Ilya almost smiles. He is close, already. “Good.” He grinds out, pressing closer. He grips Hollander’s hips tight, shifting his angle until Hollander cries out, hand coming out to fist the bedsheets. 

“Fuck, Rozanov, just…” he gasps for air. “I’m…”  

“Already?” Ilya tuts. “Oh, poor Hollander.” He sits back on his heels and tugs Hollander up off the mattress until he’s on all fours. In an instant, Ilya is back inside and reaches forward, wrapping a hand around Hollander’s mouth. “It’s okay. Just me, yes? Who else can make you feel this way?” 

Hollander shifts his hips back in desperation, sounds muffled against Ilya’s palm. He can’t say much in this state, so Ilya is kind enough to answer for him. He leans forward, presses his mouth to Hollander’s ear. “Nobody,” he responds. “Nobody else can.” 

His thrusts are quick, rough, and he can see the muscles of Hollander’s lower back twitch with the effort of staying up straight. He is close. Ilya reaches around and touches him. When Hollander comes, he bites down into the flesh of Ilya’s palm. A second later he feels a tear escape Hollander’s cheek and fall to Ilya’s hand. Another second later, it’s too much to bear. The desperation, the pain from the bite he left. Ilya comes with a barely-contained groan, collapsing onto the mattress on top of Hollander. 

They lay there, panting, and it’s suddenly not entirely clear how they ended up here in the first place. But Ilya still feels like he’s won something. 

Clean slate, my ass. 

Chapter End Notes

episode 5 of heated rivalry you will be hearing from my lawyers

Chapter 6

IcePulse Sports — October 9, 2014

METROS’ GAMBLE FALLS FLAT IN SEASON OPENER

If the Montreal Metros were hoping for a storybook debut of their most controversial pairing, they didn’t get it. Facing the Boston Raiders in their 2014–2015 season opener, the Metros iced Shane Hollander alongside newly acquired Ilya Rozanov for the first time. On paper, it should’ve been explosive. In practice, it was… baffling.

Their individual talent is not to be discounted. Hollander, the captain and star player on the Metros, and Rozanov, the lethal Raider favorite, are extraordinary on their own accounts. But together? It seems as though the Metros’ bet on their on-ice collaboration didn’t play out as well as they’d hoped. And the brutal loss has left fans and analysts scratching their heads. How does this much skill cause so little cohesion?

Our guess is the Hollander-Rozanov rivalry goes deeper than any of us know. But whether it’s a deep-seated hatred, or a lack of chemistry, or simply just first-game nerves, one thing is clear: if Hollander and Rozanov can’t find a way to work together soon, Montreal’s gamble might risk their second season in a row.

________________________

Appalling. Unfocused. Lazy. 

A bunch of fucking shitbags on skates.

These are the words Reilly yells to them on Monday. He paces back and forth in the meeting room, even punches a wall door every once in a while. The players sit in silence, accepting the criticisms even though they are all aware of their awful performance already. Shane sits ramrod straight, not daring to glance in Rozanov’s direction. Coach’s words don’t quite land, as the echo of the previous night keeps echoing in his head.

After the air cooled in his hotel room, Shane felt cold dread sinking into his stomach as he realized what had just happened.

He swallowed as he shifted away and got up. Gathered his clothes off the floor quickly, starting to get dressed. Rozanov sighed from behind him. “Running from your own room. Is new low for you, Hollander.”

“I’m not running,” Shane said automatically, even as he buttoned up his pants. “Does it look like I’m running? I’m putting my clothes back on.” 

Rozanov smirked, still laying fully naked on his bed. Shane looked away before his gaze could linger for too long. “So many years and still you have not changed.” 

He turned, standing awkwardly at the foot of the bed as he fiddled with the hem of his shirt. “What is that supposed to mean?” 

“Nervous,” he cocked his head. “Jittery. Like hummingbird. What is the problem? Is just me, Hollander.” 

That’s the problem. “You’re not going to say anything, right?” 

Rozanov’s smile faded instantly. He rolled his eyes. “You say these things to piss me off, yes?” Before Shane could respond, Rozanov got up off the bed, started walking towards him. “I didn’t say anything all these years.” 

Shane watched as he walked past, going to the shower. “That’s different,” he called. “You weren’t—we were in different countries.” 

Rozanov pauses in the doorway to the bathroom. Doesn’t turn around. “It’s not different. Casual then, casual now. All the same.” 

The shower turns on a second later. The sound fills the room, loud and final.

Shane stands there alone, shirt half-tucked, heart still racing.

Reilly waits until the end to turn and point in Shane’s direction. He hasn’t said anything to him yet, but Shane’s not an idiot. He knew it was only a matter of time. 

“And you,” Reilly barks. “I started both of you. I don’t know what I was expecting to come out of it, but it certainly wasn’t that. I mean for god’s sake, it was like you two had never met before. What have we been doing for six weeks? Where was that on the ice?” 

Shane doesn’t dare look in Rozanov’s direction. “It’s on me, Coach. I wasn’t in my right mind…it was just a bad day. Won’t happen again.” 

He nods. “Like hell it won’t. We’re going to have to rework things for the next game. No way in hell are the two of you-”

“No,” Rozanov says from beside Shane, the first thing he’s said all practice. Reilly stops and looks at him. 

“No?” 

“Keep us together,” he lea ns back in his chair, crossing his arms. “It will work.” 

“You got a crystal ball I don’t know about, Rozanov?” 

JJ snorts, then quickly covers it up as a cough. 

“Hollander had bad day,” Rozanov jerks his head in Shane’s direction. “He won’t have bad day next time. Keep us together.” 

Reilly, surprisingly, seems to actually consider Rozanov’s words. He looks in Shane’s direction. “Got anything to say to that, Captain?”

Shane really doesn’t. He hasn’t been able to form many thoughts when it comes to Rozanov recently. The good thing about being on different teams all the time was that the morning after they hooked up, they were both usually catching flights to different ends of the world. They didn’t have to face it, not until months later at least. Now, well…

Sitting next to Rozanov is hard. 

“I think…” he clears his throat. “People will be disappointed if they don’t get to see us play together. Isn’t that what really matters?”

Reilly regards him dubiously. Considering his outburst at the beginning of training camp, he must be surprised to see Shane so open to the idea. “And what do you want?” 

His answer is immediate. “I want to play. And I want to win.”

________________________

During scrimmage, Reilly has a stroke or something, because he actually puts Shane and Rozanov together. Shane can’t tell whether he’s happy about it or not, and then Rozanov starts yelling orders at him across the ice. 

“Cover the side!” And “Look for me, Hollander!” And “Follow my—Da, like that, good.” 

Shane looks up every time, turns to Coach as if to say are you hearing this? But Reilly does nothing. Rozanov talks to Shane like he’s a child, and Shane resists the urge multiple times to shove him into the boards and yell, I’m the fucking captain, you know that, right? 

But then he thinks if he did so, Rozanov would just laugh at him. And that pisses Shane off even more. 

He’s finishing up some cardio the next evening as practice winds down. They play Toronto tomorrow. Practices have been good, but there’s no telling what will happen come game day. Some of his teammates are circled on the ground, stretching out, and others are lifting together. Shane has his headphones in, feeling the burn in his quads as the minutes pass by on the training bike. 

At some point, Rozanov appears on the bike next to him. Shane can feel him staring, and he really doesn’t want to look. They haven’t spoken much that week, or at all since Boston. He wonders if they’re both pretending like nothing happened.

He reaches forward, and tugs a headphone out of Shane’s ear. “Hollander,” he prompts. 

Shane glances to the side, as if just noticing Rozanov is there. “Huh? What’s up?” 

“You will play well tomorrow?” He asks.

And Shane thinks he’s being encouraging, so he nods. “Yeah. It’ll be great.” 

“Good.” Then Rozanov adds, “Try not to let feelings get in the way this time. Hard to lead line when you are distracted, yes?” 

Shane opens his mouth to object, to curse him out, but Rozanov just hops off the bike, goes to join the others on the ground to stretch.

What the fuck? 

________________________

July 2010, Toronto

Shane waited in his hotel room, pacing back and forth. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. 

He didn’t know why he’d done it—give Rozanov his room number. But when he was shirtless, staring down at him in the empty locker room, it was like Shane had been under some kind of spell. 

What is your room number?

1410, he’d responded instantly, as if possessed. Now nine PM was right around the corner and Shane couldn’t help but feel like he’d made a huge fucking mistake.

He wasn’t used to this….feeling this way. Shane Hollander didn’t have crushes. He didn’t date, and he certainly didn’t hook-up with archrivals in his hotel room. But here he was, about to do just that. The last bit, at least. His brain kept running through all the worst scenarios. What if someone saw Rozanov at his door? He glanced at the window. What if someone could see through the blinds? 

But as the minutes ticked by, low in his stomach, something stirred. Anticipation. And it trumped all the worries his mind could come up with.

He didn’t know why Rozanov could make him feel this way—so reckless and drunk. It didn’t make any sense. It was dangerous. And Shane knew he was at a disadvantage—Rozanov certainly wouldn’t be pacing around in his room afterwards. This wouldn’t affect him at all, not the way it would affect Shane.

But despite all this, Shane couldn’t help it. He needed to feel it again.

A knock came at the door. Shane froze. He walked towards it, half-convinced he’d made it up. Then he opened it. Rozanov stood waiting. Shane gestured him in, and then peeked out to make sure there was no one else in the hallway before shutting it behind him.

He turned around, heart racing. Rozanov was there. In his hotel room. It was dark except for the light of the single lamp in the corner of the room, but even that was low. 

They were quiet for a second; Shane couldn’t think of what to say.

“Thought you might have chickened out,” Rozanov said eventually, taking in Shane’s room. He stepped around the entrance way.

“No,” Shane responded quickly. “I’m not a chicken. But I…think we should talk first. Do you want to sit?”

Rozanov stepped in front of him, backed him up all the way to the wall. Every thought in Shane’s head fell away. “Mm. Not really.” 

“This is such a bad idea,” he said, a bit breathless. A last ditch effort to stop himself. 

But then Rozanov inched closer, tipped Shane’s chin up. “What is?”

Rozanov leaned in to kiss him. And all of a sudden, Shane couldn’t remember what he’d been saying.

________________________

Present

He is brutal against Toronto. Reilly plays it safe, doesn’t put Rozanov on the ice at the same time as him—it’s almost like he can tell that it would be catastrophic. But that doesn’t stop Shane from being terrifying on the ice. 

The words circle through his head. Try not to let your feelings get in the way this time. Casual, offhand. Like he was giving Shane a tip on a drill. 

It pisses him off. It hurts—it pisses him off. 

He’s domineering—yelling at his teammates to tighten up, even calling to Reilly to switch people out. It’s mean, but it’s also completely unlike him. Shane moves rough across the rink, shoving past other players, commanding the puck, and even landing himself in the penalty box once for roughing—that’s never happened before. It’s only two minutes, and then he’s back out there. Reilly, for some reason, keeps putting him in. Shane doesn’t give Toronto a second to breathe. His blood pumps through his ears, and he can’t hear anything else. Not the crowd, not the PA announcers, not even Reilly, when he yells at Shane to cool it. Shane manages a hat-trick during the game; Rozanov gets none. And three periods later, Toronto loses in a humiliating 5-0 defeat on Montreal ice.

Shane steps off the rink without a smile as the crowd roars around him. 

________________________

Because his life is one big fucking joke, he and Rozanov have media after the game—together. Shane pulls Reilly aside with their PR agent before he goes to the locker room and asks if they can have JJ instead. Or Hayden. Or he’ll just take it alone. They don’t agree. 

So he finds himself buttoning up the jacket of his suit in the mirror of the arena’s media room bathroom. It makes him look older—more polished. Someone who has everything under control. Which is the exact fucking opposite of how he feels.

When he steps back out into the hallway, the noise hits him immediately. Cameras being adjusted. Voices overlapping. The low, anticipatory buzz of reporters who already have their headlines half-written. Rozanov is leaning against the wall near the entrance, jacket slung open, tie loose and crooked. He looks infuriatingly comfortable. Hands in his pockets. Watching the room like he owns it.

Their eyes meet. Rozanov’s mouth twitches—not quite a smile. “Everything alright, Hollander?” He asks lightly, almost teasing. Shane doesn’t look at him.

Reilly is wrapping up with questions as they enter the room. They’re ushered in together, seated at the long table with the rest of the team. Shane takes the chair second from the end. Rozanov sits directly beside him, close enough that Shane can feel the heat from his arm through the thin fabric of the suit. 

Under the table, Rozanov shifts his leg a bit. Shane can feel it pressing against him lightly. A question, maybe. The same one he asked before. Everything alright? 

He moves away without saying anything. The Metros’ logo looms behind them on the backdrop. Microphones are nudged into place. Someone taps a mic; it screeches, then settles.

“Alright,” the PR rep says briskly. “Let’s get started.”

Hands shoot up immediately.

“Shane—over here.”

He nods, posture straightening instinctively. Captain mode. He folds his hands neatly on the table. “Yes.”

“Sorry, I have to ask—you landed yourself in the penalty box for roughing tonight. I think I speak on behalf of the entire audience when I say, it was a surprise to see you of all players there. That place is more like Ilya’s style. Got anything to say for yourself?”

Shane smirks. It’s not kind. “It didn’t stop me from beating Toronto.” 

The room laughs. 

Someone else goes. “Shane—good to see you again. Given last season’s performance and now the addition of Ilya Rozanov, do you feel extra pressure heading into the season?”

“I feel just as much pressure as any other season,” he replies. 

Another hand. “Ilya—welcome to Montreal. You and Shane have a…history. Some would call it one of the most intense rivalries in international hockey. Do you think that contributed to the Metros’ uncharacteristic loss in Boston last week?” 

A ripple of quiet interest moves through the room. Rozanov leans forward, forearms resting on the table. He doesn’t look at the reporter when he answers—he looks straight ahead, like he’s addressing the room itself. “Every team has bad days.” He glances sideways then, briefly, at Shane. Just long enough to be felt.

Shane keeps his gaze forward. Another reporter cuts in, “What happens if your bad days keep coming? At what point will the Metros try to address the obvious differences between you two?” 

“Yes, I know,” Rozanov says automatically. “I am much more handsome than him. It is a problem.” 

There are scattered laughs, but Shane leans forward to add, “We don’t have any differences. We, the whole team, work together just fine.” 

A reporter near the front smirks. “Shane, after the World Championship in 2012, you said, quote, Rozanov looks like a promising player. Not exactly the easiest to get along with, but promising. Does that still hold true today?” 

Shane’s jaw tightens as irritation pulses through him. But he pushes it down.  “That was a long time ago. We’ve both changed since then.” 

The same reporter pushes, “Would you say the loss was what motivated you to unusual aggression on the ice today?” 

“I wouldn’t call it unusual,” Shane responds. “I was diligent and fast. Like always.” 

Someone on the other side asks, “Ilya, do you have any worries about joining a team of a lower caliber than your last? It can’t have been a good feeling—losing to the Raiders in your old home.” 

Rozanov doesn’t answer right away, but Shane does. “Will you ask us about anything else?” 

It’s completely out of character for him. He can see the reporters pull back a little bit at Shane’s retort. Even Rozanov looks over, surprised. He says, “I think we are getting tired of talking about our losses. Is not fun. But no…I am not worried. Everything happens for a reason. I am supposed to be on this team now, so…what happens will happen. I don’t think about what ifs.” 

It’s a perfect answer. Shane resists the urge to kick him under the table.

“We will figure it out,” Rozanov finishes. “Or we will learn.”

“Learn how?” someone presses.

Rozanov smiles then. Sharp. “By playing. Playing hard.” 

The PR rep calls time after they answer a few more questions. Shane stands immediately, ready to be done. Chairs scrape back. Cameras flash.

As they walk towards the exit of the media room, behind him, Rozanov laughs softly to himself. “You are not very good at that.” He says.

Shane doesn’t look at him. “At what?”

“Pretending you are not angry,” he says. “It is very obvious.”

“Yeah well, what can I say?” Shane starts towards the door, not waiting for Rozanov to follow. “My feelings just keep getting in the way.” 

He doesn’t stop walking until he’s all the way out of the rink and walking through the cold air of the parking lot. His breath leaves him in quick, angry puffs. 

It hurts because on some level, Rozanov is right. He’s the only one who can make Shane so…irrational. Stupid. He hates it. Shane wishes Rozanov had never joined his team. He wishes he’d never met him in the first place.

Chapter 7

Chapter Summary

the view from another window

MLH Awards, 2011

Shane would’ve been lying if he said he hadn’t been searching for Rozanov all night. It was the Major League Hockey Awards. All the biggest players were stuffed into a reception hall in some ritzy hotel in Las Vegas—people Shane had looked up to since he was a child were there. And yet, half the times he’d been talking to someone, he’d been looking over their shoulder, trying to catch a glimpse of those familiar brown curls.

Halfway through the night, Shane wanted to get out. His suit was too hot and somehow Scott Hunter had convinced him to do a few shots in celebration of his winning the Rookie of the Year award and now he was slightly drunk and he needed some air. He excused himself quickly to his parents and left the reception. Shane briefly considered texting Rozanov and seeing where he was, but thought better of it. If he didn't want to show his face after Shane's win, then fine.  

Shane climbed all the way up to the roof to take in the fresh air. He could still hear the noise coming from the bar, pulsing music and loud, drunken voices. But on the other side, there was a quiet corner that looked out over the city. 

Shane didn’t spot him at first. Rozanov was leaning against the railing, smoking as he stared out into the city. He blended into the darkness, until he lifted his head and let out a gray cloud of smoke.

Shane’s heart stuttered a little. The dim light cast his face in a shadow similar to when they were in the darkness of his hotel room. Soft, intimate. 

“I don’t know if it’s worth jumping over,” he said as he climbed up the steps to join Rozanov.

Rozanov didn’t turn to look at him. He just took a long drag of his cigarette. “Party all done?” 

“No,” Shane leaned against the railing. “Just…needed some air.”

Rozanov exhaled slowly, the smoke mingling with the hot desert air. Shane felt his eyes graze over Shane’s frame in that slow, assessing way. Shane’s eyes turned toward the blanket of city lights that sprawled beneath them, but they quickly found their way back to Rozanov’s face. He saw the clench in Rozanov’s jaw, and the hardness of his eyes. “You are drunk.” 

“I’m not.” He said instantly.

Rozanov just nodded slowly. “Good for you,” he said. “Is big night for you, kid.”

“Yeah, well…” Shane exhaled, then shrugged. “Could’ve gone to either one of us, I guess.”

Rozanov took another quick drag. “It went to you.”

And even a little tipsy, Shane could sense the bite in the words. He turned to look at Rozanov. “So what? You’re just up here sulking because what, you couldn’t take another victory lap around me?” Rozanov stared back at him, unfazed. “All you do is beat me. I win one stupid fucking thing, and you couldn’t even show your face down there!”

Rozanov muttered something under his breath in Russian.

Shane huffed out a breath. “What was that?” 

 “Not everything is about you, Hollander!” He snapped, irritation written all over his expression. 

Shane reared back a bit. He didn’t think he’d ever seen Rozanov so…mad before. Had he done something wrong? Shane shook his head, “So what is it then?” 

Rozanov scoffed. “What the fuck you do you want?”

“Nothing!” Shane insisted, even though he definitely did want something. “I just wanted to…see the view. Get some air.”

“Well,” Rozanov swept a hand through the air in front of them. “Here is the fucking view, Hollander. Check it out.”

He turned, took another vicious drag of his cigarette, sucking in his cheeks and then exhaling swiftly. Shane watched, feeling confused but mostly hurt. He didn’t like being yelled at. He certainly didn’t like being yelled at by the people he…people like Rozanov. And he had no idea what he’d done to deserve it.

After their words had hung in the air for a long time, and Shane felt his head buzzing with the alcohol and the yelling, Rozanov finally muttered, “I go back to Russia in three days.”

Shane had no idea what that had to do with anything. “Okay…that must be nice.”

Rozanov turned and gave him this mocking look, that said something like you have no idea, do you? Then he pushed off the railing and sighed heavily. 

Shane swallowed, feeling that tell-tale lump in his throat. And the thing was, he wasn’t even a crier. It was just…Rozanov. Shane was starting to get the feeling that no matter how long they spent apart, no matter how much he convinced himself he was officially over it, Ilya Rozanov would always have an effect on him. A terrible one.  “And I guess I thought…” he started, trying to keep his voice steady. “I guess I thought that maybe we’d…” 

Rozanov turned to look at him. Shane lowered his head, worried that in the reflection of the city lights, Rozanov would be able to see the faint shine of tears in his eyes. He felt stupid enough already without Rozanov finding out that he’d made Shane cry, so he just shook his head. “Nevermind.” 

Shane started to walk down the steps, but he paused at the bottom. An awful silence stretched in the distance between them. He couldn’t leave things like this…not with Rozanov. Even if this shitshow of a night meant they were over in that sense, it didn’t mean Shane hated him. 

So he turned to face Rozanov one more time. “I guess…I guess I’ll see you next season?” He said, sticking out his hand as Rozanov turned to look at him. It was an olive branch, maybe. A pathetic attempt at one. 

Rozanov stared at him for a few seconds. Even in the darkness, nothing could hide the intensity he always carried in his eyes, the kind that always made Shane’s heart flutter. He took in a steadying breath as Rozanov slowly stalked towards him. But Rozanov didn’t take Shane’s hand.

Instead, he placed a hand on his chest and pushed him back against the wall. Up close, Shane could see the heat in his gaze. He barely released a startled breath before Rozanov’s mouth came down on his, hot and persistent. In an instant, Shane was kissing him back. Even though it was wrong. The feel of Rozanov’s tongue on his washed everything else away, and then it was like no time had passed at all since the last time they’d met. Shane gave a small moan at his taste as Rozanov tilted his head for a better angle, but in the back of his mind, a small voice went, what are you doing, man? He just yelled at you for no fucking reason. 

Fuck. What was he doing? Shane blocked out the wild need pulsing through him long enough to force himself away from Rozanov, breathing hard. Rozanov stared at him in the darkness, eyes filled with intent, but Shane stayed away. “What the fuck are you doing?” He hissed. “We’re in public, in…in tuxedos.” 

Rozanov just shook his head, and had the nerve to grin. “No one is looking.”

This fucking asshole. “You don’t know that!”

Rozanov didn’t seem to notice Shane’s anger, and leaned in again. But Shane shoved him back enough to come up off the wall, and then reversed their positions. Rozanov’s back hit the wall with a thud. Shane gripped the front of his suit jacket, glaring at him. He felt his anger rising in hot waves, mixed with confusion and frustration and the desire he was still feeling. There were so many things he could say now, but…

Looking at Rozanov, Shane was suddenly hit with the fear that he didn’t know him at all. Not everything is about you, he’d said. And Shane realized that if it wasn’t about him, he had no idea what it could be about. There could’ve been a number of things Rozanov was upset about, and Shane wasn’t privy to a single one.

The thought made him more than a little sad. Because…he kind of wanted to know. He wanted to know Rozanov. 

Shane let go of Rozanov’s jacket and started to walk away. It was impossible to want that kind of thing. Sure, they’d hooked up a couple of things, and sure, Shane thought of him more than he should’ve. But…he was a professional now. He wouldn’t mess things up for himself just because he had some stupid infatuation. He couldn’t. 

“Hollander!” Rozanov called out behind him. 

But Shane didn’t look back.

_______________________________

Ilya Rozanov stood on that balcony for a very long time after his rival Shane Hollander left. Neither of them were happy with the way they’d left things that night. All Ilya really wanted to do was go back down to the party and take a few shots, then maybe find Shane Hollander again and take him back to his hotel room. Yes, that would’ve made him feel a little better.

But their problem was bigger than that. Their problem was Ilya didn’t know how to explain himself to Shane. He worried if he tried, Shane wouldn’t have understood anyway. 

There were many things about Ilya Rozanov that were hard to explain. And he couldn’t think of the words—not in English or in Russian—to talk about any of them. 

_______________________________

Ilya 

Что имеем - не храним, потерявши - плачем

Five years ago, when he first came to America, Ilya Rozanov was a menace. He arrived in Boston young and angry and spectacular, first pick of the draft, adored by the headlines. Nobody had ever won against him, and as far as the League were concerned, nobody ever could. 

But although the media gravitated towards him as soon as his rookie season took off, Ilya was uncharacteristically quiet at first. His team rarely heard from him at all at practice, and he only spoke when spoken to. The coach even sent him for a mental eval once to make sure he was adjusting to America well. Something left by his father, perhaps. The penchant to keep his head low. 

But make no mistake—once Ilya Rozanov stepped onto the ice, nobody could hear the end of it. He scored a total of 48 goals his rookie season—2 short of his goal, but massively impressive nonetheless. And he worked for every single one. Ilya would have been lying if he said he didn’t feel the need to prove himself. 

His father had made it clear: American hockey was a joke and a waste of time. To him, if Ilya wasn’t playing for Russia and scoring gold, it all was a waste of time. So Ilya knew better than to let the success get to his head.

Outside of hockey, Ilya grew to love Boston as a city. He loved especially that it wasn’t Russia; the distance felt like oxygen, and he could finally breathe. Ilya soon fell into a schedule that suited him: wake up, practice, go out. Fuck somebody. Crawl into bed to grab a few hours of sleep, then do it all over again. Every once in a while he did a brand deal, or went back to Russia to play for his home country.

It took a while for Ilya to really grow out of his shell. He had a language barrier that made it hard for people to fully understand who he was as a person—all his dry wit and frankness often didn’t translate well to English. But his speaking improved every day he lived in Boston. He won silver at the World Juniors that year, and by the next season, Ilya was well adjusted. 

And the people in Boston loved him. When he went out, he started to encounter fans wearing his jersey, asking for his signature—he didn’t think anything could ever compare to that feeling. 

It made sense that they all loved him, even though he was a newcomer. In every sense of the game, Ilya was a natural-born Raider. They worked hard and played rough. Ilya frequently made hockey news for getting into fights with other players. People made counters to see how many minutes he racked up in the penalty box. They called him aggressive, confident, overbearing on the ice. But the more everyone else in the League grew terrified of him, the more Boston seemed to love him. By his third season, he was established on the Raiders’ forward center. He scored more goals than anyone else on the team, and he proved the League right—nobody could ever win against him. 

Nobody, except for Shane Hollander. He was always the exception, and Ilya fucking hated it. Hollander was just as established on his team’s center as Ilya was—they faced off against each other constantly. And yet, they were polar opposites on the ice. Hollander loved technique. He was smart and quick and never tried to get in other players' way—the media called him the pinnacle of sportsmanship. After a loss, Ilya’s team liked to yell and hit things, but Hollander just wore that same winning smile he always did, unfaltering and gracious. The crowds loved him. They were always cheering for him—whether they were home or away or on neutral ground. Hollander. Hol-land-der. A mantra. It sometimes angered Ilya, how unfazed he seemed in the face of it all. He was perfect, almost like a doll. A freckled doll. Ilya enjoyed roughening him up on the ice. He enjoyed fucking him afterwards, too. 

Around this time was when Ilya’s father’s health began to decline. Dementia, they’d later learn. Ilya paced around his apartment before going out, smoking cigarette after cigarette while yelling at his deadbeat brother Alexei. It fucked with Ilya, that he couldn’t be there most of the time to take care of his father himself. He called, sometimes. Confused, half-conscious mutterings that faded in and out of focus. Ilya always listened, concerned, before trying to talk him back to reality. Then he’d call Alexei after and yell at him for not keeping track of Dad. 

Those moments were painful. Ilya’s relationship with his father had always been complicated, but seeing such a strong man become so weak and confused…Ilya tried not to think about it for too long at once. And though he didn’t like spending time with any of his family, he spent his summers in Russia looking after them. He took his father to some doctors with his MLH salary and got him on medication. He dealt with Alexei and set up agreements of what he had to do and when. He checked up on his old hockey teammates to see how they were doing. All of these things put Ilya’s mind at rest when he traveled back to America. 

And despite himself, despite the way these people treated him, Ilya was always a little sad when he had to leave.

He liked Svetlana for this reason, because she was his home away from home. Ilya had other friends in Boston, of course—teammates that went out with him at night or invited him to dinner with their blonde, American wives. But none of them could compare to Svetlana. Ilya considered her family, in a way nobody else was to him. They didn’t even have to fuck or anything—even though he always made sure she stayed with him when she came to visit. They could just be together. Take meals together and go to clubs at night, or sometimes just sit on his couch, talking about hockey in Russian while they watched games on the TV. Svetlana knew everything about hockey, even more than Ilya did at times. 

But she didn’t usually stay for more than a week or so before leaving again. It was fine with Ilya because he traveled often too. For as much as he loved Boston, during the regular season, he was only there for a couple of days out of the week. He didn’t mind it—he liked that he got to go around Canada and the US to beat different kinds of players and see how much he could get each city to hate him before he left. 

In all, Ilya lived a busy lifestyle. Whether he was traveling for hockey or traveling from America to Russia during the offseason, he was never in one place for too long before picking up and going somewhere else. 

It was hard to make friends that way. Rather, it was hard to keep friends that way. 

The only exception, once again, was Hollander. Ilya texted Hollander often. It didn’t matter if they were on season or not, playing against each other or not. He would sometimes sit in front of the TV and watch Hollander play, just to chirp at him over text. Hollander did the same. Or they would text about other players in the League, or about having sex. Never did a week go by where they didn’t talk. It seemed to be the case that no matter what they were doing or where they were, Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander, fiercest rivals in the League, kept track of each other. Always. Sometimes, it seemed like he was the only constant in Ilya’s life. And though they never discussed anything serious or personal, Ilya often thought that Hollander was one of the people he was closest to. 

When it was announced that Ilya was being traded to Hollander’s team, all of Boston grieved his loss. They had grown to love the Russian over the years, and had accepted him as one of their own. And just as he was beginning to see the city and the people as his home, he was leaving again. 

 Ilya tried not to feel sad—he knew the feeling was pointless when there was nothing he could do—but he was still leaving a city of people that loved him. Nothing could change that. And when the Metros returned for their first game at TD Garden and he saw all the people wearing his jersey, yes, it was hard, impossible not to be sad. But there was nothing to be done about it, so Ilya said nothing. 

It didn’t help matters that he felt quite lonely in Montreal. A bit of it was to be expected, of course, because he didn’t know anybody. With his schedule immediately booked for hockey, there wasn’t much time to go out and meet people. And it wasn’t like Ilya had expected for him and Hollander to become best friends or even hang out or anything. But he was the only person Ilya knew in Montreal—Ilya thought that would’ve counted for something. Until that first day, when Hollander single-handedly decided they had to forget their history together. We should start fresh. 

And so, the only friend Ilya thought he had was officially a stranger. Ilya hadn’t seen that one coming. 

And he knew better than to take it personally, knew that it was just Hollander's usual neuroticism, worrying that Ilya would disrupt whatever rules he had set for himself. And he even understood it, on some level. They both were dedicated to the sport, and there had always been a silent agreement between them to never let their relationship get in the way of how they played. But that didn’t mean Ilya liked it at all. Or even tolerated it. 

And so, because they had been rivals, because they still were rivals, Ilya fucked with Hollander constantly. With the sex, mostly, because he knew Hollander was shy about that kind of thing. And because honestly, it drove him crazy trying to pretend otherwise. Sometimes when they would skate off the ice together after a game, sweat cooling, adrenaline still hot in Ilya’s blood, all he could think about was grabbing the back of Hollander’s neck, and kissing him right there, with cameras flashing and the crowd roaring. Sometimes, it took everything in him not to do it. 

Because on some level deeper than Ilya cared to admit, it hurt him that Hollander thought they were worth forgetting. And everyday that passed and Hollander refused to look him in the eye during practice, Ilya got more and more angry. Who did he think he was fooling? It was obvious to Ilya that Hollander still wanted him, had never stopped wanting him. He despised this game they were playing with each other. 

But Ilya wasn’t interested in chasing Hollander or cornering him, or dragging the truth out of him by force. He would never stoop that low, even if it would be nice to see Hollander’s perfect facade crack. So it was fine. Ilya Rozanov had made his way once in a new country, and he could do it again. After all, he didn’t care about Shane Hollander beyond the hockey they could play and the sex they could have. No…he didn’t care at all. And Ilya had a feeling he didn’t have to work very hard to get either of those things. 

Chapter 8

Chapter Notes

Shane gets lost on the way over. His agent texted him the details a couple days ago, and then his mom sent him the same ones. And yet, he still types in the wrong address. The car idles at the curb while Shane stares at the building, frowns, checks his phone again. Correct. Definitely correct. He exhales, kills the engine, and steps out into the cold.

Thankfully, he arrives on time. Shane shivers as he gets out of the car and walks to the building, his air coming out in cold puffs. It’s early in the morning. The shoot’s going the whole day, and he had to clear missing practice with Coach weeks in advance. 

But if he’s being honest, Shane is grateful for the day off. This deal has been in the works for weeks—his agent in constant meetings, his mom campaigning since the end of his deal with Reebok. Since the preseason, he’s gotten reminder texts from her everyday. Make sure to wear your Nikes! Not just the shoes, Shane—they can’t see the shoes on camera. 

The shoot producer meets him at the door with a smile and a lanyard. She talks as she walks, rattling off the schedule, the locations, the beats of the day. Shane nods along, half-listening. Through a wide doorway, Shane catches a glimpse of the rink they’ll be shooting on later—empty, pristine, lights humming low. It steadies him a little. Then he gets led to a room for hair and makeup. 

They grease up his hair to mimic sweat and touch up his under eyes with concealer before spending an hour carefully spritzing water droplets along his collarbones and temples  to make it look like he’s been on the training bike for an hour. 

He’s quiet during it all—the crew chats around him, but no one expects much back. Shane Hollander has a reputation for being quiet. Polite, easy to work with, but socially awkward. His mom says it’s better than to be known as trouble. 

They hand him his first outfit, similar to what he wears everyday: white compression shirt, black shorts, and Nike socks and shoes. No one says anything unusual until they lead him down to a set that mimics a gym. And then, almost as an afterthought, the producer says, “Oh, I forgot to mention. We brought on another player last minute.”

“Hockey player?” Shane asks stupidly. 

“Yeah,” she opens the door. “We thought it would be a good idea to attract the hockey fanatics. Hot topic recently, isn’t it?” 

And standing there, getting last minute touch ups down by his own hair and make up team, is Rozanov. 

What. The. Fuck.

He’s in all black to contrast Shane’s white, getting the same sweat treatment. Except unlike Shane, Rozanov has his entire crew laughing as he animatedly tells them a story. He’s charming them all.

“Ilya Rozanov,” the producer sighs. “They don’t make ‘em like that on this side of the Atlantic, do they?” 

 Shane nearly keels over. The producer continues, at the expression on Shane’s face, “Yeah…sorry about that. I wanted to tell you but I didn’t want to ruin the surprise. It’s better for the chemistry, you know?” 

He’s beginning to hate that word. The producer practically has to push Shane forward, because he’s suddenly not in good walking shape. Rozanov doesn’t spot him immediately, engrossed in whatever he’s saying. 

But Shane wants to go over there and grab him by the shoulders. Scream, what are you doing here? You moron, did you even ask Coach if you could leave? 

And then, I can’t have one day of peace, can I? 

His brown curls are slightly damp, sticking to his face with ‘sweat’ that runs down the sides of his neck.  And they must’ve tanned him or dehydrated him or something, because his arms look really fucking good in that sleeveless shirt. Shane clenches his jaw. This fucking prick. I bet he worked out to get a pump just for this.

I should’ve done that.  

“...Anyway, I told your agent to keep it a secret. Your mom was a challenge though. Said you’d freak out. I didn’t believe it.” She continues on, but Shane isn’t really listening. 

Rozanov finally glances up and spots him. His mouth ticks up in that smirk, not in the least bit surprised. Shane wonders how long he’s known about this. Someone holding a spray bottle motions for him to lift up his shirt, which he does, his eyes not leaving Shane. 

He mouths something that Shane doesn’t process until he’s finished saying it with a grin. 

You look pretty.

Shane turns to the producer. “How long is this going to take?” 

_________________________

Very long, is the answer. Which Shane should’ve figured—he’d filmed ads before, filmed ads with Rozanov before. But he doesn’t know why it feels so much longer this time. 

They start by a rack and pretend to be doing a workout together. Rozanov peers down at Shane while he benches. Good, Ilya. That’s a nice look. They switch places. Shane stands stiffly. Shane, stop glaring. And get closer.

He pretends not to notice the grin Rozanov is fighting back. 

Then they’re running next to each other on the treadmills. Looking forward and focused, then looking at each other and laughing. At some point, they actually become focused on the running. Just keeping pace, at first, but inevitably, it becomes a race, when Rozanov glances over, nods at Shane’s screen. “Is slow day for you, Hollander?” He jabs.

Shane looks away. Don’t engage. Don’t. This is work. But he can hear Rozanov’s footsteps increasing pace beside him, and that simply won’t do. 

By the end, they’re both drenched in bonafide sweat, wordless, listening to the sounds of each other’s breathing as they sprint. 

“Wow, that was great, guys,” is all the producer says once they cut. He and Rozanov hop off the treadmills, panting. “It looked so real.” 

They walk off to their crews in separate directions, and don’t say a word. After he gets cleaned up and the crew prepares for set change, Shane ducks around the corner with his phone already pressed to his ear, weaving past a rack of folded jerseys and cables snaking across the floor. He doesn’t know where he’s going—just away. Somewhere without cameras pointed at his face.

“Hey,” he says under his breath when the call connects. “Yeah, I know. I’m on a break.”

He leans his shoulder against the wall, eyes on the concrete floor. The buzz of the set bleeds through faintly—voices, laughter, the thump of music.

“No, it’s fine,” Shane says automatically, then exhales. “It’s just—Mom, they didn’t tell me. At all. I found out when I walked in.”

He scrubs a hand through his hair, leaving it damp and sticking up. “Yes, him. Rozanov. I don’t know why they thought that was a good idea. I didn’t agree to that. I agreed to a solo shoot.”

He listens for a second, jaw tightening.

“Just…why didn’t you tell me?” He tries to keep his voice even. “No—I don’t give a fuck if they told you to keep it from me. This is bullshit!” Shane pauses a second. “I don’t care if it’s ‘good for engagement.’ That’s not the point. The point is I don’t like being blindsided.” His voice drops, rougher now. “I can deal with him. That’s not— I’ve dealt with him for years. I just feel like they’re blowing this whole thing out of proportion. Our rivalry, Mom. I mean, I don’t even talk to the guy.” The words sound funny coming out. Shane swallows.

“No, nothing happened,” he says quickly. “He’s just—he’s being himself. Loud. Smug. Everyone loves him.” A beat. “It’s exhausting.”

He shifts his weight, glancing down the hallway without really seeing it. “I know. I know it’s part of the job. I’m not trying to get out of it. I just need you to stop acting like I’m overreacting.”

There’s a longer stretch of silence. Shane’s shoulders sag.

“I’m fine,” he says, softer. “I promise. I just want to get through today and go home.”

He pulls the phone away, ends the call, and lets his head fall back against the wall for a second. Closes his eyes.

“Your mother worries too much,” a voice behind him says mildly.

Shane startles, spine snapping straight. His heart jumps straight into his throat. Rozanov is standing a few feet down the hall, one shoulder braced against the opposite wall, arms crossed loosely over his chest. He looks infuriatingly relaxed, like he’s been there awhile.

“How long have you been standing there?” Shane hisses, heart racing.

Rozanov lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “Long enough.”

Heat floods his face. “You shouldn’t be listening to other people’s phone calls.”

“I was not listening,” Rozanov says easily. “I was walking. And you were talking very loudly.”

“I was not—” Shane stops himself, jaw clenched. “Whatever.” 

He pushes off the wall, makes to step past him. Rozanov shifts—not blocking him exactly, but close enough that Shane has to slow.

“I did not know,” Rozanov says.

Shane looks up despite himself. “Know what?”

“That you did not know about today.” His tone is oddly neutral. “The shoot.”

Shane hesitates, then scoffs. “What, was it your idea again?” He snaps before he can stop himself, then wonders if Rozanov even remembers their conversation from back then. When they were nineteen. 

Rozanov watches him for a second. Then he nods once. “Not my idea. But if you want space, you can have it.” 

The words land wrong—kind of icy and impersonal. Shane doesn’t know what to do with that. “I don’t need—” He cuts himself off, frustrated. “Just forget it. Pretend you didn’t hear anything.” 

Rozanov steps back, clearing the hall. “Okay,” he says simply.

They stand there for a beat too long, the hum of the set swelling again as a door opens somewhere down the hall.

“Shane!” someone calls. “We’re ready for you.”

Shane doesn’t look at Rozanov as he passes him, but he feels his eyes on him anyway—steady, thoughtful, not quite the same as before.

When Shane reaches the end of the hall, he risks a glance back.

Rozanov is already gone.

_________________________

The hours pass slowly. Shane’s never been a natural at this thing anyway—acting in front of a camera. It was kind of awesome at first. What eighteen year old guy wouldn’t have liked to have brands like CCM and Rolex doing photoshoots of him? But the idea in concept had always been better in practice. In practice, it’s a slow and tedious process. Shane has always been able to space out during it, but with Rozanov by his side, Shane feels everything in acute focus, which just makes it all worse. 

 They get switched into another set of athleisure and the producer positions them by racks of dumbbells and a mirror wall. Rozanov is leaning against it with his arms crossed while Shane sits in front of him on a bench. He is silent with concentration, but Rozanov makes no end of jokes with the crew as they work. They laugh along with him as Shane stands quietly, waiting for direction. It seems kind of strange that he’s such a natural at this; Shane almost wants to ask how many brand deals he’s done in the past five years.

“Okay, now, Ilya, could you stand kind of behind Shane?” The producer comes forward to position them, but Rozanov is already moving behind Shane, “Perfect, just like–and then could you, with your arms–” she takes his arm and wraps it around Shane’s shoulders. “Yeah, like that! I think it works. Doesn’t it?” She turns to the rest of the crew. They’re nodding along.

Shane is frozen in place. They’re practically posed like a couple. Rozanov’s hand is placed firmly in the middle of his chest as his arm wraps around his shoulders. 

Of course, Shane knows, it probably looks like nothing more than two close friends. Teammates. He bets it looks amazing, actually. 

“Let’s just try this for a little bit. Okay?” She looks at Shane, who is doing his best to school his expression. He just nods a bit, acting like he isn’t hyperaware of Rozanov’s breath hitting the back of his neck. 

The cameras flash in quick succession. Capture after capture. Shane feels real sweat start to bead at the corners of his forehead again. He’s holding his breath, practically frozen in place. 

“Just relax your shoulders a bit, Shane,” someone says from behind the cameras. He does his best to loosen them, but really just ends up squirming in place.

“Hollander,” Rozanov says, loud enough for everyone to hear, “You are not breathing.” 

There are scattered laughs. “I am,” Shane bites out.

Rozanov pats his chest once. “You are statue,” he insists. “Relax.”

Shane says nothing back. Behind the cameras, he’s aware of people watching them and laughing. His face burns. 

“He’s right, Shane, you gotta loosen up a bit.” The producer calls, “Can you try… I don’t know, leaning into him, a little? I don’t know if that sounds weird.” 

“He is like this in hockey too,” Rozanov calls out, then grasps Shane’s shoulders and shakes him a bit. His face burns with irritation and heat, but he plasters on a smile. “I am always reminding him to lighten up.” 

The cameras go off in quick succession. “Wow, I can see why everyone’s obsessed with the two of you. Good, keep that pose—” he can hear the producer pause. “Can you two look at each other now?” 

Shane turns, locking eyes with Rozanov over his shoulder. He leans in imperceptibly, feeling the heat of Rozanov’s body against his. His practiced smile falls. The cameras are still flashing up front, but for a second, Shane forgets them. He forgets all of them. 

His breathing hitches as Rozanov rides his hand up Shane’s chest. There’s no space between them now, and without thinking, Shane’s gaze drops to Rozanov’s lips. They’re perfect, full and slightly open and just a few inches away. 

The producer claps her hands abruptly, satisfied. “Perfect! Let’s reset.”

His arm drops, and the heat vanishes. Shane glances down and steps away to put space between them. And then he’s being ushered away in the other direction. Someone drapes a towel around Shane’s neck and hands him water. 

They move to the ice rink set, and Shane gets a short break to change into a uniform that closely resembles the blue and red of the Metros’ uniform. 

“I don’t know how you handle it,” the dresser says quietly as she adjusts the neckline of Shane’s jersey. She’s been hovering since the beginning, efficient and calm, but this is the first time she’s ventured to ask Shane a question.

Shane looks down. “Handle what?” 

She jerks her head in Rozanov’s direction. “He’s kind of an ass. What, did you do something to piss him off?” 

He stalls for a second, not entirely sure what to say. “He’s like that with everyone,” Shane mumbles eventually.

She gives him a dubious nod. “Yeah, okay.” 

Shane stares at the girl. Her black hair falls over her shoulder in a messy braid, brown eyes watching him carefully. Something about her gaze seems too…aware, in a way that unnerves him. “I’m serious,” he adds. “I mean, you should see him during practice. It’s even worse. This is nothing…he’s on his good behavior right now.” 

“I believe you,” she nods, but there’s laughter in her eyes. She doesn’t believe you, a voice in Shane’s head says. But he doesn’t say anything else. 

After a few moments, she adds quietly, “He is hot, though. Even as an asshole.” 

They are given about five minutes to warm up on the ice. Shane sticks to one corner, skating back and forth, messing around with the puck and prop stick they’ve given him. On the other end, Rozanov skates in big loops, speeding up and then sliding to quick stops, showing off to the crew while they finish setting up. Their laughs echo in the empty rink, and Shane feels like a spectator. 

“Okay,” the producer says eventually. She’s positioned them on one end of the rink to skate all the way down while they get footage for a promo. “We want intensity here. Competitive. Eye contact. You’re rivals, but you respect each other. Just imagine it’s a face-off, like any other.”

Rozanov skates into Shane’s space without waiting to be told. Their shoulders brush. Their arms bump. Every movement is deliberate now. Controlled. Shane’s jaw aches from how hard he’s clenching it.

“Eyes up, Shane,” the photographer calls. “Look at him.”

He does. Rozanov is already watching him. Dark-eyed. Focused. The teasing smile is gone. This version of him feels dangerous in a way that has nothing to do with hockey.

The shutter clicks. Again and again. In the back of his mind, Shane thinks of the first commercial they filmed together. Things had been so new back then; Shane had no idea what to make of Ilya Rozanov. He was an enigma—dark, intense, Russian. Shane’s pulse is loud in his ears. He feels too warm, too tight inside his own skin. The words from the bike—don’t let your feelings get in the way—crawl up his spine.

Unfortunately, all these years later, Shane still has no idea what to make of him. 

Rozanov stops skating suddenly, and looks up. “You know,” he says. “Doesn’t make much sense that we are facing off. We’re on same team now, yes?”

“That’s a good point,” the producer glances at his crew, then back at Rozanov. “Do you have any other suggestions?” 

“Maybe this,” Rozanov skates up to Shane, who stares at him with bald animosity. Rozanov glances at him, then nods at the ice on their feet. 

The ask in his eyes is clear. Get down. 

Shane huffs, then gets on one knee on the ice. Rozanov puts a gloved hand on his shoulder. This way, they look more like teammates. United. But the irony is not lost on Shane. Him on his knees, in front of Rozanov. 

The cameras flashing in front of him suddenly feel very hot. 

“Cut,” the producer says eventually. “Let’s take five.”

Shane doesn’t wait. He turns sharply and pushes through the nearest door, not checking where it leads. He goes down the hall, trying to remember where their dressing rooms were. He’s hot—too hot. As soon as the door shuts behind him, Shane starts stripping out of the heavy hockey gear, even though he knows he’ll just have to start putting it back on in thirty seconds. 

The door clicks open. Shane whirls around, half caught in jersey as he tries to strip it off over the shoulder pads. Rozanov stands in the doorway, watching him with raised eyebrows. 

God. Can Shane go anywhere without him showing up? He flushes red in embarrassment. 

“Well.” Rozanov says. “Don’t let me stop you.” 

Shane rolls his eyes and turns around so his back is to him. Then he takes off the jersey, then his shoulder pads. In the mirror, he can see Rozanov behind him, shutting the door and taking a step closer. 

Shane is determined not to say a word. 

Rozanov grabs a water bottle from the table and drinks from it, then shrugs. “Well, this is fun, isn’t it? Long fucking day, though. I am beat.” 

Shane says nothing. He contemplates walking out, then considers the possibility of Rozanov following him out. 

Rozanov continues. “Is your uniform fitting weird? I don’t know what they did with mine,” he twists, adjusting his shoulder pads with a grimace. “Is probably bad quality. Cheap. I think—” 

“Can you shut up for like two seconds?” Shane bursts, frustration rising to the surface. “Can’t you tell I don’t want to talk right now?” 

He tilts his head. “You don’t?” 

“No, I don’t!” His heart pounds in his ears. So much for not saying a word. “I’m so fucking confused by you, all the time, and I’m done with it! You don’t talk to me, ever, unless it’s to make some condescending fucking comment in front of everyone else. And then in Boston—you couldn’t even let me be then. But it’s my fault I let my feelings get in the way, right? This is fucking bullshit. I mean, what are we doing? Every time I look at you, I get so mad, I could just—”

Rozanov stares. “What?”

Punch you. Kiss you. Cry. He shakes his head, and looks away. “Fucking forget it. I’m going.”

Rozanov stops him with a hand on his arm, and pushes him back in place. “You said clean slate.” 

Shane rolls his eyes. “I know what I said, Rozanov. But that’s clearly not what we’re doing. Fucking pointless, I don’t know why I—“

He says, “What are we doing, then?”

Clear. Direct. It makes Shane’s heart race. “I don’t know! You tell me!”

Rozanov inches closer, and Shane’s gaze automatically falls to his lips. His blood starts to pound for an entirely different reason. He’s hot again, even with all the hockey gear stripped off. “Figure it out,” Rozanov responds softly.

Shane doesn’t know what to say to that. So they stand there, looking at each other. Stumped. Out of words. He feels exhausted all of a sudden. He’s been putting up an act all day long, and now all he really wants is for Rozanov is to do something stupid. Pull him close and kiss him, or lock the door behind them and do more. 

But Shane doesn’t want to ask for any of that—doesn’t really know how. 

Someone laughs down the hall. He can hear footsteps approaching, the sound of moving equipment. The sounds of reality. 

Shane pulls back a little, steeling himself again. This is work, he reminds himself, and you’re a professional. 

“I…have to get dressed,” he says flatly. 

Rozanov watches him for a moment, unreadable. Then he nods once. “Okay.” 

He turns and leaves the dressing room. Shane watches him go.

 _________________________

The last set of the day is a dingy locker room, not entirely dissimilar to the one they’d been in when they’d first planned to meet in Shane’s hotel room. It automatically brings him back, especially when the dressers have them both stripped down to the bottoms of their hockey gear and skates. 

Rozanov is suddenly quiet, too. No longer joking around with his crew as they do finishing touches on him. He doesn’t look at Shane as they’re positioned together against the lockers.

On one end of the locker room, in the mirrors, Shane catches his reflection with Rozanov beside him. Shirtless, gazing into the cameras in that way Shane once thought was only reserved for him. 

Suddenly, the praises from the producer, that’s perfect and hold it there, seem ill-fitted. Almost ironic. 

They wrap quickly. There’s a short round of applause, the producer thanking him and Rozanov. A few crew members come up to him, asking for autographs or photos now that they’re done with their work. He obliges, even though he’s tired. They all filter out of the locker room slowly, leaving Shane and Rozanov alone to take off all the gear and change. 

He’s exhausted, kind of…drained. And not just physically. Shane stands in one corner, folding his jersey carefully to put it atop the neat pile of all the other gear. Rozanov has his back turned, shirtless, shucking off the shin guards. He says nothing. The silence between them stretches thin, chastised into place by Shane’s outburst earlier. 

He said too much, maybe. He wonders if Rozanov just thinks he’s an idiot. 

Shane realizes he’s stopped folding the jersey, distracted by the sight of Rozanov, when Rozanov turns around and meets his eyes. 

Shane looks away quickly, face burning. He gathers up all his clothes, getting ready to leave. And then Rozanov walks over, towards the exit.

He stops in front of Shane. The bench is between them. Shane glances up, swallows the lump in his throat. 

“Look,” Rozanov starts, “We should—“ 

Shane doesn’t let him finish. He drops the clothes. The gear lands with a clatter and echoes through the locker room as Shane reaches forward, dragging Rozanov towards him and kissing him. 

Rozanov lets out a noise against his mouth, surprised, but doesn’t push him away. His hands immediately find Shane’s hips, gripping tight. They both lean over the bench, meeting in the middle, trying to keep as little space between their bodies as possible. 

Shane moans at the feel of him. He drags a hand through those soft, brown curls and grips them tight. 

Rozanov pushes his tongue against Shane’s roughly, grabbing his chin to tilt his head. Then they’re both panting against each other, turned on, impatient. 

This is what they’ve always done best. 

He feels it creep up on him in hot waves—the desire. Suddenly, the last time they were together comes rushing back to him in a flood of fragmented memories. Being pressed into the hotel mattress, Rozanov murmuring in Russian on top of him. Gripping onto the pillow to stay quiet. It feels like a truth that Shane can’t possibly hide from anymore. And he’s too tired to even try. 

Somewhere in the distance, a door clangs open. They rear apart like shrapnel. It’s the elevator all over again—hard breaths and averted gazes. Shane stumbles back, flushed. In a daze, he turns to pick up his gear off the ground.  

Shit. Shit. Shit. He stands up, in time to catch Rozanov ducking away without a word. Shane catches a glimpse of his face, of that stunned expression he knows he must have on too. 

Because it’s becoming clear neither of them know what the fuck just happened.

Chapter End Notes

guys that finale will genuinely haunt me i need season 2 NOW. nothing as beautiful has ever been created. jacob tierney i owe you my life.

Chapter 9

Chapter Notes

When they return for practice the next day, they don’t hear the end of it. 

“Oh,” Hayden’s gaze rakes over Shane as he steps into the locker room. “Fashion week all done?” 

“Very funny,” Shane mutters. He’s in a shit mood. Couldn’t sleep much last night. Not after…

Anyway.

“Did they let you keep the costumes?”

He shucks off his hoodie and starts digging into his bag for gear. “Costumes,” Shane repeats drily. “Yeah, right. Running shorts and shitty skates. Amazing.”

“Oh please,” Hayden scoffs. “We all know you secretly loved getting dolled up and taking pictures. You’re not fooling anyone, Hollander.”

Shane doesn’t respond, pretending to be focused with untangling the straps on his shoulder pads. He makes a point not to glance at Rozanov a few lockers away, hoping no one will notice the two of them were notably absent on the same day.

Hayden asks after a minute, “Well, did you and Rozanov have a fun time at least?”

So much for that.

“Jesus,” Shane looks up, irritated and also terrified. “I feel like I’m in media right now. What, do you have a microphone to stick in my face too?” 

Hayden looks amused. Next to him, JJ stifles a laugh as he watches the interaction. “We figured you two would be shooting together. Gone the same day and all. So?” They turn to Rozanov and Hayden raises his eyebrows. “Rozanov, got anything to say?”

“It was like party,” Rozanov says drily. “My god. So fun.”

It is a well-known fact, on the Metros and on any other team in the League, that Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov are big in the public eye. Bigger than the average professional hockey player. With the stats they had going into their draft year, it was only expected that they’d both be flocked with brand deals and magazine shoots. Shane would say his are on the classier side than someone like Rozanov. But, semantics.

Shane lets loose a breath of relief at Rozanov’s reply, thinking maybe they’re on the same page. Maybe they won’t address it. So he adds, “Yeah. Made me want to quit my job and start modeling full time. I guess this is goodbye.”

“Alright, jeez.” Hayden frowns while looking between them. “I won’t ask anything else.”

Rozanov glances up, catches Shane’s eye. The air between them stretches tight almost immediately. Shane fumbles with his jersey and glances down, face burning. He gets ready quickly and walks off in the other direction, busying himself with studying the board with their team calendar.

“We play Boston again soon,” JJ says behind him.

Shane starts a bit. “Jeez, man,” he mutters, turning around. “Yeah, I guess we are. Shocker.”

It isn’t really a shocker. The Metros played the Raiders at least three times a season.

JJ just grins. “I forgot to ask you earlier. How was it?”

Shane blinks. “What?”

“Come on,” he winks. “How was it?”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“You know, Lily,” the name enunciates clearly in his Quebec accent “We all know you hook up with her whenever we play in Boston. Every time.”

The name seems to echo through the locker room. Shane freezes. It might just be in his head, the way everyone seems to stop what they’re doing.

“Oh yeah,” Hayden says, glancing up, “Well? Did you keep the tradition alive?”

Rozanov sits a few feet away, securing his pads in place. He watches the scene in mild interest, then looks at Shane. And keeps looking. Waiting to see what he will say. The fucker.

Shane fails to come up with something. “I…”

“God, you’ve got to show us a picture.” Hayden insists. “I need to see what kind of girl can keep Hollander hot between seasons.” 

His stomach drops as they burst out laughing. But Shane just shakes his head, pretends he’s not internally reeling. “Nah, we didn’t…”  

“What, were you not in the mood?” JJ chuckles suggestively. “I get it. Losing is a turnoff for me too.” 

Heat crawls up Shane’s neck. He forces a laugh that sounds wrong even to his own ears. In the back of his mind, he remembers the words Rozanov murmured into his ear. Only me. It’s the fucking worst time for a memory like that, and Shane wishes he hated remembering it. “It’s not like that. There just wasn’t time. I’ll catch her next game.”

He snorts. “If she’s still around. Don’t know how you can keep a girl waiting for a year.” 

Shane doesn’t look at Rozanov. His jaw tightens as he throws back, “Good thing I can see your mother every day then, right?”

The laughter hits immediately. Someone whistles. A towel gets thrown.

Shane bends back over his skates, hands shaking as he fastens them in place, uselessly. He doesn’t need to look to know Rozanov is still watching.

_____________

The next night, they’re in New York for a game. The rink is loud during warmups. The boards vibrate when pucks hit them. Music thumps through the speakers, bass-heavy and aggressive, and the crowd is already restless. Shane skates slow laps, rolling his shoulders, testing the ice. It’s good — fast, clean. He glances toward center ice without meaning to.

Rozanov is already there, snapping passes with one of the defensemen, movements sharp and precise. He looks completely at ease. In his element, even. Which is the fucking corniest thing to think, but it’s true. And Shane knows, because he feels the same way. Like everything else they do...the practices and interviews...is all so they can get to this moment. Being on the ice. 

A few minutes later, they’re huddled by the bench, waiting for the opening face-off.

It’s off hand, casual yet unexpected. “You did not have to say that.”

Shane turns, almost unsure that Rozanov’s talking to him. But something about the low tone catches him. “What?” 

“To Pike,” he clarifies. “Earlier. About the girl.”

“Oh,” Shane looks away quickly, shakes his head. “I mean…what else was I supposed to say?” 

“You could have said nothing.” Rozanov offers. 

“Right,” Shane lets out a quick laugh. “That would’ve landed well.” 

“That is what I did,” he mutters as he gets up. About to get onto the ice. He gives Shane one last look. “When people would ask about you.”

He looks up at that.  “People asked about me?”

“Of course,” he tightens the strap on his helmet. “My teammates were surprised how long my attention could be held by just one girl.” 

That last word, Rozanov says with a little emphasis, holding Shane’s gaze. Even after he skates away to go stretch, Shane stares after him.

They reunite for the face-off, Rozanov at Shane’s left. Shane shoots the puck to him as soon as it drops. Then they’re off.

They get a few of shots on the goal within the first ten minutes, but New York’s defense is good tonight. Really good. Until one of their players gets a penalty and skates off the ice while yelling at the ref. Shane and Rozanov score one goal each during the power play. The crowd roars and in the heat of the moment, Rozanov bumps Shane into the boards, grinning, and knocks their helmets together. Shane can’t help but grin back. 

It’s a good game, one of the best they’ve had all season. Rozanov chirps at Scott Hunter constantly. The captain of the Admirals is basically the ideal target for Rozanov—gruff, proud, easy to bait.

“Still looking for your goal, Captain?” Rozanov pouts as Hunter skates by. “Where did it go?”

Hunter just ignores him.

Then later, “Going to the bench for a nap? Must be past your bedtime. Grandpa.”

“I’m not that old,” Hunter growls as he passes.

Rozanov just smiles. “Careful out there. Your bones…very brittle.”

Hunter eyes Shane then. “Put a leash on him or something, will you?”

“Not a chance.”

They win against the New York Admirals two periods later, in a shameful 4-1. After the game, the whole team goes out to celebrate, and drags Shane along even when he insists on going to bed early. They end up at some stupid club downtown, all loud music and flashing lights, bodies tightly together. The music rattles in Shane’s chest even as he stands at the fringes of the crowd. He holds a can of ginger ale awkwardly, in alternative to the beer insisted on him by Hayden as he said come on, man, you gotta celebrate! The condensation of it wets his fingers. All of his teammates are dispersed around, drinking, dancing, surrounded by women. He watches the clock on his phone persistently, vaguely aware of the curfew they have to attend to, while also trying to figure out how long he has to stay before it would be acceptable to call himself a cab and leave without anyone calling him a buzzkill.

Shane finally forces his way out through a side door, and when he finally slips outside, the night are hits him in a cool, refreshing rush. The roads shine in the streetlights, soaked in rain. A few doors down, people are laughing loudly as they exit another bar, arms slung around each other. He even catches someone in an Admirals jersey. A cab honks. Music leaks through the club’s door every time it opens, a dull, constant thud under everything.

Standing there on the street, Shane wonders for a second what it would be like, living in this city. Montreal is nice, but even he has to admit it’s nothing like New York. Something about it seems so much more…free.

The sound of someone talking in Russian snaps him out of his thoughts. Shane turns. He spots Rozanov standing off to the side of the entrance, shoulder against the brick, cigarette glowing briefly as he takes a drag. He’s on his phone, speaking low and fast, jaw tight. In the dim light, his face looks sharp and serious. Shane approaches before he can convince himself not to, silent as Rozanov ends the call and curses to himself.

Shane hesitates, then asks, “Is…everything okay?”

Rozanov turns around, looking surprised to find him standing there. He takes a drag of his cigarette instead of responding. A nervous habit, Shane suspects.

“Da,” he says eventually, though it looks like the word costs him effort. “Everything okay. Go back inside.” 

“Come on,” Shane laughs a little, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. “That sounded serious.”

“Is nothing.” Rozanov insists sullenly.

“Is it your family?” Shane presses. He doesn’t even know why he cares.

“Hollander!” Rozanov snaps. “I said it is nothing, right?”

Shane bristles at his raised voice. “Fine! I can’t be concerned for a teammate?” 

The bite to the words bleeds into the air. Rozanov glances up, sensing Shane’s irritation. He just huffs out a breath into the cold, doesn’t know why he bothered. Fuck this. He’s going back inside.

A few seconds stretch by.

“It was my brother,” Rozanov admits.

Shane shrugs, trying not to seem like he cares too much, even though this is the first time Rozanov has mentioned having any siblings. And Shane wants to ask what his name is. If he has any others.

“Okay…” is all he actually says.

Rozanov takes a long drag of his cigarette. “Do you have any siblings, Hollander?” He shakes his head. Rozanov nods, “They are complicated, usually.”

“How so?”

“Like…you love them,” he says slowly. “But sometimes is hard. They can be cruel and selfish. And they only think about themselves.”

Shane stares. Rozanov sounds angry…not at him, but still. He feels a little shocked he’s hearing all this. But again, Shane did ask. And he owes it to Rozanov to listen, as a teammate if nothing else.

“What did your brother say?” Shane asks.

Rozanov looks up, emotion shuttering over his expression before he shakes his head and smirks. “You would not understand if I told you. Russian, remember?”

Shane rolls his eyes. “You can’t translate?”

He comes up off the wall and drops his cigarette on the ground. “So curious,” he complains, walking Shane back against the other wall. He puts both of his cold hands on either side of Shane’s face, and kisses him instead of truly answering. It’s hard, impatient and a little desperate. Shane gasps when their tongues brush, and the feel of it is nearly enough for him to forget where they are. Nearly.

Shane fumbles with his hands, pushing Rozanov away quickly. “What the fuck is your problem?” He hisses, flustered. Furious. “Do you want to get caught?”

“Maybe.” Rozanov has the nerve to grin. He leans in again, but Shane ducks away and backs up. Putting some much-needed space between them.

“Stop that! We can’t…”

Rozanov looks around, head turning to the street. “Let’s go then. Back to hotel.”

Shane’s eyes narrow. “People will notice if we both leave at the same time.” 

He wonders if Rozanov can sense it’s not a true no.

“Then just take separate cabs,”  Rozanov says easily. As if this is all so fucking easy. Shane just glares at him. He has no idea what to say anymore. He feels a little disoriented, has whiplash from Rozanov’s changing mood. Just a second ago, he was sullen, obviously upset about something with his brother. Shane feels like he got just a glimpse of that emotion before Rozanov shut it all away.  

Rozanov sighs a little bit. “You are thinking too much, Hollander.”

Shane scowls. “You’re not thinking at all. This is a bad idea.”

Rozanov leans back against the wall, pulling out his phone. “Fine,” he cedes.

Shane watches, suddenly upset even though he technically got what he wanted. He turns to go back inside, but then Rozanov says, “Wait.”

When he looks back, Rozanov is typing something on his phone. Shane fights the urge to roll his eyes. “What, Rozanov? What could you possibly–” 

Shane feels his phone buzz. He automatically reaches for it and turns it on, then clicks on the notification. 

“What is this?” he mumbles — and then realizes.

“My address,” Rozanov says. Shane looks up, surprised. Rozanov steps closer, cups his chin, and kisses him once. Shane doesn’t think they’ve ever kissed just once before. It feels like a promise. “We play Ottawa next week,” Rozanov says quietly. “Big game. Come over after.” He leans in, breath brushing the shell of Shane’s ear, voice low enough to get lost in the city noise. 

Shane shoves him away a little, but it’s half-hearted. “You’re so…” he shakes his head.

“What?” Rozanov grins.

“Confusing,” he mutters.

Rozanov studies him for a second, brushing a thumb lightly at his freckles. Then he pulls Shane in and kisses him again. He tastes like cigarettes and mint. Shane fights back a moan as Rozanov presses his tongue against his. By the time Rozanov pulls away, it’s suddenly very clear why Shane should...

“Come over. I will make things less confusing,” Rozanov says softly. “Yes?”

Something in him melts a little, despite his better sense. He knows this is a bad idea, and knows he should say no.

Shane nods, leaning into the press of Rozanov’s palm. “Okay.”

Chapter End Notes

happy new year!! so grateful for all the love and comments <3

Chapter 10

Chapter Notes

Nashville, 2011

After he and Rozanov were done, Shane got dressed quickly, feeling that familiar mix of guilt and longing and holy fuck, that just happened. He was especially shocked that time because of the words Rozanov had muttered to him earlier, on the bed. I want to fuck you, Hollander.

Like yes, obviously, that kind of thing had been implied since the first time they’d…messed around. But hearing it, agreeing to it, was a completely different thing.

Rozanov stood with a towel wrapped around his waist, maybe waiting for Shane to leave.

“Look…” Shane said eventually. “I know we…talked about Montreal in two weeks. But, I think…”

Rozanov crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. Waiting.

“We probably shouldn’t.” He finished.

“No?”

“No. I mean...obviously, right?” Shane ran a hand through his damp hair. “It’s stupid..” He continued, more to himself. “This is stupid. I don’t know why we even…” his words broke off into a nervous laugh.

Because it was fucking crazy. This whole thing was fucking crazy. Shane couldn’t believe he’d considered making a plan to fuck Ilya Rozanov. In his apartment. In two weeks.

He was kind of sad it wasn’t happening.

Rozanov walked slowly towards him. Shane looked over, his breath catching. He was frustrated, somewhat, that Rozanov could make him so flustered, just by being shirtless. 

Rozanov held out his hand. “Give me your phone.”

“My phone?” Shane asked weakly.

“Yes.”

He fumbled to pull it out of his pocket and handed it to Rozanov. Rozanov took it and entered his number into Shane's contacts, under the name Lily. Shane snorted when he saw it.

Then Rozanov turned and grabbed his own phone from the dresser.

“What’s my name going to be?” He asked.

Rozanov looked up. “Jane.” He said.

Shane took his phone back without saying anything, then turned to leave.

A little while later, his phone buzzed with a notification.

Lily: Hey, Jane. It’s Lily. See you in two weeks xx

Shane stared at the text long and hard. That fucker.

Beneath his amusement, Shane was still kind of shell-shocked. He had Ilya Rozanov’s number in his phone. Under a secret name.

He wondered how often he’d be using the contact. Secretly, he hoped it was often.

_________________________

Present

Sometime past midnight, Shane’s phone buzzes on the night stand and lights up in the dark. He hasn’t been sleeping, really, can’t shake the adrenaline from their game tonight. Hayden snores loudly in the other bed, which doesn’t help matters.

Shane shifts into a sitting position, reaching over to grab his phone. The notification pops up instantly.

Lily: Are you up? 

His heart skips a beat. This is the first text he’s gotten in…months. Rozanov is just two doors over. They played well tonight, but didn’t say much to each other. 

Yeah, are you? Shane types back. 

Lily: Yes. Hard to sleep after a shitty game.

Come on, it wasn’t that bad. 

Lily: Buffalo is terrible. I want to get out. 

Shane is typing back a response when another text comes through. 

Lily: Come to mine?

He rolls his eyes. Aren’t you rooming with JJ?

Lily: Yes. He is snoring very loudly.

Hayden’s snoring too. 

Lily: Let’s go somewhere then. Outside.

It’s the middle of the night! He types, shaking his head. Then adds, And it’s not Friday yet.

Lily: I don’t think I can wait so long, Hollander. 

Shut up. I’m not coming over.

Lily: Fine. :(

He stares at the text for a while before realizing there’s a stupid grin on his face. Shane shakes his head. Then he says, Teach me something in Russian. 

Lily: Why? Planning to take my spot on Team Russia in 2018? 

Maybe. 

Lily: What do you want to know? 

Anything…you pick. 

Lily: Okay. 

Lily: Я хочу тебя трахнуть

Wow, long. Does that say, “Shane Hollander sucks at hockey?” 

Lily: Figure it out. 

Shane copies the text, then puts it into his translation app. He’s blushing, sure not to sleep for the rest of the night, when he types: I want that too.

Rozanov’s response is instant. 

Lily: Good night, Hollander. 

___________________________________

It’s a rare occurrence when the team is home, with no games scheduled, and Coach mercies them with a short morning practice. The day starts with Shane coming back home before noon, sitting in his empty apartment, and ends with him at Hayden’s place, crammed around a too-small dining table with half of the team and a couple of girlfriends squeezed in the dining room and living room. Someone’s brought a case of beers, and American football is playing on the flatscreen in the living room. Shane leans against the counter with a ginger ale in front of him as everyone laughs around them. It’s loud. Comfortable. Familiar in the way that should make Shane’s chest loosen and forget all the things he’s usually thinking about.

Instead, he’s holding onto his phone when it buzzes. Shane checks it without thinking, thumb already moving.

Lily: What’s a lonely girl to do in Montreal?

Shane’s mouth twitches despite himself. He types back. Who’s asking?

The response comes faster than it should.

Lily: My girlfriend. Obviously. 

He exhales through his nose. Across the table, Hayden catches him looking at his phone and smirks.

“What,” Hayden says, nudging Shane’s knee with his own. “Getting ready for next time?”

Shane shakes his head. “Shut up.” 

“Uh-huh,” JJ says. “You’ve smiled twice in thirty seconds. That’s not normal.”

Shane ignores them and looks back down. I’m sure the two of you can figure something out. Have fun. 

Lily: Ouch. Someone sounds upset.

I’m not. I know you don’t actually have a girlfriend. 

Lily: You’re right.  Don’t worry, Hollander. No one’s taken your spot yet.

His fingers pause over the screen. The noise around him fades just a little — the clatter of forks, the laughter, the easy overlap of voices. He’s aware, suddenly, of how warm the room is.

Good, he finally types. Then, I was worried you’d gotten it out of your system.

He shuts the phone off after, not wanting to see what Rozanov has to say to that. Shane glances up, forcing himself back into the conversation just long enough to nod at something Hayden’s girlfriend is saying about flights getting canceled over the holidays.

His phone buzzes again. Shane grabs it instantly.

Lily: I don’t think I could ever get you out of my system.

His heart pounds as he reads the words, over and over again.

___________________

Ilya 

Ilya leaves the TV on even when he’s not watching it to fill the silence. Tonight it’s some late-night panel show, voices overlapping in English he only half listens to. He sits at the kitchen table with his phone face-down beside his hand, waiting for it to buzz with a reply from Jane. Outside, Montreal looks gray and hard, the streets already slick with the threat of snow.

It’s too bad they had a short practice today. Now Ilya sits alone with nothing to do. He considers going out, but really he just misses the clubs in Boston. He’s not ready to find out how Montreal compares. 

But then again—he doesn’t want to be sitting home alone all night. Ilya flips his phone face-up and checks it, even though he knows there won’t be anything there. He knows better than to expect another text from Hollander.

Ilya exhales through his nose and pushes back from the table. The chair legs scrape against the floor, sharp in the quiet kitchen. He stands there for a second, unsure what to do. He runs his hand through his hair.

This is stupid.

He shouldn’t be sitting here like this. He’s not nineteen anymore, alone in a shitty apartment with nothing to do. He has a reputation. A city. Many fucking cars. And he plays for a good fucking hockey team.

But look at him. Sitting in the dark, texting Hollander.

Ilya lights another cigarette just for something to do, even though the ashtray is already too full and the room smells heavily of smoke. He remembers promising the owner of the building not to smoke a few months ago. Ilya leans against the counter and stares out the window, streetlights blurring in the glass.

He wonders if Hollander has gone to bed by now. The thought comes uninvited, sharp and irritating. Or maybe not asleep. Maybe lying awake too, staring at the ceiling, overthinking everything the way he always does. Or maybe he’s not thinking about Ilya at all. Maybe he’s with someone else. Maybe that’s why it’s quiet.

Ilya clicks his tongue, crushing the cigarette out harder than necessary. Enough.

He grabs a jacket, shoves his wallet into his pocket, and heads for the door. Fuck this.

He can’t miss Boston forever. And he’ll be damned if he lets his life gets boring just because he’s in a different city. Montreal has more to offer him than Shane Hollander. And it’s time he finds out for himself what that is.

Ilya leaves his apartment. He takes the stairs two at a time, suddenly in a rush. He’ll go out. Have a drink. Maybe two. Talk to someone who doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t look at him like they’re waiting for something he doesn’t know how to give.

And if he checks his phone again once he’s outside, just in case—well. That doesn’t mean anything.

__________________

The night they play Ottawa, the locker room is a flurry of activity. Shane feels his blood pumping with adrenaline as he gets his uniform on. He’s nervous. For more reasons than usual.

Since New York, he and Rozanov have been texting. Often. They don’t talk to each other in person—probably trying to keep things as discreet as possible. Or maybe Rozanov is just as nervous as he is.

Shane is quietly fastening on his helmet when he sees his phone light up with a notification. He grabs it immediately, swipes it open. 

Lily: See you tonight, Captain. 

His heart starts to race. Shane glances up on instinct, making sure nobody’s looking. He spots Rozanov on the other side, phone in hand, laughing at something his teammate is saying. 

We’re like four feet away from each other, you moron. He types back. 

Shane doesn’t look, but his response is immediate.

Lily: four feet too far

He lets out a surprised noise disguised through a cough, even as his face goes red. Then another text comes through. 

Lily: come give me a kiss for good luck

Shane shakes his head. 

You’re such an asshole. He sends. 

He feels himself smiling and decides its time to shut the phone off, and start putting his gloves on. But even as he tries to focus on the game ahead, anticipation swirls low in his stomach. An aching question, waiting to be answered.

He tries not to read anything into it.

__________________________________

After the game, Shane gets out of the shower to find Rozanov lingering in the entrance, leaning against the wall with a hand on his hip. His curls are still damp on the edges.

He nods casually, “You drove here?” 

“Uh…” Shane looks around, searching for their other teammates. “Yeah. Why?” 

Rozanov shrugs. “Thinking. You can leave your car here and ride with me or we can meet–”

“Wait.” Shane stops him, alarmed. “You mean…” 

Rozanov raises his eyebrows, nodding slightly. 

“Oh,” Shane says. Looks down. “There’s…people. We-” 

Rozanov makes a show of turning and glancing around the empty shower stalls. Everyone is still gathered in the locker room, out of ear shot. “Really?” He looks at Shane again. “I don’t see anybody.” 

Shane glares, but it’s half-hearted. “Fine.” He says in a low voice, “I’ll drive my car. Meet there. Okay? Now leave me alone.” 

He shoves past, trying to contain his blush, but he hears Rozanov laugh as he leaves. “Such a sweet-talker, Hollander.” 

They don’t talk for the rest of the evening, not even when they part ways at the door and leave for their separate cars. But even exhausted from the game, Shane feels that anticipation simmering inside him.

On the drive over, he’s struck again, with this feeling of disbelief. It’s the same one he felt while waiting for Rozanov in his hotel, that first night they were together. The one he felt when they exchanged numbers and planned to meet. For sex.

Even on the same team, they are still Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov. No matter what happens, this thing will always be impossible.

He thinks about texting Rozanov when he arrives, but then decides against it, not wanting to seem too eager. Even though by the time he’s out of the car, Shane is already heated by the mere thought of seeing Rozanov.

Once he gets through the door, fumbles with the keypad and the elevator up to Rozanov’s floor, Shane is practically shaking.

He’s never been much of a drinker, but he thinks a shot would be good right now. Maybe some of that Russian vodka Rozanov gave him in Las Vegas. Just to calm himself down.

It doesn’t help that when he knocks on the door, Rozanov answers within seconds. Shirtless.

He wordlessly steps aside for Shane to come in.

The first thing he notices is the faint smell of cigarette smoke. Shocker. Shane spots a small shelf for shoes by the doorway and takes his off.

He walks in, glancing around the kitchen and living room. There’s a decent view of the Montreal skyline out the windows.

“Wow,” he says automatically. “This place is nice. Did you decorate yourself or did you hire someone?”

Shane turns to find Rozanov smirking at him. “Okay, maybe I shouldn’t have asked.” He bets Rozanov would rather quit smoking than decorate his own apartment. “Was it Rohrman? Great guy. He did one of my mom’s properties uptown. This looks pretty similar-“

As he babbles on, Rozanov starts to close the distance between them. Say something, Shane wants to beg. So I’m not talking to myself like an idiot. His heart pounds as Rozanov nears without a word.

“My coat—“ Shane tries again in a pitched voice, gesturing to the folded garment in his arm. Rozanov just pushes him back against the kitchen counter. “Should I—“

He leans forward, silencing him with a kiss. It’s filthy and hard. A moment later, Rozanov slips the coat out of Shane’s grip and tosses it away somewhere. That works too, he thinks distantly. Then Rozanov braces his hands on the counter, on either side of Shane, and kisses him again.

Shane feels cornered and a little terrified, but he likes it.

He thinks to say something, something like, should we talk first? Or maybe this can wait. Only waiting suddenly feels impossible. Shane moans into Rozanov’s mouth, grabbing at the hem of his pants. Rozanov breaks the kiss just long enough for Shane to reach down, hissing when he wraps his hand around the hard length of Rozanov’s cock. Shane kisses him feverishly, all the way down his neck, savoring the taste of his skin. The musk and cologne and sweat…fuck.

“Fuck,” Rozanov swears as Shane strokes him in fast motions. He can feel Rozanov’s hands fumbling at Shane’s hips, trying to tug at the hem of his shirt, but Shane doesn’t leave any space between their bodies. “Fuck, Hollander—let me—“

Shane pulls back, dazed, stares up at Rozanov in mild confusion. But Rozanov just tugs Shane’s shirt off and tosses it away. He starts kissing down Shane’s chest, palming him through his pants. The feel of it makes Shane moan into his mouth. He presses harder, and Shane’s back arches off the counter. They’re jerking each other off in tandem, gasping into each other’s mouths, hips grinding against each other.

And then…Rozanov pulls away.

Shane practically cries out in frustration. “What…”

“Turn around,” Rozanov murmurs in that voice. Shane can’t say no to him when he talks like this. “Bend over the counter. And wait for me.”

He turns, but then mumbles, just as it occurs to him, “Here?” 

Rozanov hums behind him. “What?”

“Here? You don’t want to-” he twists to meet Rozanov’s eyes. “Don’t you want to go somewhere that, I don’t know, has a bed?” 

He smirks. “No beds. We don’t believe in them in Russia.” 

“Oh, right.” Shane rolls his eyes. He starts to frown, in that way he knows looks more like a pout, until Rozanov leans forward. Presses a kiss on his neck.

“I want you like this,” he says low in Shane’s ear. A moment later, Shane feels a firm grip on his hip, pushing him so his stance widens. Then Rozanov places a palm on his back and lowers him to the counter’s surface. He shivers a bit, the cool marble pressed against his bare skin.

He feels Rozanov’s chain dangling in the divot between his shoulder blades when he leans down and orders, “Wait here. Like this.”

And he feels a little…humiliated, bent over the counter as he hears Rozanov walk away. He’s thrumming, still hard and still turned-on and impatient as ever. About a minute passes and then Rozanov is back, hips pushing into Shane from behind. He tugs on the hem of Shane’s pants and yank them all the way down. Shane gasps when Rozanov’s grip moves from his hips to his ass, hands lingering there almost thoughtfully. Shane’s breath is hot against the countertop as he feels the cool press of Rozanov’s fingers sliding into him, starting to work him open.

“Thought about this during the game,” Rozanov mutters as he reaches forward, and starts to stroke Shane. “Having you like this.” 

“Fuck,” Shane writhes on the hard surface. He can feel his hipbones digging into the edge, likely to bruise, but he can’t find it in himself to care. “Me…me too.” Rozanov adds a finger. Shane lets out a noise that sounds almost like a whine. “God, can you just…” 

“What?” Rozanov says above him. 

Shane squirms a little. “You know.” 

A hand reaches forward, starts toying with Shane’s hair. “Say it. Ask me.” 

“Asshole,” Shane mutters. 

The hand tightens into a grip. Rozanov pulls at his hair a bit. “What was that?” 

The rough handling wears down his patience. Shane writhes in desperation. “Fuck me,” he hears himself say, in a voice that isn’t entirely familiar. Rozanov’s hand trails down to grasp the back of Shane’s neck. Possessive and commanding. “Please. Fuck me. I…can’t wait anymore.” 

He hears shuffling behind him. The familiar sound of tearing foil, and then feels Rozanov pressing into him. Shane gasps at the impossible fullness. At this angle, it feels…unlike anything else. 

He cries out, almost shocked at the feeling. Behind him, Rozanov groans quietly and mutters something in Russian, hand tightening around the back of Shane’s neck. Rozanov gives him a second, maybe two, to adjust, before he starts fucking him. Hard. Over and over. It’s overwhelming, and there’s a bite of pain from where Shane’s hipbones slam into the edge of the counter. But that only makes it all better. And with each thrust, it almost feels like he’s saying, this is what you wanted, isn’t it? So take it. Generous and a little mean all at once, in a way that wipes away any sense of self Shane has left. 

It’s been too long—they both can feel it. And their desperation is thick in the air.

Rozanov’s movements are so rough, Shane reaches back, looking for something to hold onto, to steady himself. But Rozanov just grabs his wrist, then grabs the other one, and pins them together behind his back. 

It leaves him with nowhere to go, nothing to hold onto. His eyes roll back and he tries to breathe out, but it just comes out as another moan. 

“Fuck,” Rozanov says behind him, voice tight. “Knew you would like it this way. Maybe I need to get you handcuffs. For next time, yes?” 

Oh my god. 

“Jesus,” Shane gasps. He pictures it instantly—Rozanov chaining him to the headboard and fucking him into the mattress, or pinning his hands back and lifting up his hips, or whatever else he wants. And just the thought of it has him shaking, dizzy, stammering, “Holy shit, Rozanov, you better—I think I’m–” 

Rozanov’s laugh comes out as a groan. “Are you going to come, Hollander?”

“Yeah,” Shane gasps. “If you don’t—” 

But Rozanov only thrusts faster, stealing the words from Shane’s lips. A moment later, his eyes are rolling all the way back as he comes, breathing in broken whimpers. 

Rozanov chuckles a bit, but it sounds strained. “That was fast,” he teases. But Shane is still floating, drunk on the way he feels, while Rozanov pounds into him mercilessly. 

“God, I need—please, come for me—come inside me,” he mumbles in a weak string of words, without thinking. His own voice sounds foreign, desperate and pathetic, in his ears. He doesn’t realize what he’s said until he feels Rozanov pause for half a beat behind him, breath stuttering.

“Fuck,” he hisses, hips slamming into Shane hard. It doesn’t take long after that. When Rozanov comes, they both moan in unison. Shane writhes at the feeling inside him, relishing in the sensation while Rozanov stills. 

They both seem to realize what’s happened at the same time. Shane flushes furiously at what he’s just asked, begged for. Rozanov seems pleased, running a hand up his back, up to his neck, fingers twisting in his hair. A casual touch. But as the air cools around them, Shane doesn’t really feel like lingering in this moment. So he twists around, laughs a bit. It’s strained. “I…I don’t know why I-” 

Rozanov glances up to meet his eyes. He has that flushed, just-fucked look. He looks good enough to eat, so Shane just avoids his eyes. “That was intense,” he mumbles, eyes darting around to find where his clothes are. 

Rozanov is still watching him. “Everything…okay? Did I-” 

He shakes his head. “No—yes, everything’s fine. You didn’t do anything I—” Anything I didn’t like. “It was all fine.”

Shane shuffles out between Rozanov and the counter, grabbing his pants from nearby. He clears his throat. “Do you have a shower I could—”

He nods in the direction of the hall. “First door on the left.” 

Shane nods back. “Thanks,” he mumbles without looking, grabs his shirt from nearby, and turns away. 

When he comes back, Rozanov is sitting shirtless on the couch, smoking. He stares out the floor-to-ceiling windows, where it’s begun to snow. 

“You’ll kill yourself smoking those, you know,” Shane says to break the silence. He’s fully clothed now, standing many feet away from Rozanov, but still he feels the echoes of what they did in the air.

“Or I will kill myself from boredom,” he answers. Then gestures to the smoke in his hand. “I like this better.” 

Shane just sighs. “Fine, have it your way.”

The silence stretches uneasily around them. He’s never been good at this part, the after. It was always easier to sneak out of the hotel room after, pretend it never happened, and then do it all over again six months later. But that’s not a possibility now, and…they said they would figure things out. 

Rozanov turns and meets Shane’s eyes. His breath catches. Even after years, he still feels a little out of breath when Rozanov looks at him. He wonders if it’ll ever get easier. 

“Come here,” Rozanov says quietly, beckoning him to the couch. 

Shane flushes a bit, then walks over. He clears his throat, then starts, “So, should we—” 

A knock comes at the door and cuts him off. At once, he and Rozanov both look at each other, then to the door. The knocking continues, incessant. 

“Ilya!” A feminine voice calls out from the other side. Then she says something in Russian that Shane can’t understand. He watches as shock and confusion falls onto Rozanov’s expression. Rozanov stares at the door in astonishment, getting up slowly. 

He murmurs something to himself in Russian. “Ilyaaa!” The girl calls out again, knocking quickly. 

Then, in an instant, he looks at Shane. “You are here.” He says, as if just realizing. 

“...Yes,” Shane agrees. 

“You should—” he starts, then stops. He nears Shane, ushers him in the other direction. “Can you—”

“Hide?” Shane finishes for him, already walking to the bedroom. 

“Yes. That,” Rozanov says. “Go.” 

Shane nods, turning and rushing down the hall to Rozanov’s bedroom. He shuts the door and locks it behind him, heart pounding. He feels many things at once. Shock and fear and envy. Green, hot envy. 

Who is that girl? 

He stays close to the bedroom door, listening as Rozanov opens the front door. The girl’s voice comes into clarity as she speaks swift Russian, and Rozanov responds back, sounding surprised. Shane shuts his eyes, imagining them hugging hello. Or kissing. 

He turns, heart twisting. What the fuck.

Behind him, Rozanov’s bedroom is simple and clean. He wonders if he hired a cleaner to keep it this way. The bed looks large and comfortable, with dark blue covers folded neatly over it. 

Shane frowns at the sight. Did Rozanov even want to talk to him in the first place? He didn’t even let Shane in past the living room. Maybe it was always his plan to fuck as soon as Shane got inside, and then wait quietly for him to leave. It certainly would track. 

So much for figuring things out.

Outside, he hears the girl get a little bit closer, maybe moving to the living room. She and Rozanov converse for a few more minutes. Shane fights the urge to leave the bedroom, just to see who she is.

But fuck, he can’t be caught here. At Ilya Rozanov’s apartment, late at night. His fear wins out, and Shane hides until, to his relief, he hears them both leave through the front door. Maybe he’s taking her out on a date.

He gets a text a few seconds later. 

Lily: Sorry about that. We’re going out. Leave whenever. 

Shane shuts his phone off and pockets it. He can’t even look at the text. 

He takes one last look around Rozanov’s bedroom, untouched and neat. For one guilty second, he imagines another version of the night where the girl had never shown up. Where Rozanov opened the door for Shane, held his hand and led him into the bedroom. Laid him down on the covers and kissed him everywhere, then fucked him while it snowed outside. Afterwards, they’d lay together on the bed. Talk a little, maybe even fall asleep, still naked.

The next morning, the whole world would look white and still and perfect the way it did after a night of snowfall, and they’d wake up to it. Next to each other.

What the fuck. Shane tears his gaze away from the bedroom and shakes his head—physically shakes his head—to rid himself of the terrifying vision. Shane and Rozanov…affectionate with each other. Smiling together.

It’s not even a fucking pipe dream. It’s a delusion.

When he leaves Rozanov’s apartment, Shane promises himself to never come here again. 

Chapter End Notes

if anyone has found a cure to the hudson williams psychosis please hit my line i need to be freed...

Chapter 11

Ilya 

They are huddled on the guest bench in the American Airlines arena, waiting for the game against Dallas to start. Ilya glances at an oddly-quiet Hollander by his side. 

“I bet I can score more goals than you tonight,” he says. 

Hollander doesn’t look up. He’s chewing mindlessly on his mouthguard, staring out at the ice like he’s lost in thought. Ilya can’t tell if he’s just distracted or purposely ignoring him. 

“Hollander,” he says again. Hollander glances up then, meets his stare with those dark, pretty eyes. “I said I bet I can score more goals than you tonight.” 

He scoffs out a laugh, but it seems half-hearted. “You’ll fucking lose that bet, Rozanov. How much?” 

“How much what?” 

“How much do you want to bet?” 

Ilya smiles. “I did not say we were betting with money.” 

“What then?” He says automatically, before understanding dawns on his face. Hollander goes a little pink and looks away. “You’re an asshole.” 

Ilya smirks. There’s just a minute before the first face-off. They both get up to get onto the ice. With more space between them and the rest of the team, he takes the opportunity to lean in close and say, “1418 is my room number.”

Hollander looks over. “Are you crazy? Who are you rooming with?”

“Nobody,” he shrugs. “Got stuck with empty room. So sad. So lonely.”

Hollander says nothing as they skate up to the line. 

“That is what I want, if I win,” Ilya adds helpfully. “For you to come over.”

Hollander crouches down, preparing to steal the puck. “We’ll see,” is all he says.

Ilya’s eyebrows furrow at the weak reply. The last thing he thinks before the game starts is maybe something is wrong with Hollander. 

 _________________________

“Aaaand the puck just dropped here in Dallas. We should be in for a close game tonight, folks. Both the Stars and the Metros coming off their own 6-game win streak. Now’s the time to see who will take home the seventh. My eyes could be deceiving me, but do the Metros look a little sleepy on the ice tonight? Maybe jet-lagged from the flight over? It’s too early to tell for sure.”

“All eyes tonight on Montreal captain Shane Hollander, who’s been nothing short of dominant this season—a league-leader in assist totals, plus-minus sitting high in the positives, and a faceoff win percentage that just keeps climbing. We like to say that if Montreal is a well-oiled machine, then Shane Hollander is the engine moving that thing forward. Full steam ahead.”

“So maybe it’s the travel, or maybe something else is bothering the captain, because Hollander looks a step off his usual pace. He shoots wide left—and I do mean wide…and the puck’s out of play. Wow.”

“Rozanov takes the face-off in the Metros’ defensive zone, and he sends it back to the center. Another star forward on the Metros, and he’s on fire tonight.”

“It’s almost uncanny, looking at Rozanov’s stats. His numbers mirror Hollander’s almost exactly—goals, time on the ice, power-play impact—but the style couldn’t be more different. Where Hollander is calculated, Rozanov is explosive. You know what they say, folks. You can take the player out of Boston, but you can’t take Boston out of the player. That’s never been more true than in former-captain Ilya Rozanov. He loves to treat the ice like a fighting ring.” 

“Dallas strikes first here, just under five minutes in, and that building erupts. 1-0 is the score, folks. Can someone check to see that the Metros are awake?”

“...Maybe I spoke too soon. Rozanov picks it up at center, pushes wide—cuts inside—shot—he scores! What a response from Ilya Rozanov. Pure power, pure pace. This is what we like to see from the Metros’ newest addition — Rozanov wastes no time. He smells an opening and explodes through it.”

“An interesting opening frame. Dallas came out fast, Montreal weathered it, and Ilya Rozanov has been the most noticeable player on the ice. Shane Hollander? Still feeling his way into this one — not often you can say that.”

“Dallas regains the lead here early in the second. But Hollander wins the draw clean, drifts into the high slot—takes the return pass—shoots—scores! First one tonight for Hollander—that’s a classic goal for the captain. He doesn’t rush it. He waits, he reads, and when the lane opens, he puts it exactly where it needs to go.”

“Rozanov chips it past the defender, gets it back on the forecheck—quick release—he scores again! Relentless as usual, Rozanov simply refuses to let Dallas settle into this game.”

“That’ll do it for forty minutes, and Montreal heads to the room with a 3–2 lead. 

“Turnover at the blue line, Stars coming back the other way—odd-man rush—shot—score. And just like that, we’re tied again. Montreal’s not going to like that.”

“Loose puck behind the net—Rozanov muscles his way out front—jam play—he scores! It’s a hat trick for Ilya Rozanov tonight! What a guy.”

“Hollander slows it down through neutral ice, surveys… threads a pass—gets it back—shoots—scores! Just in time, Shane Hollander puts this game out of reach for the stars. That’s veteran patience. He never panics, even as the game speeds up around him.”

“Final horn here in Dallas — Metros take it 5–3 and extend their win streak to seven.”

“Rozanov with three, Hollander with two — same result, very different paths...and it’s hard for no one to believe these two spent years trying to tear each other apart in opposing jerseys. It seems like even on the same team, they manage to make every game look like a personal competition.”

 _________________________

Two Hours Later

Shane’s moan gets lost under the sound of running water in the shower. He’s shaking, panting out breaths as his head falls back against the tile and his eyes flutter shut.  

Rozanov pulls up off his cock. He’s kneeling in front of Shane, one hand pressed up along his abs and the other gripping the side of his thigh. “Ah, no. Remember the deal.” 

Shane glances down weakly. “I…I can’t-” 

“Eyes on me,” he orders, then lowers his mouth again. Shane does his best, watches as Rozanov takes him deep. His back arches up off the wall at the wet heat wrapping around him, the ruthless press of Rozanov’s tongue. 

“Holy fuck,” he gasps out, hands searching for purchase but finding none on the slippery tile. He tightens them to fists and bites the inside of his cheek. Shane fights the urge to thrust his hips forward into Rozanov’s mouth. Somehow, he feels like that would be admitting defeat. 

And he can’t lose twice in one night. 

Rozanov makes it worse when, after a couple of torturous minutes, he pulls up off Shane again. “Spit,” he orders, holding his hand up in front of Shane. 

He breathes hard, staring down at Rozanov. Shane is so lost, he doesn’t know what else to do but obey, leaning down and opening his mouth until drool drips onto Rozanov’s fingers.

Rozanov looks up at him hungrily. “Fuck,” he mutters, taking that hand and pressing into Shane from behind. 

Shane jerks forward, eyes fluttering shut again. “Fuck,” he repeats, and hits the back of Rozanov’s throat as his eyes roll back. 

Rozanov continues to move his head in a punishing rhythm, tongue pressing along the underside of his erection as he pulls back all the way back to the tip and then takes him deep. Again and again. Shane clenches his fist against his mouth and bites back a whine, trying to ground himself. Rozanov’s gaze lands on the sight—apparently offended by Shane’s attempt at self control—and then he glares up at Shane, humming unhappily around his cock. But the vibrations only make things worse. When Shane glances at him, Rozanov peers up at him, something almost daring in his gaze. 

Come on, he seems to say. Give it up. 

Shane stares down, stomach clenching at the sight of himself deep in Rozanov’s mouth. His eyebrows furrow, mouth going slack. His fingers tighten in Rozanov’s wet curls, dying to guide his head back and forth faster. He’s never been so turned on—can’t even close his eyes to help matters, at that. Shane is just on the edge, about to get lost in the moment and say fuck it. He wants this too bad.

But then the questions come back. A small voice in his head says, I wonder if he’s played this sort of game with that other girl. 

He probably has. 

Variations of this have been floating through Shane’s head all night long. All week long, really. It’s fucking pathetic, and he knows it. Hasn’t said anything about it, though. This is the first time they’ve hooked up since the incident in Rozanov’s apartment. Neither of them have brought it up, although Shane has been thinking about it more than he’d like. He doesn’t know why he’s—

“Am I boring you, Hollander?” Rozanov stops suddenly, looking up at him. Shane glances down.

He takes a breath. “No.” 

Rozanov drags a lazy tongue down the length of Shane’s cock, and Shane’s eyes roll back. “Dollar for your thoughts?” 

“It’s penny, Rozanov,” he says, voice breathless. “Penny for your thoughts?” 

“I think your thoughts are worth more than just one penny.” Rozanov insists in a low voice. Then he grabs Shane’s thigh and hikes it up over one of his shoulders. Shane gasps at the new angle when Rozanov’s finger presses into him. Fuck. The cool water of the shower suddenly does nothing to ease the feverish heat wrapping around him. 

Rozanov strokes him with a light touch, but waits to take Shane back into his mouth. Shane fights back a whimpering breath. He doesn’t know how much more of this he can take. 

“Well?” Rozanov prompts, hand running along his length. “What are you thinking?” 

What’s her name? What does she look like? How do you know her?

“Harder,” Shane gasps, hips tilting forward. “Can you—” 

Rozanov obliges, tightening his grip just a little. “So needy,” he stares up at Shane, mouth fallen open. Then he presses his tongue against the tip, then wraps his lips around it. But doesn’t go any farther. Rozanov slips in another finger behind, pressing in farther.

Shane feels a whine climbing up his throat. He’s practically shaking with the effort of staying up right. “You’re an asshole,” he mutters through gritted teeth, hand tightening in Rozanov’s hair. And then—because he can’t take it anymore—his hips punch forward, rocking back and forth as he fucks Rozanov’s mouth. Rozanov hums his approval, his hand gripping Shane’s thigh tight. The touch is so bruising, so possessive, that Shane tips his head back and moans. 

It doesn’t take long after that. 

Within minutes he’s shaking, slumped against the wet tile, eyes rolled back as he mindlessly thrusts into Rozanov’s mouth. His breaths come out in pathetic, half-sobs that echo in the bathroom. Like this, Shane can’t think of anything but how good Rozanov feels. How good his mouth is, how good he is at knowing what Shane needs, how—

I wish I could stay like this forever. 

How it doesn’t feel like losing at all. 

 _________________________

Afterwards, Rozanov lays on the bed with just a towel wrapped around his hips, smoking while Shane puts his clothes back on. They both have damp hair, both smell faintly of the hotel soap and each other. Shane has no clue how he’s going to explain the wet hair to Hayden—he just has to hope he’s still out with the rest of the team. 

The room is silent save for the quiet crackling ash of Rozanov’s cigarette. Shane says nothing as picks up his shirt and straightens it out to put back on.  

He didn’t kiss Rozanov when he came in—just congratulated him half-heartedly and said he hadn’t showered earlier, then headed for the bathroom while tugging his shirt off. Rozanov followed after him without a word. And that was that. 

Shane doubts they’ll kiss goodbye either. He pulls his shirt on, and when he exhales, the words he’s been holding in his head finally come out.

“So…was that your girlfriend?” 

Rozanov glances up. “Who?” 

“The girl,” he reminds him. “At your place. When we…” 

“Svetlana?” 

Shane just shrugs. “I don’t know her name.”

“Ah, yes,” he nods. “No. Not girlfriend. She is old friend from Russia.”

“Oh, okay,” Shane nods, acting like he wouldn’t care either way. After a minute of silently putting his socks on, he asks, “So you haven’t slept with her?” 

“I did not say that.” 

A sigh from Shane. “Of course,” he mutters. 

“Of course what?” Rozanov asks, aloof as ever. 

“I figured as much,” is all he responds, voice growing tight. Is there anyone you haven’t slept with? He resists the urge to ask. It’s not his place, Shane reminds himself. What Rozanov does in his free time is none of Shane’s business.

Still, he asks, “So have you…recently?” 

Rozanov pulls his cigarette out of his mouth. There’s a small No Smoking sign by the door. He blows smoke towards it. “Why are you asking me this?” 

“Just wondering,” Shane says tersely. But he can feel himself getting annoyed. “How worried do I need to be of you giving me a disease?” 

“What?” Rozanov looks confused.

Shane glares in his direction. “How many people are you sleeping with besides me, Rozanov?” The besides me slips out before he can stop it.

Rozanov makes a show of looking around the room. “Do you see anyone else in this room with us?” 

“No, you asshole—” 

“Then no.” He finishes. “I am not sleeping with anyone.” 

  Even after knowing him for years, Shane is still amazed by the utter extent of Rozanov’s bullshit. “I don’t mean in this very moment,” he grinds out. “Stop acting stupid. I mean, like, in general.” 

Rozanov stares at him for a second. “What, are you worried my number is higher than yours?” 

I know your number is higher than mine. Shane scowls. “Something like that.” 

He considers for a minute, taking a slow drag of his cigarette. “Not many, not since I came to Montreal. Very sad. I left many loving women in Boston. They would want your head, Hollander, if they heard of the things we do together.” 

It’s meant to be teasing. Cruel, even. But that doesn’t stop Shane from flushing with heat when he thinks of just what they’ve done together. 

He scoffs and turns away, suddenly done with the conversation. “Fine,” he mutters.

“Could change soon,” Rozanov calls after him. “I have just been busy. But if I go out, I will be—” 

“Yeah, I get it.” Shane is at the door, hoping the distance between them will disguise the bitter bite in his voice. “Send me a picture or something when it happens, will you?” 

________________________

Ilya watches the door after Hollander leaves, a little confused. The words that were on his tongue, before Hollander interrupted, still sit there.

But if I go out, I will be hard pressed to find someone as boring as you. It was meant to tease him, obviously. But even without finishing his sentence, Ilya feels like Hollander has completely misunderstood him.

________________________

Shane huffs as he makes the treacherous journey through the mildewy hotel hallways back to his room. Even exhausted, his mind is racing.

It’s not that he’s insecure, necessarily, about his lack of other sexual partners. In fact, Shane fucking hates the idea of sleeping around. Meeting a stranger just for sex, and then never talking to them again. He can’t think of anything so terrible. It’s the kind of thing Rozanov lives off of.

And secretly, stupidly, Shane can’t help but feel like this is just another way he can’t begin to compare to Rozanov. Rozanov, who has probably slept with half of the population in Boston and is steadily making his way through Montreal. He’s probably had hundreds of lovers. Meanwhile, Shane has only had him.

It’s not like Shane has been a monk his whole life. He had a couple of girlfriends in high school, girls he really did care about. Girls he’d take out on dates and buy flowers for and have slow, gentle sex with. Which was all fine. Shane has always considered himself a girlfriend kind of guy, at least more than he was a casual hookup kind of guy. Except he had always felt like he was just going through the motions of being a boyfriend, rather than feeling particularly passionate about it. This never raised any issues in his relationships, because any lacking of passion on his part was usually covered up by the fact that Shane was a famous, up-and-coming athlete, destined for the League and stardom. He didn’t hold anything against any of the girls he’d been with for the lack of fire in the relationship.

But at the same time, he’d never experienced that suffocating heat that pulled him under any time Rozanov looked in his direction with anyone else.

He wonders, briefly, if it’s the same for Rozanov. If there’s someone back in Boston who does this to him. Someone who makes the rest of the world go dim. The thought makes Shane’s throat tighten. Is it Svetlana?

The idea twists painfully in his gut. Shane can’t fathom Rozanov feeling this — this thing — with anyone else. Can’t imagine it not being singular. Sharp. Consuming. But that’s probably just his own arrogance talking.

He’s seen it elsewhere—the fire. With his parents, when they would dance together in the kitchen in Shane’s childhood. Or huddle close together in the cold of the stands during one of his hockey games, his mom sticking her hands into his dad’s pockets while he grinned down at her. Or when they’d sit together in the living room, playing cards to the death while sharing the same blanket. He’s seen the look in their eyes—shining and consuming and perfect. He’s seen it with Hayden when he first started dating Jackie and wouldn’t shut up about it to Shane.

These are the things Shane knows of love. In his own life? Well, the only thing that’s ever come close to that is hockey. That single-minded, almost blind devotion. Hockey, and playing hockey against Rozanov.

Shane reaches his door and fishes the keycard from his pocket, pausing before swiping it. He hopes, irrationally, that Hayden isn’t back yet. That the room is empty. Quiet. That he won’t have to explain his mood to anyone.

Later that night, laying awake in an empty hotel room, Shane stares up at the ceiling and decides that something needs to change.

He’s never let Rozanov win before, and he’s certainly not going to start now. 

________________________

The next morning, Ilya finds himself sat between Boiziau and Pike on their plane to Los Angeles. It doesn’t take long before he’s considering the possibility of hiding in the bathroom for the duration of the flight.

“I’m fucking hungover,” Boiziau is moaning, cradling Gatorade to his chest with deep bags under his eyes. “I can’t remember the last time I’ve been hungover.”

“That’s Dallas for you,” Pike chuckles, shouldering defenseman Comeau next to him. They all went out last night, after the game, as usual. “We should go line dancing more often.”

“Dude, I can’t think of a single thing more gay than line dancing,” Comeau shoots back. “I don’t even think taking it up the ass is as gay as that.”

“Come on, man. I saw you out there,” Pike quips. “You fucking loved it.”

“I liked the hats,” he cedes. “And the fucking southern girls. Jesus.”

Ilya pays attention for a second, mildly wishing he’d been there with them, until he remembers what he’d been busy doing while they’d been out in Dallas. He feels heat rush through him as he remembers Hollander’s breathy whines above him, cock twitching in Ilya’s mouth. Then, he doesn’t regret anything at all.

The plane wobbles a little with turbulence, and Boiziau tightens the strings of his hoodie and groans. “I need to die, I think.”

Ilya pats him on the chest. “Don’t be a pussy, Boiziau. It’s only another hour. Or two.”

He glances at Ilya sidelong, looking pained. “Right. And where were you last night, Rozanov?”

“Yeah,” Pike says slowly. “I can’t remember the last time we went out and you didn’t come with.”

Ilya rolls his eyes. It’s true, he has quickly become a regular in planning outings with the team after games, and it is probably a little odd that he decided to skip out last night. But whatever. He shoots a quick glance to the row ahead, where Hollander sits with his headphones on, hood up. So closed off, he might as well have four stone walls around him at all times.

“Was tired,” Ilya says. “That’s all.”

He shifts in his seat, knee bouncing as the plane hums beneath them.

Pike shoots him a dubious look. “I don’t think you’ve ever been that tired, Rozanov.”

Ilya doesn’t reply.

“Fuck,” Boiziau curses after a few minutes, looking a bit green beneath his hoodie. “I don’t know how I’m gonna play tonight.”

“Oh, stop being a baby,” Comeau rolls his eyes. “You do this every time, JJ. Jesus. Just stop drinking.”

JJ gasps. “Never.”

“Stop whining about it, then,” Ilya cuts in.

He grumbles something and settles back into his seat, rolling his head back against the headrest. Ilya shakes his head. It’s not a good look, getting so wasted while on the road with back to back games. Even Ilya, who goes out almost every night, has not gotten fully drunk any time. He hasn’t really been drunk since he was a teenager.

“You better lock in for the game and after,” Pike says, grinning. “LA’s gonna be dangerous tonight.”

Ilya turns to him, raising an eyebrow. “You don’t think we can handle them? Team sucks this year, Pike.”

“I’m not talking about the game,” he smirks. “You know the bars out there don’t close until, like, morning.”

Boiziau groans beside Ilya. “I don’t know if my liver can handle that.”

“Your liver is weak,” Ilya quips.

Comeau snorts. “Says the guy who didn’t even show last night.”

Ilya shrugs, eyes flicking forward again. Hollander hasn’t moved since takeoff. Hood up, headphones on, posture closed in on itself like he’s bracing against something. Not asleep. Ilya can tell — Hollander never sleeps like that.

“You good, Captain?” Pike calls out, leaning sideways to look past Ilya.

No response.

Pike raises his eyebrows. “Huh. Weird.”

Ilya doesn’t like the tight feeling that settles in his chest. Hollander is always aware. Always listening, even when he pretends not to be. He gets that feeling again, like before the Dallas game, like maybe something’s wrong.

“He’s just tired,” Boiziau mutters. “Can you blame him? We’ve been on the road forever.”

“Yeah. Poor guy probably hasn’t had time to meal prep or do yoga in a week,” Comeau mutters. They all laugh, but it’s in that fond, loving way of their neurotic captain. Ilya wonders if Hollander knows just how much his team looks up to him, secretly.

“Yeah, but he likes going out,” Pike says. “Don’t you, Hollander?”Nothing.

“That’s the spirit!” Boiziau calls. “Party animal, that one. Seriously.”

They laugh again, but Ilya just keeps watching Hollander settle back into his seat, probably shutting his eyes. When Pike starts talking again about clubs, about who’s got friends in LA, about where they’re going to celebrate if they win, Ilya barely hears it. His attention keeps drifting forward, pulled like a magnet. Maybe he’ll skip going out tonight as well. Maybe he and Hollander can stay in together, get some food or something. Watch a movie. He thinks Hollander would like something boring like that.

The thought pleases Ilya more than he’d like to admit.

_________________________

They land in Los Angeles that afternoon for what seems like their millionth away game. Shane buzzes with that travel-exhaustion. He’s sick of flying, and so is the rest of the team. But they’re also on a 7-game win streak, and that feels pretty damn good. The team coos on the bus ride on the way to the rink, in awe of the sunny weather and palm trees. Shane doesn’t participate, just taking off his sweatshirt that sticks to him with sweat. The humidity makes him itch everywhere, and he misses Montreal. Shane thinks everyone else can tell that he’s being quiet, but no one says anything about it. Not even Rozanov.

Not that Shane expects him to say anything.

In the last minutes before their game, the locker room with the noise of guys taping up their sticks, lacing their skates. Doing personal pre-game rituals.  There’s a speaker in the corner playing music, but it’s washed out.

Coach stands at the front, arms crossed and waits for them to settle.

“Bring it in, guys!” He says.

The noise dies down. Shane straightens where he sits, elbows resting on his knees. His helmet dangles from his fingers, about to be clipped on.

“Look, I know you’re all tired as shit right now.” He glances around. “But this is LA. They’re fast and rough. You’re not getting any easy breaks tonight.”

“You don’t beat a team like this by getting all emotional,” he continues. Shane’s gaze flicks up to Rozanov, who is only half-listening as he still gets dressed. “Trust our system. Trust yourselves.”

He exhales slowly through his nose, jaw tightening.

“You know who you are. You know what kind of hockey you play—so play it. Dictate the pace, alright? Don’t let anyone else do it for you.”

Shane’s gaze drops to the floor between his skates. The words start to blur. Maybe he really is just exhausted, but it starts to sound like Coach is talking about something else entirely.

Don’t get emotional.

Know who you are.

His grip tightens on his helmet. He feels a strange sense of shame coursing through him. For letting himself get carried away by…Rozanov. One look, one touch, and everything goes sideways. It’s fucking embarrassing.

Coach says, “This isn’t about proving anything to anyone else. This is about having a job, and getting it done. Play smart. Play hard. And remember who the fuck you are.”

Shane stands with the rest of them when Coach claps his hands. Gets his helmet on, starts pulling on his gloves.

Tonight. Tonight, he swears, will be different.

________________________

They win against LA 3-2. It’s a tight match, tied up until the last period, but their play is strong, and morale is high. After the game, it’s pretty much expected that the team will go out. They’re excited to go back home, excited about the eighth win, and excited that they’re in LA. By the time they get back to the locker room, they’re already talking about it once they’re in the locker room—who has friends in town, what bars are good, stuff like that. 

But nobody expects it when their captain turns to them and says, “So…can I come?” 

Hayden stops in the middle of the sentence he was saying to JJ. He blinks at Shane. “Come…where?” 

“Out,” he says, looking around. “With you guys.” 

They are quiet for a second. JJ stares at him in horror.  “Did you just ask permission to go out with us tonight, Captain?” 

“...I think so.” 

Hayden comes up behind him and claps him on the shoulder. “Stupid motherfucker. Of course you’re fucking coming!”

They start to jostle him, howling out in celebration, and Shane winces, fighting off his grin.

A couple hours later, Shane ends up in a loud club, with a beer in his hand, and he’s actually drinking it this time because he thinks he might need the confidence. His team has dispersed through the crowd, dancing and socializing. Shane doesn’t go to join any of them, a little out of his element. 

“So where is my congratulations?” Rozanov says behind him. 

Shane turns, unwillingly. Under the club lights, he sees Rozanov in a tight blue polo that makes his biceps bulge and his eyes really blue. But Shane balks at the question.“The fuck would I congratulate you for?” 

Rozanov grins sharply. “For the win-streak, of course.” 

He scowls. “We scored the same amount of goals tonight.” 

“Yes, but we would’ve lost in Dallas if it were not for me.” He makes a sad face. “Then no win-streak for captain Shane Hollander.”

Jesus. Shane glares. “You want me to congratulate you for being a decent hockey player and doing your job?” 

“Yes, obviously.” He looks amused. “Although decent is not the word I would use. Maybe glorious. One of a kind. Extraordinary. All of these, I think, are better fitting—”

“You’re an ass,” Shane rolls his eyes, turning back to the bar. But Rozanov just appears by his side, crossing his arms over the tabletop. 

“I am?” He smiles innocently. 

Shane releases a tight breath. Don’t bite. Don’t. “We’re in a room full of good prospects, Rozanov.” He says coolly, “Some of them might even watch hockey. Go find one if you want congratulations. I doubt you’ll have to look that hard.”

It’s a little mean, yes, and completely out-of-character for Shane, who is usually gracious. Rozanov doesn’t look fazed. He’s quiet for a second, but when Shane looks over, the laughter has left his gaze, leaving behind only that burning intensity that makes it a little harder for Shane to breathe. 

He leans in a bit. “What if I don’t want any of them to?” Rozanov asks softly. Shane’s gaze flicks unwillingly down to his lips. Rozanov tracks the movement. Smiles a little. “Maybe I want you to—” 

Then JJ taps him on the shoulder, and when Shane turns around his eyes are bugged out a bit. “Dude,” he says. “You’ll never believe this. The friend of mine? The screenwriter? Well he’s coming here with a bunch of the cast of this new movie they’re filming. All A-listers, dude. I’m serious.” He pulls Shane away before Shane can say anything. “You’ve got to meet them—”

And he’s walking through the crowd of people, leaving Rozanov standing at the bar alone. Shane turns to look, to maybe catch his gaze, but Rozanov has already turned away, chatting up the female bartender.

Shane looks away. 

He’s never been a natural at this kind of thing, but he tries his best anyway. As JJ drags him off to a group of people about their age that he introduces as the cast of some new sci-fi movie or another, he lets himself get pulled into introductions. Shane flushes a bit when they start to go on about his hockey playing, not expecting the flattery from some actors. But they all seem pretty caught up on the goings-on this season, which makes the conversation flow pretty well. Shane is a little relieved—he doesn’t know what else he’d talk about with actors.

More than once, his gaze flits to the other side of the club, where he finds Rozanov, as expected, surrounded by some more of their teammates. And women. Plenty of women.

It could be minutes, it could be hours, when Shane excuses himself to the bar to go get a drink, feeling flushed and a little parched. He pushes through the crowd, sweat clinging to his dark blue button-down—the only item of clothing he packed that seemed appropriate for an outing like this. The lights are flashing and colorful, and yet it still feels dark. He waits at the bar until a pretty bartender raises her eyebrows at him, says, “What can I get you?”

Shane glances around, looking at all the different drinks people have ordered. Suddenly, asking for his usual ginger-ale feels a little lame. He pauses for a second, not knowing what to say.

“A glass of white wine, please,” a feminine voice says behind him. “Whatever you have on hand. The same for him.”

The bartender nods and turns away. Shane turns in the direction of the voice, to find a gorgeous girl pulling up to the seat next to him, with flushed cheeks that nearly match the color of her reddish hair. Shane gawks a bit, not fully understanding the sight before him.

Rose Landry.

“Yep, that’s me,” she smiles a little, and Shane realizes he’s said her name out loud. Rose laughs a bit at his slacken expression. “Was the white wine thing creepy? Sorry, sometimes I don’t know if I’m overstepping the line. Especially with people I don’t know personally.”

“No, it was great—“ he stutters out, “I mean. Thank you. I kind of was at a loss, so it’s a good thing you stepped in when you did.”

“Anytime,” she shrugs.

“I’m Shane.” Shane starts, then holds out his hand. “Shane H-“

“Shane Hollander,” Rose finishes for him, smiling warmly again. She takes his hand and shakes it once. “I know who you are.”

“You do?” He asks, a little disbelieving.

“Forward center for the Montreal Metros, second overall pick from the 2009 draft.” she recites, then blushes a bit. “Okay, now I know that was creepy. Sorry. I’m just a big fan is all. Also I know your friend, JJ.”

Shane nods a bit, understanding. She must’ve come in with the rest of the cast. “Right,” he says. “Wow. I’m surprised you know who I am. I’m a fan.”

The bartender slides their glasses across the countertop, and Rose hides her grin by taking a sip. “Fan of seeing me get kidnapped?”

A startled laugh escapes Shane. “Well yeah, you’re great at it! Seriously. I’ve probably seen every movie you’ve been in.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Every single one? Really? I think there’s a few you could’ve skipped.” Rose shakes her head, “Not my best work.”

“Yeah, but you’re an amazing actress,” Shane says honestly. “We—I fly a lot. For work. Lots of time to watch movies. I think I’m qualified to say that yours are the best out there.”

Rose reaches forward, touching his arm a bit as she laughs. Shane glances down at the point of contact. “You’re too kind. I’m going to ask you to do a personal testimony for me for the Academy. Can’t hurt, right?”

Shane laughs again. “Definitely.”

She takes another sip from her glass, and Shane realizes he’s sat down, leaning forward and engaged in this conversation. In the back of his mind, Shane is reeling. He’s talking to a girl. Not just any girl—Rose Landry. And he’s having fun.

“So that game tonight, huh?” Rose starts, raising an eyebrow. “You crushed us.”

Shane grins.

They talk like that for a long time, eventually huddling together in a quiet corner of the club. At some point, Shane tunes out the loud thumping music and flashing lights. At some point, he stops hating the taste of the wine they keep refilling for him. And at some point, he forgets to be angry about anything at all.

Chapter 12

Chapter Notes

The next morning, Shane doesn’t wake up in his own hotel room.

His phone has blown up with notifications—from his teammates, from his agent. Most concerningly, from his mom. Many missed calls that make him sit up in a bed that isn’t his. He calls her back instantly.

“Hello? Mom?”

“Shane!” 

“Is everything okay?” He hisses quietly, careful not to be too loud. 

“Is it true?” She asks, sounding panicked and oddly excited. “About you and Rose Landry? You were in LA last night. I know that much is true. But-” 

He wipes his eyes, the room around him coming into focus. It’s spacious, with potted plants everywhere and a white vanity in the corner. The bed is big, covered in soft, yellow sheets. Shane’s shirt is crumpled at the foot of the bed. And there’s someone in bed next to him. A girl. 

Yes. For the first time in his twenty-three years of living, Shane Hollander, Cup-bound captain of one of the original six hockey teams, hooked up with a girl. 

Yes, he remembers it. He didn’t black out or even drink all that much, although the slight pounding in his head and bad taste in his mouth would suggest that he drank more than he usually does. Which is nothing. 

But in this weird, trippy moment, Shane’s listening to his mom recount the events of the night before he fully remembers them himself. 

“How do you know?” he asks in bald astonishment. 

“There’s pictures.” She says. 

He gasps. “Of—” 

“Of you two walking out of the bar,” she clarifies, but Shane’s heart is already racing with the other possibilities. “There’s already blog posts about it. Expect something in magazines later today. Maybe even the news. I don’t know. I have to–” 

“Wait,” he says. “Are you…upset about this? Or, or–” 

“Of course I’m not upset,” she rushes to say. “I think this is great. I mean, I don’t know all the details. I hope you were safe, at least—” 

“Mom.” 

“Or that you had a fun time talking to her,” she finishes quickly. “I don’t know. I think the media will be good. It’s a different light for you than usual. Might make you more relatable.” 

“Yeah,” he scoffs. “Casually hanging out with an A-list actress. That’s…” 

“You know what I mean.” 

Shane gingerly gets out of the bed, padding away to grab his shirt as Rose snores softly, soft red hair spread out over the pillow. The delicate slope of her back is visible above the sheets, which bunch at her hips. 

It occurs to Shane that he’s never spent the night with someone before.

Even when he and Rozanov would…one of them would always leave in a hurry after. He stares at Rose for another second before swallowing thickly and looking away. “Mom…I’m going to call you back. Okay?” 

“Fine. Okay,” she says. “You’re flying back in today, right? Let me know when you land.”

“Yeah, sure.” He hangs up quickly and goes to the bathroom. Closes the door quietly behind him. 

And starts to freak the fuck out.

Shane thinks it makes sense now, when people say one thing just led to another. He used to never understand that—how something could just happen. But thinking back to last night—talking to Rose in the little corner of the club and drinking white wine. She’d eventually pulled him onto the dance floor for a bit, but then they’d stopped because neither of them really liked dancing at all. Then they went outside to get some air, and before Shane knew what was happening, Rose invited him back to her place. He said yes without thinking. Shane had been vaguely aware that yes, they were probably going to have sex. Hadn’t that been his plan for the night, anyway? He tried not to think too hard about it.

Shane found himself laughing, like, really laughing, in the back of the car with her on the way to her apartment. She wasn’t like what Shane had imagined an A-list actress to be like. She wasn’t vapid or out of touch or snobby at all. They talked about the movies she’d been in, laughed when they agreed that some of them kind of sucked. They talked about music—Shane never thought he’d find someone else that liked Passion Pit as much as he did. Rose told him that he was handsome, and he told her that she was beautiful. He wasn’t even lying when he said it. 

When they stopped at a red light, she leaned forward and kissed him. The laughter slowly left Shane’s body as the realization set in. Oh god, he was really doing it. He was kissing Rose Landry.

Shane cupped the back of her head and kissed back gently, the way he thought a girl might want to be kissed. She smelled like jasmine and vanilla. Her hair was so soft and long, and when he ran a hand down the side of her face, it was smooth. Like, perfectly smooth. He vaguely wondered what kind of skincare she did to keep her skin that smooth.

It wasn’t that Rose was a bad kisser, necessarily. Shane didn’t know what it was. He tried to remember what it had been like, kissing the couple of girlfriends he’d had back when he was a teenager. But nothing notable came to mind. And that usual spark of heat he’d gotten used to, that ache that would wrap around his stomach and leave him gasping for air…there definitely wasn’t any of that.

When they got to her place, they made out a little more, while walking up the stairs and as she opened the door and let him in. Rose sat down on the couch and pulled Shane on top of her, and Shane got a little worried that he would suffocate her. She giggled into his mouth when he confessed this worry to her, and wrapped her arms around his neck. Shane was gracious, let his hands rove across the skin of her arms and her back without going any further.

After a short time, Rose pulled away. She looked into his eyes with a tender sort of kindness, even though they’d only known each other for a few hours. And she whispered, “I think that’s as far as we should go tonight.” 

Shane nodded instantly, shifting off her just a bit but staying close. “Are you sure?” He asked, mostly because he wanted her to know that he wanted to, if she did. 

Rose nodded and smiled. “I’m sure.” 

She told him about how she’d used to be a big hook-up kind of girl, back when she was in college, but didn’t like that sort of thing anymore, even though she liked Shane. She said they should stay in touch, even after he went back to Montreal, because she’d be filming a movie there soon and they could meet up. Shane agreed, told her he’d show her all the sights in Montreal and invite her to a hockey game that wouldn’t suck. 

They talked for hours like that, side-by-side on her couch. In the back of his head, Shane felt like a giant weight had been lifted, and he could finally relax. He finally fell asleep next to her in bed somewhere around 3 AM. And all in all, the night wasn't the worst one he'd ever had.

It all feels kind of surreal, remembering it now. Shane stands in front of the bathroom mirror, staring back at his reflection. He’d been a little relieved when she’d said they weren’t going to have sex. But that’s probably just because they had been so friendly together. That’s why it feels weird to think about having sex with her, Shane tells himself. They were probably better off as friends.

Well. He’ll just have to try harder next time. He wonders if JJ will take him to any bars in Montreal when they get back. 

He gets dressed quickly, in the same clothes as last night, and when he gets out of the bathroom, Rose is awake, sitting up in bed and checking her phone. “Hey!” She says when she looks up. 

“Hi,” Shane glances at her phone, then looks up sheepishly. She must be getting the same notifications that he was getting. “I didn’t realize there would be cameras everywhere.”

“Well, it is LA,” she says lightly, with a shrug. “Don’t worry about it. Are you worried?” 

Shane walks over to the foot of the bed, considering. “This has just never happened to me before.” 

She cocks her head at him. “You’re telling me the paparazzi have never caught you with a girlfriend before? God, you must have a superpower or something. Or just be extremely lucky.” 

“Well…” Shane trails off.

“What?” She reads his expression, then starts to laugh. “What is it?” 

He itches the back of his head. “I haven’t really had a girlfriend. Not since high school, at least.”

“Oh,” Rose looks surprised, but not in a bad way, which is a relief. “Well, that explains it. Jeez. I was thinking maybe they’d outlawed paparazzi in Canada or something.” 

“Nope,” he shrugs. “So you’ll still have to worry about this if you come to visit.”

“I’m not worried,” she waves it off. “So people think we’re dating. So what?  Do you know how many people the media think I’m dating?” 

Shane lets out a startled laugh. “A lot, I guess. I mean, it makes sense.” 

Rose mock-gasps. “What is that supposed to mean?” 

“No, not like that!” Shane hurries to say, going red. “Just that you’re so talented. And pretty. I mean—why wouldn’t someone—” 

Rose stands up, laughing, and shuts him up with a kiss. It’s chaste, butsweet. “I’m joking,” she says, then kisses his cheek. “You’re so cute.”

Shane flushes. “Thanks.”

She pulls back a bit, staring at him with a grin on her face. Shane does his best to smile back. “You’ve charmed me, Shane Hollander. I’m so taken by you.” 

He swallows the lump in his throat, smiles for her. And he says something true. “I’m really glad I met you, Rose.” 

“What time do you have to be at the airport?” She unwraps her arms around him, walks to the bathroom. “Let me get dressed, then I can drop you off.” Rose points a threatening finger at him, “But we’re stopping for smoothies first.” 

About an hour later, Shane waves bye with the hand not holding a strawberry-banana smoothie as Rose blows him a kiss from the car and starts to drive away. He told Hayden to pack up his stuff and bring it to the airport for him, to which he’d responded with a winky face as confirmation. 

Before Shane left, Rose told him that they didn’t have to be anything serious. She said she meant it about coming to Montreal in a few months and wanting to see him, but he didn’t owe her anything beyond showing him around the city when she came. Shane agreed, and said he hoped he’d see her soon.

It makes him relieved for more than one reason. And as he goes to join his teammates, Shane feels pretty good with how things went. Even if he didn’t get exactly what he wanted out of last night, or what he thought he wanted, he really feels like Rose and him are friends now. 

Maybe that’s all it needs to be. 

____________________

Ilya 

Ilya sits in the airport lounge, listening to his teammates talk about last night, and thinks of all the ways he’s going to fuck Hollander. Fuck him up. Not during practice, that wouldn't be embarrassing enough. Ilya wishes that they were on different teams again, just so he could play against Hollander and win in front of the whole team. An audience. Yes, that would be good.

…He is probably unreasonably angry. 

The whole team is talking about it—King Hollander’s latest conquest. His Highness has decided he doesn’t have to grace them with his presence yet, so they sit in the airport lounge waiting for him and waiting for their flight. Pike sits on the other side with an extra suitcase. They’re all talking, looking up Rose Landry on the internet and pulling up pictures and movies she’s been in. She is pretty—Ilya could admit that. He might’ve liked to fuck her. 

And he spent more time than he’d like to admit, watching from afar as she and Hollander talked at the bar for a long while, before dancing together. Then Ilya watched in shock and horror as Rose took him by the hand and led him out of the club. Just like that. Ilya, on the other hand, did not leave with anyone last night. He could’ve, but his mood was spoiled, and he knew that if he did it, it would only be for the slight chance that the news of it would somehow reach back to Hollander. So they could be even. 

And Ilya couldn’t stoop that low. If he fucked somebody, it was because he wanted to fuck them, not because he wanted to fuck them to piss somebody else off. He is an asshole, probably, but not that much of one. 

But he is that much of a fucking psycho. Because instead of taking someone back to the hotel that night, Ilya went up alone and laid awake for a long time, imagining what it would be like.

Shane Hollander, fucking a girl. 

He couldn’t imagine it, truly. Just the idea seemed so absurd, Ilya wanted to laugh. Hollander, his Hollander, with somebody else. He didn’t think Hollander even had it in him to fuck anyone other than Ilya. He felt like it would fit in with the rest of Hollander’s neurotic tendencies—not wanting to be with more than one person. Hollander probably fucking thought it would mess up his hockey if he had sex too often. 

And yet, despite everything Ilya knows to be true about him, he’s done it. 

When Hollander finally walks in, he is as freckled and fresh-faced as always, despite wearing the same clothes from last night. And he’s holding a stupidly pink, half-finished smoothie in his hand.

Ilya stares openly as he comes over, meaning to innocently retrieve his bag from Pike and sit down alone. No chance. They start whistling at him as soon as he nears, and then the comments start.

“You fucking dog,” Boiziau hoots, clapping Hollander on the shoulder.

“Rose fucking Landry,” Pike shakes his head. “I feel like a proud mom. Seriously.”

“Guys, does our captain have a glow about him this morning, or is it just me?” 

And on and on. Ilya watches as Hollander flushes, still so perfectly innocent, and tries to shut them down. 

Comeau rolls his eyes. “You know there’s no reporters here, right, Hollander?”

“Well?” Pike raises his eyebrows, “How was it? Those pictures of you guys looked pretty hot.”

He lets out a strangled laugh. “The pictures of us walking out of the bar?”

“Yeah,” Pike quips, “You looked hot in that button-down. It’s a great color.”

“Man, don’t be weird,” Hollander says.

“So? Did you hit th-"

Hollander waves his hands, “Stop. I’m not talking about it!” After a second, he adds, face pink, “You guys know I don’t kiss and tell.”

Pike and Boiziau cast each other a look. “I know what that means,” Pike smirks.

Hollander just groans and sits down. But their words bring images to the front of Ilya’s mind. Hollander, pressing Rose Landry up against the wall, cradling the back of her head as he licked the seam of her lips. Running his hand up the hem of her dress, along the inside of her thigh. Would he let out that soft whine in the back of his throat when she reached down to the front of his pants? Would he gaze into her eyes with that open, glossed-over look, like he’s scared of how much he wanted it? Like how he looks at Ilya?

He thinks the fuck not.

In that moment, all Ilya wants is to walk up behind Hollander and take him by the neck, kiss him hard in front of the rest of his teammates. Feel the muscles of his shoulders tense, panicking for just a second, before relaxing under Rozanov’s grip. Because if there is one thing Hollander never fails to do, it’s submit. Ilya wants to kiss him until his mouth is wet and swollen pink, and then push him down to his knees and make him suck Ilya’s cock in front of everyone.  To show everybody exactly who their captain is beneath the surface. The real Hollander. The Hollander that Ilya has seen before, in the darkness of his hotel room. Sweet Hollander. Pathetic Hollander. He might even like it, having an audience. Ilya thinks he’d like anything Ilya told him to do. 

Fuck. He could be going crazy. Ilya is pent-up with sexual frustration from watching Hollander last night under the flashing lights. He’s never had less fun in a club, which makes him feel even worse.

And the thing is, Ilya has never been a territorial kind of person when it comes to sex. It is the kind of thing he thinks should be given out freely, and to whomever is willing to receive it. He has had sex with many people and seen it as nothing more than a single, passing moment. Companionship.

But the thought of Hollander fucking someone else makes Ilya strangely sick. So maybe there is a flaw in his philosophy. Or maybe Hollander is just an exception, once again. 

Ilya can’t decide which possibility he likes less. 

____________________

LA, 2009

It was the night of the MLH draft. Ilya was the first overall pick, of course, and there couldn’t have been more reason to celebrate. But the party was long and boring. It reminded Ilya of the government banquets his father made him attend back in Russia. He didn’t like any of it besides taking the pictures, and the pictures he mostly liked because he could watch Hollander pout by his side, a sad number two pick. 

But there was a strange humiliation, for Ilya, in having his dad there. There was the fact that many of the other players had both their parents, as well as siblings and aunts and uncles with them. The sight of it all made eighteen-year-old Ilya miss his mother, which he hated doing. Because he loved her, a lot. 

And then there was the fact that his dad spoke terrible English, even worse than Ilya, and insisted on wearing his military uniform to the party. And any time they were approached by someone else from the hockey world, he took the first opportunity to point out a flaw he perceived in Ilya’s play. His lack of discipline was the usual go to. And the irony was not lost on Ilya, that even as first pick, his father succeeded in making him feel like the worst player in the room. 

The champagne they served was not nearly strong enough. But it was enough for Ilya’s attention to stray during the conversations he was supposed to be quiet during. He passed the time by noticing Shane Hollander from afar. Freckled skin that flushed any time someone complimented him, navy suit that brought out his dark eyes. He stood between his two parents, and opted for a can of soda instead of champagne like everyone else. Was that…ginger ale? He was drinking ginger ale at a party! The simple innocence of the sight shocked Ilya. He didn’t think he’d ever seen a hockey player that looked so…sweet. 

After the party was over, Ilya went out with some other players. Of course he did. He was very interested by the club scene in America, and how it could compare to Russia. He ended up at one of the highest-profile after parties, where he found more than half of the players from earlier gathered. There was one glaring absence—Shane Hollander. He bet Hollander was already tucked away in bed, in a room next to his parents. 

Ilya stood happily at the bar, drinking cold vodka that admittedly didn’t compare to what he could find in Russia, but he made up for it with volume. It didn’t take long for a girl to approach him. 

She was wearing a low-cut black lace top, but Ilya was gracious enough to keep his gaze trained on her eyes. 

“Hi,” said the girl. 

“Hi,” said Ilya. 

“Ilya Rozanov, right?” She said in a peculiar, drawling accent Ilya had never heard before. It was kind of raspy. It was kind of hot. “You’re that hockey player.” 

“I am?” 

Her lips stretched into a grin, and the pinkish gloss shone under the club lights. She took his hand boldly. “I think you are,” she said. “But do you know who I am?” 

She dragged him towards a dark corner and then told him. Not too long later, the girl was in his lap and they were kissing. She tasted like strawberries and tequila and Ilya felt the sticky press of her lip gloss on him, and didn’t entirely hate it. He ran a hand up the smooth length of her thigh, resting it just under her ass and then squeezing, which made her squirm in his lap and giggle a bit. 

Not too long later, she’d taken him back to her hotel room five minutes away. She shut the door behind her and broke the kiss, long enough to take her top off, no bra underneath. Lovely. 

Ilya watched as she grinned, falling to her knees in front of him. And he said something true. “You are so beautiful.” 

His hand twisted in her blonde curls as she sucked him off. She was great with her mouth. Afterwards, Ilya carried her to the bed and fucked her. Hard. She wrapped her long legs around his hips and smiled as she moaned, which Ilya liked. She came soon, and he came after her. 

But after, as he was panting into the mess of blonde hair by her delicate neck, Ilya wasn't satisfied. The release did little to soothe that buzzing energy inside him. He got up quickly and grabbed a smoke as she reached over to the nightstand for his phone and typed her number in. Ilya pretended not to notice the motion. He liked her, but didn’t think he wanted to do this again.

Soon after, Ilya got dressed and left after the girl kissed him on the cheek goodbye. 

“Call me!” She smiled. 

He called a cab back to his own hotel. But…fuck, he didn’t think he could sleep yet. Despite the long day and the sex and the vodka, Ilya was still buzzing with energy. He couldn’t manage to turn his mind off. It swarmed with thoughts of what he’d be doing soon—leaving Russia for good, seeing Boston for the first time and starting the season. He was excited for it, mostly, but perhaps more overwhelmed than he’d originally thought.

When he arrived, Ilya went up to his room quickly just to change and then went down to the hotel gym. Might as well make use of the adrenaline.

And perhaps he’d been a little lacking in enthusiasm while he was hooking up with the other girl. But when he found Shane Hollander bent over an exercise bike in that white compression shirt, his cock snapped back to attention. 

Ilya walked over, suddenly delighted. What was he doing up so late? Maybe Hollander hadn’t been able to sleep either, troubled by thoughts of leaving his own perfect family soon. It was comforting to Ilya to think that they were both a little scared, even as the strong players they were.

Hollander had his headphones in, lost in his own little world. When Ilya climbed onto the bike next to him, Hollander flinched at the motion, finally looking over. 

Ilya watched the boy’s dark eyes widen in surprise. He could almost see the words written over his face. Oh my god, it’s Ilya Rozanov. His mouth parted slightly, eyebrows furrowed as he sized Ilya up. Or checked him out. Ilya grinned, and when he started to pedal faster to catch up, Hollander seemed to understand.

Ilya winked at him. Race me?

They biked for a long time. At first, Ilya tested the waters, speeding up any time they began to match pace, just to see what Hollander would do. To his delight, Hollander always caught up, and then even started to go faster himself. Testing Ilya. Playing his game. 

So good. So obedient. 

The sounds of the whirring pedals and their panting breaths filled the silence, until eventually, Ilya’s mind cleared of any thoughts except that of his burning thighs and Shane Hollander trembling beside to him.

It felt like a fucking rush. Like a high. But who could blame him? Every time Ilya glanced up at the mirror, he found Hollander’s gaze already there, reluctantly lingering on the reflection of Ilya’s form. And then Ilya would meet his eyes, and the boy would flush and look away. And he knew that flush on his freckled cheeks wasn’t just from the exertion. 

 Ilya was looking too, obviously. Watching Hollander’s arms shake with the effort of holding him upright, until he finally fell forward onto the bike handles with a little breathy sigh. Ilya wondered how the same move would look, if he was fucking Hollander from behind. 

“Tired already?” Ilya teased, but his voice was just as strained.

Hollander glanced over, eyes sharp. “No.”

Ilya couldn’t fight back his grin. So defiant.

“Is okay,” he said diplomatically, “You were second once. No shame in being second again.”

Hollander narrowed his eyes, glaring at Ilya. But Ilya was too busy looking at his pink flush of his cheeks to notice the searing gaze. “Fuck off,” Hollander spat, then pedaled faster. Ilya could see a bead of sweat running down the column of his neck, and debated reaching over to lick it away.

They finished soon after, pretty much in tandem, when Ilya noticed that Hollander was trembling with exhaustion and spared him his pride by stopping before he could pass out. They hopped off the bikes and sat down by the mirrors, wordless as they caught their breaths. The heat from their bodies mingled in the air, as well as that silent, tugging curiosity. Ilya stretched his legs out towards Hollander’s and watched his eyes darken at the movement. Hollander didn’t move away. 

“What a fucking day, huh?” Ilya said eventually, panting. His body thrummed from the workout, like he’d finally gotten the release he was looking for. 

Hollander rested his head back against the wall, giving Ilya a clear view of his pulse hammering in his neck. “Yeah,” he agreed.

Ilya’s eyes tracked over Hollander’s body, almost unwillingly. He couldn’t look away.

“Is everything you dreamed of?” Ilya muttered eventually.

He watched as Hollander’s throat bobbed. “Almost,” he said, just as quietly.

Ah, yes. Ilya realized then that Hollander was sitting in front of the only hockey player better than him. What a rush it must've been.

Ilya’s mouth ticked up in a smirk. “Sorry,” he shrugged, not really sorry at all.

Hollander smirked back. “No, you’re not.”

Ilya watched him. In the silence that stretched out before them, he realized distantly that they were all alone. He wondered momentarily what would happen if he reached over right now. Grabbed Hollander by the front of his shirt and kissed him and licked the salty sweat off his upper lip. Then off his neck. What kind of sounds would Hollander make if Ilya made him watch in the mirror as Ilya turned him over, and stroked him through his pants? 

The need to find out was unlike anything he had ever felt. He’d been with many people already—men and women, from Russia and America and even Canada. But it all seemed so fresh and new with Hollander. Like he was discovering sex all over again. Just the thought of kissing him made Ilya more turned on than he’d been in a long time.

Ilya tugged on the spout of his water bottle through his teeth and sucked water into his mouth thirstily. He watched Hollander’s eyes track the movement, charging the air between them with his hunger.

And Ilya was kind, so.

He stuck out the water bottle to Hollander, who brushed him off with a wave of his hand. Ilya insisted, shaking it in front of him until Hollander finally reached forward and took it. The brief contact of their fingers in the process was so much, Ilya could almost see stars. It was hot and perfect. He could feel himself growing hard, just from that.

He watched Hollander’s throat moved as he drank down the water, then wondered if he could get away with running his tongue along the water bottle spout once he got it back. Just to see if he could taste Hollander there, the only taste he could get.

Fuck. Ilya stared openly as Hollander pulled the water bottle away from his plush lips. Are you as turned on as I am right now? He wanted to ask. But the answer was obvious. Hollander was staring at him helplessly, eyes grazing over his shoulders and arms, the strong spread of his legs. Satisfaction rolled through Ilya like a drunkenness he hadn’t felt in a long time.

He smiled. More, Ilya mouthed, when it looked like Hollander had forgotten about the water. And Hollander obeyed.

Hollander obeyed.

They sat there longer than necessary. The gym hummed quietly around them, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, the mirrors unforgiving in their clarity. Ilya could see everything — the way Hollander kept adjusting his grip on his towel, the way his knees keep falling open without him realizing, the way his gaze kept drifting back. 

Eventually, Hollander swallowed and scrubbed a hand over his face, like he was trying to wake himself up. “I should—” he started, then stopped.

Ilya tilted his head, studying him. “You should what?”

Hollander huffed out a quiet laugh, embarrassed. “Sleep. Or…something.” He glanced sideways, meeting Ilya’s eyes at last. He looked away hesitantly. “I’ve got an early flight.”

“Mmm,” Ilya hummed, noncommittal. He stretched his legs out again, just enough that his foot brushed Hollander’s ankle. Not an accident. He watched the shiver it pulled from him. “Then you should go.”

Hollander nodded once, a reluctant agreement, and slowly pushed himself to his feet. He hesitated there, towering a little now, uncertain. Waiting.

Ilya looked up at him, expression easy. Unthreatening. Like this was nothing. Like this strange and quiet encounter hadn’t just rewritten things between them. 

“Good night, Hollander,” he said, pleasantly.

Hollander blinked. Something like disappointment flickered across his face before he schooled it away. “Yeah,” he said. “Good night, Rozanov.”

He left.

Ilya listened to his footsteps fade, then to the door click shut. Only then did he lean back against the mirror, exhaling slowly through his nose. His reflection stared back at him — flushed, eyes bright, mouth still curved with the ghost of a smile.

Shane Hollander.

He rolled the name around in his mind, trying it out for size.

Sitting there in that hotel gym at around three in the morning, with a flight back to Russia the next day to get his things packed, a whole hockey career ahead of him in a new country, and his father sleeping a few floors above, Ilya Rozanov made a promise to himself more serious than any of these things.

That night, he promised himself. He would fuck Shane Hollander.

And Hollander would love it.

___________________________

Shane

They don’t stop talking about it, not the entire way back to Montreal. Shane tries to politely turn them down by shoving his hood up and putting his headphones in, but it’s useless. They’re like a dog with a bone. The questions range from annoying to way too personal for his comfort.

and he shuts all of them down. It must look like, to everyone, that Shane is trying to protect Rose’s image by refusing to answer. And while he would do that, if they’d actually done anything, the truth is that they hadn’t. Shane has nothing to say for the experience, nothing that any of them would want to hear about.  So he just keeps his mouth shut and addresses their questions with tight nods or shakes of his head. 

Shane knows better than to expect something kind from Rozanov—a congratulations for last night's game. A clap on the shoulder, or a Doing good, Hollander? No, he doesn’t expect any of this.

But he also doesn't expect nothing. He thinks at least Rozanov will join the fanfare of the rest of the team. Teasing Shane for finally getting some. Maybe insinuating that he wasn’t able to go through with it. That Shane couldn’t fuck a girl. Just…anything. 

But the trip back home passes by, and it’s radio silence. The team is given the rest of the day to themselves to recover. And maybe it’s a little slutty, considering he just ‘slept’ with a girl last night, but Shane almost hopes for a text from Rozanov asking him to come over. 

Nothing comes, so Shane spends the rest of the day with his mom, who drove all the way to Shane’s apartment to check on him and talk about his girlfriend. Shane quickly corrects her but leaves out any other specifics of what happened with him and Rose.

The attention he receives for the next couple of days is…alarming. Shane doesn’t think he’s ever gotten it like this before. It’s a little spooky—seeing all the theories of their secret relationship or the romantic hookup they had after leaving the bar. It all makes him feel a little queasy, like something he ate isn’t sitting right in his stomach.

He texts Rose about all the articles that have start to come out with the pictures of them leaving the bar together. She texts him back, something along the lines of, stick with me, kid, and you’ll go far. It makes him laugh. He even gets an email from the team’s media relations—a run down of what he should and shouldn’t be doing right now. It’s a moot point, because Shane tries to stay as far away from it all as possibly can anyway.

They have a couple of days of practice as normal before their game against Minnesota. It’s a nice reprieve from all the madness in LA, and Shane takes it for what it’s worth, throwing himself into drills and workouts. He even stays after practice to use the rink in the evening, skating laps to clear his mind and work through plays. It’s not like he’s busy doing anything else—Rozanov doesn’t say anything to him at all during those two days. Which is fine. Shane bets he’s probably found some other girl out in Montreal to keep him busy anyway.

____________________

Before the Minnesota game, the assistant manager pulls Shane out to talk to reporters. He gets maybe four minutes of good hockey talk, and then…

“Sorry, I have to ask—everyone’s been talking about your rumored relationship with actress Rose Landry that went public a few days ago in Los Angeles. Got anything to say on the matter?”

Shane casts a nervous glance in the direction of their PR team, who have tried to prepare him for this situation over the past couple of days. And he says something true. “She’s a great friend, and I had a lot of fun hanging out with her in LA after our game. It’s always fun to celebrate our big wins with other people.”

Another reporter chimes in, “Is she a big hockey fan?”

Shane’s smile is thin. “Yeah, not as big as I am, though.”

They laugh as he does his best to steer the conversation back to hockey.

After they’re done, Hayden seems to notice Shane’s silent air of frustration. He glances over at Shane with a smirk. “They hound you about the girlfriend?”

Shane groans. “It’s fucking unbelievable. I am still a hockey player, right?”

“Not anymore,” he quips. “Your new official title is Boyfriend of Rose Landry.”

“We’re not dating!” Shane shoots back. “For the last time!”

“Okay, okay,” Hayden snickers. “Jeez. I certainly wouldn’t be that upset if I had dating allegations with her.”

Shane scowls. “I’m telling Jackie you said that.”

“Go ahead!” He grins. “Rose Landry is like a hallway pass for both of us.” After a moment, he adds, “You know I met Jackie at a club like that. And look where we are now.”

Shane can’t help but mutter back, “Did Jackie live thousands of miles away in a different country?”

“Dude, Rose is a movie star,” Hayden shakes his head when Shane doesn’t get the memo. “Private jets. Duh. You gotta start thinking big, Hollywood.”

He flushes red. “Don’t call me that.”

Hayden laughs at his discomfort.

Shane rolls his eyes and glances away, only to lock eyes with Rozanov, who is currently holding court on the other side of the locker room. But he’s watching Shane only. A hot kind of surprise shoots through him.

They haven’t talked much these past couple days. To an unassuming eye, it would just look like they were both busy. Focused on the game. Not thinking of each other at all.

Except Shane has been thinking. More than he should be, honestly. His gaze lingers for a second too long before he finally looks away. He fights off the words on his tongue. He wants to say something—come over after? Or something. Shane forces himself to focus on folding up his gear properly instead. He tries to ignore the feeling that something is off as he goes through all his pregame rituals, listens to Coach give a speech and then filter out the locker room to hear the echoes of the crowd in the rink.

When they line up for the first face-off, Rozanov finally glances side-long at him. Their eyes meet, and Shane’s blood heats.

“Ready to play, Captain?” Rozanov says in a low voice--it's the first thing he's said to Shane all day. And it sounds menacing.

Shane fixes his mouthguard into place—a nervous habit. “Always.”

Rozanov winks at him. “Game on.”

If Shane is too clueless to take the threat for what it is, Rozanov doesn’t leave it up to his interpretation for very long. Shane wins the face-off, snapping the puck back to Rozanov’s stick exactly the way they’ve done a hundred times in practice. It should be automatic from there — Rozanov carries for a few strides, sends it back, and they go through the play as practiced. Only a minute into the period after Shane has given Rozanov the puck, and he hasn’t gotten it back once. Rozanov takes it off the boards and drives it himself, cutting through the ice like he’s the only one there. He ignores the open wing. He ignores Shane, who is skating into position, waiting for a pass that never comes.

What the fuck?

Rozanov cuts inside, splitting Minnesota’s first line with a move that shouldn’t work at that speed. The crowd surges to its feet, noise climbing, because even when you know it’s reckless, it’s still beautiful to watch someone skate like that. He shoots—it’s just wide to the left. The crowd roars anyway.

Shane exhales sharply as they reset, chest tight. He skates past Rozanov, shoulder brushing his arm. “Nice try,” he mutters, not looking at him.

Rozanov’s grin is wolfish.

The next shift, he takes the puck off a broken play in the neutral zone and skates off, blowing past the left wing without so much as a glance. Even Hayden hesitates for a moment, giving Shane a look that says, what the fuck is his problem? Shane just trails along, helpless, slowly realizing that Rozanov has no plan of passing the puck over to him. He is playing straight through the middle, dragging two defenders with him by sheer force of will.

Rozanov checks them both, hard enough that Shane can feel in his bones, just from watching. But Rozanov doesn’t lose the puck in the process, not for a second. He gears up for a backhand, pulling the goalie to one end, then fakes it out to a forehand in the last second. The Minnesota goalie barely moves in time for the first, and is left scrambling when the puck slides clean past his shoulder. The crowd roars.

But to Shane, the victory is hollow. It’s almost the end of the first period and he hasn’t gotten a feel for the goal once.

By the time they reach the bench, Coach Reilly is already on his feet.

“Nice goal,” he barks, eyes locked on Rozanov. “We play five-man hockey, by the way. Five.”

Rozanov makes a show of counting on his fingers. “One? Five? My English is bad, maybe.”

Reilly looks pissed, but not pissed enough to say anything else. Not after Rozanov just scored their first goal of the game.

Shane sits down on the bench harder than necessary, pulse hammering. “He’s right, you know,” he calls out. Rozanov doesn’t turn. “Maybe let someone else have the puck for a change!”

Rozanov glances at him, looking bored. “If they want it, they can come get it.”

The air between them pulses, hot despite the cold rink. Shane feels like he’s saying something else, but is too pissed off to bother figuring out what.

Midway through the next period, Rozanov steals the puck clean at the blue line, skates through a check that should take him down, and drives straight at the net. Minnesota collapses instantly, all four skaters converging like they’ve been trained to stop only one man. Which they almost do. Rozanov loses the angle, skates himself into the corner, but still muscles a backhand pass through two bodies, but it’s too ambitious, like he was aiming for the net, and Shane can’t catch the puck in time for it to skate by into another player’s tape.

Eventually, even Reilly gets fed up with Rozanov’s playing. Late in the first, he slams the board with his palm. “Rozanov! Bench!”

Rozanov relents, skates over, jaw tight, but he doesn’t argue. Shane lines up for the next face-off without him, chest heavy.

The puck drops. Minnesota’s center, a rookie from Quebec, reaches for it. He beats Shane to it, and takes off into their offensive zone.

Hollander takes off after him, flanked by Hayden on the left and Berkes on the right. And Shane works well with his team, he really does. It all comes natural to him. They wrangle the puck away easily and Hayden takes out Minnesota’s left wing and defense with one check, leaving the two players hurtling for the boards, clearing the ice for Shane. He skates as fast as he can down neutral ice, and their play comes together in a second. Before Minnesota’s center can move in, Berkes checks him hard and locks eyes with Shane, tapping his club, calling for the puck. But it feels off, not as immediate as the connection Shane’s had with Rozanov recently, so his pass is just off-center and they lose the puck to Minnesota’s defense in the process.

“Fuck!” Shane swears out loud, his anger grabbing hold of him as he skates off after it. He’s sweating, pissed off, and suddenly hyper-aware of how loud the building feels.

Minnesota clears the zone and dumps it deep. Shane pivots, already scanning for Rozanov out of instinct — and then remembers he’s still on the bench. Of course he is.

By the time Rozanov’s line hops back over the boards, the energy has shifted. Minnesota’s defenders are braver now. They step up at the blue line, take runs at him instead of backing off. One of them clips Rozanov’s hip as he carries in, just enough to knock him off his edge.

Rozanov goes down hard.

The whistle doesn’t blow.

Shane feels it like a jolt. He’s already skating over before he fully realizes it, jaw tight, chest burning. Rozanov scrambles back to his feet, eyes blazing, and slashes his stick once — twice — against the defender’s shin pads.

That gets the whistle.

The Minnesota defenseman grins, hands up. Innocent. Rozanov doesn’t look innocent at all.

“Easy,” Shane mutters as he glides past, low enough that only Rozanov can hear him. “Don’t—”

Rozanov shoves him. Not hard. Not enough to knock him over. Just enough to say don’t tell me what to do.

The ref is already skating in. “Rozanov, that’s enough.”

Rozanov keeps his eyes locked on the Minnesota player. His chest is heaving. There’s a thin, wild smile tugging at the corner of his mouth that Shane knows well, like he’s enjoying this. Like this is exactly where he wants to be.

“Two minutes,” the ref barks. “Slashing.”

Rozanov laughs — actually laughs — as he peels off toward the box. He doesn’t look back at the team once.

They manage their way through the penalty kill. Shane does what he always does — talks, points, covers lanes, keeps it together. Minnesota doesn’t score, but they come close enough that it makes his stomach twist.

Then the rest of the game feels the same. Not dominating or controlling anything, just barely scraping by.

When Rozanov gets back onto the ice, it only gets worse. It's a miracle he doesn't get sent to the penalty box again with the way he's chirping at any player that skates by and checking them all into the boards. He’s rough, abrasive, playing like the rookie on the Boston Raiders and the captain of Team Russia. Which are not bad things to be, in their own right, except Rozanov carried these titles like weapons in battles. And he’s brought them out for one last hoorah.

Late in the second, it finally boils over. Minnesota’s winger takes a run at Rozanov near the boards, shoulder high. Rozanov staggers but stays upright — and Shane is close enough that he can see the moment Rozanov lets go of his control. He drops his gloves without hesitation and lunges forward, fist already swinging. The gloves hit the ice.

When the first punch lands, Shane’s heart drops straight into his stomach.

Rozanov’s fist connects with the other player’s head, clean and brutal. The second punch glances off his helmet. The third connects with Rozanov’s cheekbone instead, and blood blooms almost instantly, dark against pale skin.

"Rozanov!" Shane yells, the concern in his voice ringing clear into the air. He skates over. “Fuck—”

The linesmen rush in too late to stop the damage. Rozanov is grinning through it, teeth red, eyes bright and unhinged as he keeps swinging until he’s hauled back by sheer force. He’s still fighting them as they drag him away, chest heaving, blood dripping down onto the ice.

“Attaboy!” Someone on Minnesota yells.

Shane doesn’t move. He just stands there, watching, hands clenched around his stick so tight his knuckles ache. His ears are ringing.

JJ skates to a stop in front of him, patting Shane on the shoulder and dragging him back to reality. Shane tears his gaze away from Rozanov getting skated off the rink. He blinks, looking around. The crowd in the stands. His team. They have a game to play.

“Forget it,” JJ says, forcing Shane to look at him. The words are grounding. “He’s being a dick anyway. Let’s play.”

Shane barely manages a nod, and they skate away.

The rest of the game is shitty. Minnesota is ramped up from the fight, and they play like they have something to prove. Meanwhile, Shane’s hardly in the headspace to keep up with them. Even coach looks dejected on the side.

By the time the final horn sounds, it’s 4–2.

The crowd’s disappointment echoes as they skate off the ice.

In the locker room, Shane sits at his stall, sweat cooling on his skin, staring down at his gloves like they might explain something if he looks at them long enough. He preemptively denied any media requests for the night—doesn’t trust himself not to say something stupid in front of the cameras right now. Shane can still see it when he shuts his eyes— Rozanov’s grin, the blood, that gleam in his eyes. It makes his blood fucking boil.

After almost twenty minutes of somber silence from the team, Hayden is the first to speak. “Okay, guys. Time to fess up. Who put the chip on Rozanov’s shoulder?”

There are scattered laughs.

“He was in fine form tonight, wasn’t he?” JJ quips back. “What a fucking piece of work.”

“Fucking hate that guy,” someone else mutters, but it’s endearing. Others chime in, and then they’re all talking about the debacle of Rozanov’s performance in a low chatter. Shane ducks his head to unlace his skates.

Hayden turns to him. “How are you doing, Captain?”

Shane heaves a sigh. “Don't even start,” he mumbles, "I just want to forget about it." He looks up and raises his voice so everyone can hear. “Hey guys. Let's all forget about tonight, okay? About the win-streak, about the fight, about all of it. One game doesn’t define us.” One player doesn’t, Shane doesn’t add. “We’ll come back fresh after the break.”

There’s some claps at that and murmured agreements at his statement. With just a few words, suddenly the loss doesn’t seem as colossal. Shane can even see some tension leave his teammates' shoulders, and he thinks it was the right thing to say. 

But inside, Shane is pissed. He grips his gloves hard. They deserved that win. He wants to track Rozanov down and grab his shoulders and shake them hard, and shove him back against the wall and yell in his face for fucking this up. Shane thinks it would make him feel better, after all that’s happened. 

He goes through the motions of packing up and getting ready to leave for the night, chatting with his teammates as they all try to forget the game. After they've all left, Shane is left lingering in the facilities. And yet, as he leaves the locker room, he feels his steps carrying him towards the trainer’s instead of towards the to the parking lot. The door is open, the lights glowing from the inside, and Shane steps in before he can think better of it.

As he suspected, Rozanov is sitting at the bed closest to the door, stripped of all his gear and shirtless. He holds a pack of ice up to the side of his face and stares up at the ceiling with a bloodied, blank expression when Shane comes in, then his gaze darts over.

Shane studies him for a second. He takes in the tired slump of Rozanov’s shoulders and the bags underneath his eyes. And his anger...vanishes. He fights the urge to rush over to make sure he’s okay. To ask if he’s in any pain and tell him that Minnesota fucking sucks for how they played. Even though Rozanov probably deserved the hit. He clenches his hands into fists to stop himself from brushing the damp curls away from Rozanov's face and kissing his forehead softly. 

All the awful urges bubble up inside him until Shane feels like he could die from it.

After a long silence, Rozanov finally speaks.

“You look like you are going to be sick, Hollander,” he smirks. Shane can’t meet his eyes. “Is just a little blood. Don’t be a pussy.”

“I’m not!” Shane bursts. He clears his throat, steels himself for his practiced response. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, obviously,” Rozanov mutters, looking away. He sighs. “But I want a smoke.”

“Don’t be an idiot.”

“Okay. Since you asked.”

“We lost the game,” Shane informs him, uselessly.

Rozanov hums in confirmation. “Yes. Too bad.” 

“Too bad?” Shane echoes incredulously. “You played like shit. That’s too bad. What were you thinking?”

“Get puck. Score goal. Punch asshole from Minnesota.” Rozanov lists off dutifully. He looks up at Shane. “Make sense?”

Shane stares at him hard. Rozanov is trying to piss him off—has been since the beginning of the game. Maybe longer. That much is obvious. Shane just doesn’t know what he did to deserve it.

“Whatever,” he grits out. “You’ll be good for practice next week?” Shane asks, performing his duty as team captain.

Rozanov rolls his eyes. “Of course. I would be ready tomorrow.”

Shane swallows thickly, forcing a nod. He's exhausted all of a sudden, but not from the game. Just from looking at Rozanov. He feels a huge rush of words climb up his throat, dying to come out. You look tired and Did I do something? And Come over, just for a little, just to sleep next to me.

They’re weak thoughts, and Shane can’t stand to hear himself think them.

He can only hope he doesn’t look as troubled as he feels as he manages, “Good. Then I’ll see you after break. Happy holidays, Rozanov.”

And Shane turns to leave before Rozanov can respond.

____________________

Montreal Metros Snap Seven-Game Win Streak at Home

The Montreal Metros’ momentum came to a halt last night in a 4–2 loss against the Minnesota Wild, ending a seven-game win streak that had placed them among the league’s early-season standouts.

While the Canadian team opened strong — including a highlight-worthy goal from forward Ilya Rozanov — the game quickly devolved to messy chaos. Rozanov was assessed multiple penalties and ejected late in the second period following a fight with Minnesota winger Caleb Andersson, leaving the Metros scrambling to regain structure. Captain Shane Hollander did his best to pull the game together, but it was a lost cause. His damage control was nothing against Minnesota’s tactical, fast plays at the end.

Analysts were quick to note that while individual performances remained impressive, the Metros appeared fractured in execution.

“It felt like they were playing two different games,” one commentator observed, referring to forwards Hollander and Rozanov. The pair, that have been pushing the Metros up the division rankings these past few weeks, couldn’t have looked more misaligned on the ice tonight, which leaves fans wondering—maybe their success was beginner’s luck. A fluke. Should the Metros be worried about the trade yet?

Head Coach Reilly declined to comment directly on the altercation but emphasized accountability and discipline moving forward. The Metros will look to regroup after the holiday break, though questions remain about whether their recent success has masked deeper growing pains within a roster still learning how to play together.

Chapter End Notes

episode 5 ilya rozanov please if you can hear me just give me one chance please just one chance

Chapter 13

Ilya flies down to Boston for Christmas and spends it with Svetlana, in much of the same way they spend all of their time together. Stretched out on the couch, legs intertwined, watching old hockey while sharing a cigarette.

He gets her a gift, of course. A bottle of good Russian vodka they gripe about not being able to find usually, and a Montreal beanie that she laughs at when she opens and then wears for the rest of the night. She, in return, gives him a new cross necklace in silver.

The first night, she takes him out to all the old clubs they used to go to. Ilya’s heart fills when they run into Raiders fans and he takes pictures with whoever asks and laughs when they shit-talk Montreal. A small part of him wishes Hollander were there to witness it all--wishes he could watch Hollander's nose scrunch up in disapproval at all the profanity. Later on, Ilya meets with a woman he used to sleep with frequently when he lived here. It’s a chance encounter—they end up in the same bar and literally bump into each other. The woman, Callie, looks shocked to see him but not at all upset. Ilya grins down at her with his tried-and-true bedroom eyes. About an hour later, he has her pressed down into the mattress at her apartment, a place he had become very familiar with during his time in Boston. She moans wantonly into the sheets as Ilya grabs the back of her neck—Callie, he remembers, likes it rough. It's all going great. When he pushes her hair to the side, he sees a smattering of freckles across the back of her neck that he’s never noticed before, and it makes his vision go white at the corners. Fucking freckles.

Ilya fucks her so hard she almost passes out, and she thanks him for it after.

Callie falls asleep fast, curled toward him, one hand slack on his chest. Ilya stares at the ceiling, wide awake, his mood suddenly sour. He feels wrung out, empty in a way that has nothing to do with sex. He thinks about the freckles again, and gets violently irritated by the memory. He wishes he hadn’t seen them. He hates that, even back in Boston, he can’t be left alone.

________________________

The next day, they watch the snow out the windows while sharing one blanket on the couch. A comfortable silence fills the air between them, interrupted only by the hum of ESPN on the television. Ilya hopes Svetlana doesn’t notice how he keeps checking his phone, waiting for a text he knows won’t come.

She does, of course.

“So how was it with Callie?” She asks eventually, and Ilya can tell she means for it to come off as casual. But he still senses the prying curiosity behind the words. If he's being honest, he'd rather not talk about it at all, still frustrated with how the night ended, but he knows that won't bode well for long.

“Fine,” Ilya replies, being purposefully vague.

"You fucked?" 

"Obviously."

Svetlana glances over, unsatisfied. “As good as you remember?” Her voice grows impatient.

He fights the twitching beginnings of a smile. “Just about.”

“Good.” She narrows her eyes. “Then maybe you would like to date her?”

Ilya only shrugs. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

Svetlana doesn’t reply, perhaps shocked by his bullshit answers. A second later, she throws a pillow at him. Ilya laughs when it hits him in the face.

“Stop being thickheaded!” Svetlana crawls across the couch and lays across his lap, staring up at him with scrutinizing eyes. “Tell me about your love life.” She orders. “Are you seeing anyone?”

Ilya looks down at her, unimpressed. “You know I’m not.”

“Let me set you up then,” she smiles persuasively. “I have many hot friends.”

I’m not interested in your friends, Ilya wants to say.

“I’m busy,” he says instead.

She groans, throwing her hands up. “You are always busy! This does not mean you can’t fuck.”

“Svetlana.” Ilya gives her a look that says drop it. 

She sighs dramatically and turns away, going back to her phone. They sit like that in silence for a while, and although Ilya has managed to get her to drop the topic, he still feels his heart racing a little, like he’s deceived her somehow. Even though he hasn’t.

The real answer to her question is, obviously, much more complicated than Ilya would like to admit. He considers, for a moment, what Svetlana would say if he told her the whole truth. I am intermittently having sex with my hockey rival Shane Hollander but I think he will start dating Rose Landry soon and I hate him for it.  

The thought alone is humiliating enough to discourage him from voicing it, although it has nothing to do with him being afraid of Svetlana's reaction. She would probably be very pragmatic about it, honestly. That's how she was back in Russia, when Ilya first brought up the idea of sleeping with Sasha. She was all logistics, going through the drawbacks and obstacles he would face, without really discouraging him from doing it at all. He imagines she would be quite the same if he told her about Hollander, if not just a little mystified at the concept of a great Shane Hollander that is secretly attracted to men.

Yes, Ilya decides, she might be a great help to him. And yet this...Ilya feels like he needs to hide from her. Like that time when she came to visit and in a rush, and Ilya urged Hollander to his bedroom to hide. Seized with that sudden, overwhelming terror. He still hates how the situation turned out. The last thing either of them want is to get caught, by anyone. Still, he wishes it could’ve happened differently.

He’s still thinking about it when Svetlana breaks the silence. “Do you know? I saw something interesting the other day,” she mentions, staring at her phone.

“Yeah? What?”

And then she says, disinterested, “Your captain is dating Rose Landry.” Ilya narrows his eyes, feeling caught. It must be a coincidence, that's the only explanation. “God, they are beautiful together. Would make good babies.” After a moment, she adds, “Shane is very handsome.”

He feels a little breathless with disbelief. There's no way Svetlana is talking about this right now--the last thing Ilya wants to be talking about.

He stares hard at the TV. “They aren’t dating.”

“Oh, no?” Svetlana looks over.

“No. They went out once, in LA. That’s all.”

“I see.” She is quiet for a minute. He wonders if that's a hint of victory he can hear in her tone. The TV fills the silence in English that Ilya only half-listens to. “You two play very well together, you know.” Ilya glances over. Svetlana grins impishly at him. “I watch every game I can, of course. Good on you for letting him center you.”

Ilya sniffs. “I don’t let him do anything. Coach’s choice, obviously. Very bad one.”

“Oh, is that why you start fight last week?” She mocks.

“No,” he replies, scowling. “That was for fun.”

“Scoring race must be tough,” Svetlana points out mildly. “With both of you on the ice together all the time.”

Ilya mocks Hollander’s stupid Canadian accent and switches to English. “I’m here for the team. I don’t care how many goals I score, as long as we can all have a big group hug at the end. And then maybe pick flowers together.”

Svetlana giggles, swatting him on the chest. “You’re so awful.”

Ilya doesn’t feel like talking about Hollander anymore, so he tries to switch the topic. “Do you think we can make playoffs this year?” Ilya asks seriously, switching back to Russian.

She considers the question for a second. In the meantime, Ilya reaches over and plays with the loose curls of her hair.

“I don’t know. Maybe.” She says finally. “Montreal is better this year than last, of course. Thanks to you. But…I think maybe you and Hollander get in each other’s way.”

Ilya scoffs. “We are just two players.”

“Yes. You have good goalie and everything. Defense is very strong, too. But…I don’t know. Could be a problem.”

Ilya stares at her, almost wondering if she’s kidding. “Me and Hollander?”

She nods. “You are both the best players. Stop competing already.”

He watches her for a while, a bit annoyed that she’s still talking about Hollander, and more annoyed because he knows she’s right. Ilya trusts Svetlana’s opinion on hockey maybe more than anyone else he knows. She is like a psychic. But he really doesn’t want to discuss it anymore, so he drops the topic completely.

Some time goes by, and then Svetlana brings up something much worse. “How is your father?”

Ilya’s easy mood fades instantly. He rolls his eyes. “Ask Alexei.”

She snorts. “I’d sooner shoot myself.”

Ilya lets out a heavy sigh. “Do we have to talk about this?”

“Tell me or don’t,” Svetlana says easily. “The situation will be the same.”

Ilya glares at her. Once again, she is right. He mutters reluctantly, “If I’m being honest, I wish I could be there right now. Not that I would be happy, but. I need to see him, I think. He’s getting worse.”

Svetlana turns, fixing him with a concerned look. “Really?”

“He called me a couple of nights ago, confused. Terrified. He didn’t know where he was. He kept asking for Irina.” Ilya’s mother’s name buries him a little bit, coming out of his mouth. “I called Alexei and yelled at him for not being there to watch him.” Ilya shakes his head. “Maybe I should bring my dad here.”

“To America?” She asks.

“America, Canada,” he shrugs. “Just closer. So I can keep an eye on him. Maybe put him in a home.”

Svetlana shakes her head. “He would hate that.”

“I know, but…” Ilya’s voice trails off. I hate that I’m not there to take care of him. It’s hard to speak, all of a sudden. He wishes they hadn’t started talking about it in the first place, and he wants a drink to make himself feel better. A strong one.

Svetlana, knowing as always, senses his silence and brings Ilya’s head into her lap. She strokes his hair comfortingly. Ilya’s eyes fall shut and for a brief moment, he imagines what it would be like if somebody else was in her place. What his hands would feel like. What it would be like, to tell him all of these things.

“You are doing enough,” Svetlana murmurs in Russian. “Everything will be okay.”

Ilya feels a lump in his throat. “I miss her,” he says. And it is obvious to both of them who he’s talking about.

They stay like that for a long time, intertwined together. Svetlana feels so warm and steady that Ilya gets lulled nearly to sleep. His body relaxes, and in an instant, he gets the urge to tell her everything—things he hasn’t said to anyone before. I think I care about him, Svetlana. I care so much and I don’t know what to do about it. It’s horrible.

He knows that she would understand, but Ilya doesn’t want to say it. He thinks maybe if he stays quiet, it will go away on its own.

____________________

There’s a list of things the Hollanders do for Christmas that Shane looks forward to every year. First, they go to an open skate in the park district and skate together like a normal family, with no sticks or pucks involved. Shane wears a hoodie and a ball cap to hide his face, but people recognize him anyhow. He’s practically a celebrity in Ottawa—everyone knows his names, and he’s heard tales of neighborhood watch parties for any of his important games.

They sit outside the rink and Shane’s dad, as always, insists on tying his skates for him, even though Shane hasn’t needed help with that since he was six. His mom hovers nearby with a thermos, already smiling at the small crowd gathering at the edge of the rink. Shane hears his name carried faintly over the scrape of blades. He keeps his head ducked low to avoid the attention. But once they get on the ice, it doesn’t take long for a gaggle of kids to gather around him. He dutifully takes pictures with them and their families one at a time--some of whom he vaguely recognizes. And it's sweet. It really is. He shakes their hands and flush when they congratulate him on everything and tries not too feel massively overwhelmed. 

It all gets a little easier once they actually start to skate. The kids skate around him, all asking questions at once. His parents hang back helplessly a few feet away. Shane is half-panicked that a kid is going to trip and fall over another, half-busy answering their tough questions.

“Is it scary?”

“Does it hurt when another player slams you into the boards?”

“How good are you?”

“If you could pick any other sport to play, which would it be?”

A little girl with blonde bangs whizzes around him in a pair of tiny hockey skates that makes Shane’s heart clench a little. “Who’s the fastest guy on your team?”

“That’s obvious,” the first boy says before Shane can respond. “It’s Ilya Rozanov. He’s the fastest in the league for Chrissake’s.”

“Hey!” Shane narrows his eyes. “I’m right here, you know.”

“Come on!” He quips back. “Admit it. Even you know he’s faster.”

Shane’s dad comes to the rescue. “That Russian kid? Hell no. Shane can skate laps around that guy any day. I’ve seen it myself.” He winks at Shane conspiratorially.

“Don’t be fooled, kids. Rozanov is a Raider,” his mom adds. “He’s the enemy.”

The kids deny this in chorus. Somewhere in the distance, all their parents laugh as they watch from one corner of the rink.

“Not anymore!” The little girl cries, “He’s on Shane’s team now. And they’re great together.”

“Did you see that fight on the ice last week?” Another kid quips. “Rozanov punched this guy on Minnesota, and My dad started swearing at the TV! There was a lot of blood!”

The kids start to giggle as Shane tries to school his expression into neutrality. He almost wants to laugh at the irony. At the fact that even two hours away, surrounded by his family and his hometown and no hockey at all, he still can’t escape Rozanov. Great together.

A little boy with freckles tugs on the end of Shane’s sleeve to get his attention.“Hey. My mom says you guys can get the Cup this year. Is that true?”

“Yeah! Shane, are you gonna win the Cup this year?”

Shane pretends to think for a second. “Like a glass cup? A plastic one?”

“No!” They all yell, and Shane laughs despite himself.

“The Stanley Cup, obviously,” another mutters.

“Ohhh,” Shane raises his eyebrows, as if just remembering. The kids don’t look amused, but the sight of them makes his heart clench once more.

“So…are you?”

Shane skates in silence for a second, thinking. He takes in the sight of all these kids from his hometown, bundled up in their puffer jackets and toques and tiny hockey skates, watching him like he’s a superhero. It all hits him then—that these kids look up to him. Him. He has no idea how the fuck that happened.

Shane forces down the sudden lump in his throat. And he says something true.

“I’ll try my best.”

Later, as per tradition, Shane meets up with his old teammates and they trek through the snow and trees to a big lake near his house that gets frozen over in the winter, and they play hockey and catch up. A couple of his old friends are now married, more than a few others engaged. Some of them haven’t played hockey since high school. But it’s still a good time. They laugh about stupid inside jokes from the past and tease Shane about his life as a hockey star. He’s reminded of a time when things weren’t so serious, when hockey could just be hockey, and it’s nice. Until one of the old defensemen who now works in the Boston Financial District mentions how he has a friend that once hooked up with Ilya Rozanov, and isn’t that guy on your team now, Shane? Is he as big of a dickhead as he seems?

Shane stops himself from replying yes, definitely yes, and instead quickly changes the conversation to how he wants them all to meet JJ and Hayden. Luckily, no one brings it up again.

That evening, they all drag him out to the bars in town. In typical small-town fashion, everyone he knows from high school is there, and he receives more than a few lingering stares. Shane even runs into one of his ex-girlfriends from high school, Monica, and her new fiance. She doesn’t seem to notice the awkwardness though, mentioning how cool it is that Shane has met Rose Landry. Shane dances around the topic, flushing again and hoping it looks like it’s from the alcohol. He keeps the conversation as short as possible, simply out of social ineptitude, even though he knows he might be coming off as rude. When Shane returns back to the bar, his friends eye him warily.

“Don’t look so beat up, dude,” Wyatt, the goalie on his old team, claps him on the shoulder. “There’s plenty of fish in the sea.” He waves his hand to the packed bar around them, and says again, “Sea. Fish.”

“Thanks, man,” Shane starts hesitantly. “But I’m…”

“Oh. Seeing someone?” Wyatt nods.

Not looking for anything serious. Busy with hockey and winning the Stanley Cup for some kids. Kind of occupied by this sexy, Russian dickhead that I can’t stop thinking about but probably doesn’t want anything to do with me and is currently spending Christmas with a hot, busty Russian woman in Boston.

“It’s complicated,” Shane says.

Wyatt nods knowingly. “Got it, man. Been there.”

Shane doesn’t think Wyatt’s actually been there, but he decides not to point this out and nods along instead.

Shane  considers trying to talk to someone. He tells himself it would be easy. Shane Hollander, home for the holidays. MLH captain. All his single friends are already surrounded by women anyway.

He takes a long sip of his beer and scans the bar. It’s packed shoulder to shoulder, all noise and warmth and bodies leaning too close. A couple of women glance his way, smiling openly. One of them, with blonde hair and piercing blue eyes, raises her eyebrows, almost challenging him.

Shane feels caught under her gaze, nervous all of a sudden. He should go over there, right? And talk to her. Shane tries to imagine it—what he would say, how he would laugh to come off as confident as possible. His friends cheering him from afar.

His stomach twists at the thought of it all. It just feels so off-base. Like he’d be playing a version of himself that doesn’t really exist. This whole

But…this is what he should want. Right? So why can’t he just do it?

Shane feels too hot. He drains the rest of his beer, sets the glass down harder than necessary, and mutters something about the bathroom before anyone can stop him. He ducks away from the crowd until he's met with the cool silence of the hallway. Shane pushes into the bathroom, breathing hard. He’s flushed, kind of drunk and buzzing with this pressing anxiety climbing up inside him. Shane pulls out his phone. There’s a couple of texts from Hayden, one from Coach Reilly. And…nothing else. It makes him disappointed for no reason at all.

Without thinking, he pulls up Rozanov’s contact. Merry Christmas, he types out, then deletes it. He remembers reading somewhere that Russians don’t celebrate Christmas the same time as them. You suck for Minnesota. Deletes that too.

How’s Boston? This one, he sends, before he can stop himself. Shane can only hope it comes off as more effortless than it was to send. Really, he's just checking up on a teammate—he could’ve send a text like that to anyone else on the team. At least, that’s what he tells himself.

For a second, he wonders if it was a mistake to send it so late at night. Maybe it looks like he’s got nothing better going on. Shit. Well, there’s nothing he can do about it now. He bets he won’t even get a response. Rozanov is probably out at a club right now, not getting a near-panic attack any time he makes eye contact with a pretty girl. Must be nice.

Shane rests his head back against the cool tile of the bathroom wall, catching sight of his reflection in the mirror. His face is red beneath the freckles, and he’s in a blue button-up that looks similar to the one he wore in Los Angeles. Fuck. He doesn’t want to go back out yet.

Almost instinctively, he scrolls down through his contacts and presses call on one of them.

It picks up after a few rings.

“Hello?” Rose’s familiar voice comes through the line.

Shane releases a tense breath. “Rose.”

“Shane!” She exclaims, voice bright. “Hey, babe! What’s up? It’s nice to hear from you. I thought maybe you’d forgotten about me.”

“Definitely not,” he exhales. “What are you…what are you doing right now?”

“Oh you know. My parents came down from Michigan to visit me for the holidays, so now all I’m hearing about is how unnatural it is to be going to beach for Christmas.” She laughs fondly. “They fuckin’ hate it here.”

Shane feels himself smiling, and his chest loosens a little. “I mean, I kind of get that. No snow on Christmas is like, a crime.”

She giggles again. “Yes, but where else would I be able to wear a bikini and go tanning in December?”

“You’ve got me there.”

“What are you up to?” She asks.

“Uh,” Shane glances around the dingy bar bathroom. “I’m back home. Ottawa. My friends took me out to this bar and now I’m…well, I’m hiding out.”

“Figures,” Rose hums sympathetically. “Hometowns are rough. Especially when you’re…whatever we are. That’s why I don’t go back to mine anymore. Too weird.”

He releases another sigh. “Right? I’m not crazy, am I? It’s weird.”

“No one is capable of treating you like a normal human being,” she says fondly. “Some of it is nice, don’t get me wrong. But I think I’d rather die than ever run into another girl that bullied me in high school and listen to her call me her best friend now. I just can’t do it.”

“Wow, that sounds awful,” Shane feels a little stupid now. No one here treats him badly—most of the weirdness he feels is in his own head. He can’t imagine what it must be like to be as famous as Rose. “I’m…I’m really sorry.”

“Nah, it’s cool. Comes with the territory, right?” She snorts a little.

“I guess,” he says through a sigh, unable to hide the disdain in his voice.

She’s quiet for a second. “Everything good? You sound kinda tired, kid.”

Shane swallows, his throat suddenly dry. And yeah, he is. It’s all just so fucking overwhelming. And deep down, he’d give anything to be back at the rink right now, skating around in silence to clear his head.

“It’s just…” Shane doesn’t really know how to put it. “I feel like I don’t fit here anymore, maybe? All my friends are talking about their wives and kids and these, like, finance jobs. It’s just so far-fetched. And I’m an asshole for even thinking this way, obviously. I’m so grateful for my life. It’s just…”

“You’re not an asshole,” Rose says immediately. “I feel it, too. It’s crazy. Not a lot of people get it, you know? But…I’m here for you.”

Shane exhales slowly as the tightness in his chest eases a fraction. “Thank you,” he says earnestly, and for a second, feels so safe with Rose that he almost reveals himself completely. I think I might not like girls anymore. I think I might’ve never liked them and I don’t know what to do about it.

I don’t want to date you. Or Monica. Or anyone, except…

“Have I mentioned how glad I am I met you?” Shane blurts out instead, saying anything so he doesn’t say what he really needs to.

“Hmmm, maybe once or twice,” she sounds contemplative. “But I don’t think I remember, so you should say it again.”

Shane manages a smile.

________________________

On Christmas Day, Shane and his parents open presents over cups of hot chocolate, and then Shane’s mom spends the rest of the morning preparing them a traditional Japanese meal—ignore their offerings for help when it becomes painfully obvious that she is good at a many number of things, but cooking is not one of them.

“It’s the Hollander stubbornness,” his dad mutters to him on the couch as they watch her struggle in the kitchen. “You get it from her.”

Shane puts his phone down for the tenth time and tries to nod along. He’s still a little shaken from the night before—what he thought when he called Rose. He does his best not to think about it. Shane passes time with his dad watching old movies that he likes until lunch.

His mom fills the conversation with perspective brand deals she’s got arranged for Shane, and he preemptively starts to worry about his schedule next year. She drops big concepts like Nike clothing line and Wimbledon box seats and Shane does his best to sound impressed rather than terrified. Because it is impressive. And exciting.

They bring up Rose, briefly—Shane gets to enjoy the starstruck look on his movie buff dad’s face when his mom mentions it. But Shane sticks with the same story he’s been telling everyone. We’re just friends and we only hung out once. She’s great. The end.

All in all, it’s a great Christmas. Shane checks his phone more often than he’d like, but besides that, it’s good. Relaxing. He doesn’t leave the house or talk to anyone but his mom and dad.

In the evening, they his parents reluctantly leave to go meet with some of their old friends from college—a plan they made months in advance. Still, they try to convince Shane to come along with them, but he respectfully declines.

They won’t be back until morning, but they encourage Shane to bring over some of his friends so he won’t get lonely.

Shane almost considers it—maybe inviting Wyatt and some of the others to play video games with him. But in the end, he decides he’d rather have the time to himself, especially after his freak out from the night before.

He goes outside for a run in the cold to occupy himself. Music pumps through his headphones to cover the fact that his phone is devoid of any other notifications and sweat clings to his thermal layers. Going through his neighborhood and the same trail in a nearby park brings back memories of running in the mornings before school. For a second, Shane realizes how far he’s come since then, and it’s a nice thought. 

And then Shane’s mind is quiet.

I wish Rozanov were here.

The thought slams into him, shocking and uncalled for. His feet hit the snowy pavement, nearly missing a beat. Sweat drips down his back as Shane pushes faster, trying to outrun the thought.

It’s not that far-fetched, really. Now that they’re on the same team, and Rozanov only lives a couple of hours away—they could even make the drive down together. It would just be like showing any other teammate around.

Shane gets a sick kind of pleasure at imagining it—Rozanov running beside him down the trail he took everyday in high school. Maybe meeting all of Shane’s old teammates. He’d be an asshole to them, of course. But that’s not the point.

He realizes he’s smiling at the thought of it and shakes his head instantly. God. He must not be running fast enough.

But that night before bed, alone in his room, Shane can’t shake the curiosity. In a private moment of revelation, Shane tries to picture Rozanov’s tall frame taking up all the space. He imagines him picking up random shit on Shane’s childhood desk—photos, hockey books, old school supplies—mocking it all with that familiar, careless disdain. Shane can already hear it—Jesus Christ, Hollander. You were such a nerd. And Shane would huff out his disapproval but do nothing to stop it.

And then Rozanov would turn, attention narrowing, and walk towards Shane on the bed.

And for a moment, Shane would remember the girls he’d brought up here. How tentative and fumbling and meaningless it had always felt. And as Rozanov climbed on top of him, kissing him breathless until Shane’s hands curled into fists in the striped sheets, he would think to himself how impossibly better Rozanov was than anything Shane had ever had before.

Shane opens his eyes with a gasp. He glances down and realizes his hand has traveled down his stomach, slipping beneath the hem of his briefs. He releases a quiet breath. Fuck. His face burns with embarrassment. He is not jerking off to this right now. He isn’t.

Shane screws his eyes shut as he moves his hand up and down slowly, trying to focus on the feeling alone and not letting any other thoughts creep in.

Look at this place, Hollander. Blue walls. Striped sheets. So innocent and cute. Rozanov’s taunting voice enters his mind. Because he would be taunting. But he’d be taunting while licking up the side of Shane’s neck, and shoving his hand down Shane’s pants, and…

His phone buzzes suddenly, lighting up the dark. Shit. Shane freezes and looks over. It’s not. It can’t be—

Shane grabs his phone.

Lily: Much better than Montreal.  How is boring Ottawa?

It is. He fumbles with the screen, swiping on the notification and intending to turn it off. Instead, Shane accidentally presses the call button.

Fuck. Fuck.

Rozanov picks up instantly, before Shane can hang up.

“Hello?” His deep voice rumbles through the speaker.

“Sorry,” Shane blurts, his voice sounding flustered and breathless even to his own ears. “That was an accident. I didn’t mean to call.”

“Wow. Yes, it’s nice to hear from you too, Hollander.” Rozanov deadpans.

Shane releases a breath, feeling his heart pound. It feels a little surreal, hearing his voice fill the silence in his old bedroom.  something about being in his old bedroom and hearing Rozanov’s voice, just like he was fantasizing about before, all while still being painfully aroused. It doesn’t feel real.

He presses his head back against the pillow, trying to calm himself down.   It’s time to end this. “Okay, well—”

“What are you doing?” He asks. Shane feels like he’s been caught. He presses his hand flat against his stomach, pointedly avoiding his erection.

“Nothing,” he says, maybe a bit too quickly. “What are you doing?”

“Well,” Rozanov sighs as he recounts everything. “I went out. Duh. Svetlana took me to an awesome club. Many beautiful women and good vodka.  You would’ve hated it, obviously. And now she is off fucking some guy she met there, so I am alone in the apartment, waiting for her to get back. Poor me.”

Oh. He feels only slightly appeased that Rozanov went home alone. But mostly, filled with an odd, terrifying sense of relief at the sound of Rozanov’s voice. He tries his best to ignore it.

“That doesn’t…bother you?” Shane dares to ask.

“What? That I am alone?” He hums, “Yes, but only a little. But now I am calling you, so I am not lonely anymore. Thanks.”

Shane sits up a little. “I meant Svetlana. Getting with some other guy.”

“Why would I care? Is good for her, you know.” Rozanov pauses. “Oh, you think I am jealous?”

Shane waits a beat, unnerved by the direct accusation. “Maybe.”

Rozanov seems to think for a second. Shane can almost picture his unimpressed expression. “Do you get jealous when Pike has sex with other women?”

What the fuck.

“No!” Shane blusters. “And that’s completely different.” He can’t understand how Rozanov would think that’s a proper comparison to make. Not when he and Svetlana actually sleep together—might as well be dating, for all Shane cares.

He can almost hear Rozanov’s smile over the phone. “Not really.”

“He has a girlfriend!” And I’m not…

“Okay, Hollander. Whatever you say.” Shane can hear the taunting laughter in his voice. He's quiet for a second. “You did not answer my question.”

“What?”

“What are you doing?” Rozanov's voice lowers.

Shane squirms at the sound of it. He clears his throat. “Nothing. I told you. I was going to s-sleep.”

“Were you jerking off?” Rozanov asks.

Fuuuck. Shane’s breath catches at the boldness of the question, at how quickly the direction of their conversation has changed. He opens his mouth to say no, but it’s been too long by now.

Rozanov’s laugh is low through the phone. “Ah. I caught you.”

“No,” Shane says weakly.

Rozanov lets out a long sigh. “Hollander,” he breathes out, as if tasting the word. The sound of it makes him throb all over.

In the darkness of his room, Shane feels dizzy and flushed with embarrassment. “Whatever,” he mumbles. “I’m going to hang up now—”

“No,” Rozanov stops him. “You’re not.”

Well, okay then. Shane feels himself melt a bit at Rozanov’s firm tone, the one he can never say no to. But at the same time, he’s a bit…unnerved. He’s never done this before—have sex with someone over the phone. If that’s even what they’re going to do. “I…” Shane croaks out nervously.

“What were you thinking about?” 

You. Obviously, you. He purses his lips, flushing red. “Nothing.”

Rozanov tuts. “Always, this word. Nothing. What were you doing, Hollander? Nothing. What were you thinking about, Hollander? Nothing. Tell me the truth.”

Shane glances around his room helplessly. He’s painfully hard, still, refusing to touch himself. “Fuck off,” he mutters without any fight.

“Touch your dick while you tell me, if it helps,” Rozanov advises.

Shane lets out a long-suffering breath he hopes comes off as impatient and not desperate. He’s glad Rozanov isn’t there to see how quickly he obeys, hand sliding down to grip himself again. But Shane also thinks about how fucking good it would be if Rozanov was there, tracking his movements with heated eyes.

“Wish you were here,” Shane mumbles in a rush, the words nearly slurring together. “In my room…”

Rozanov hums, seeming pleased. “To do what?”

He squirms a little. “You know what.”

But Rozanov’s never been one to let him off the hook easy. “No, I don’t. Tell me, Hollander.”

The command sends heat shooting through him and Shane silently, guilty, palms his cock. The touch makes his hips jerk up off the bed. In a rushed, gasping breath, he confesses, “I want you to fuck me here, in my bed.”

And then lie there with me after. He doesn’t add. Long enough that the sheets still smell like you once you’re gone.

“Fuck,” Rozanov curses softly. “You want me to fuck you in your boring, neat bed, Hollander? Are you sure? I would make a mess out of you there, I think. You would not like that.”

His hand speeds up unthinkingly, slick with his own precome. “Yes. I want that. I can…I can handle it.”

“Can you?” Rozanov grounds out, his voice rough. The sound of it echoes through Shane. He tries to control his breathing. “Are you touching yourself now?” He asks. He sounds just slightly out of breath.

Shane shifts against his sheets. “Are you?”

He makes a low sound. “Of course. How could I resist the sound of you whimpering like that?”

“I’m not…” Shane starts, but the sentence quickly devolves into a sigh when he grips himself harder, imagines its Rozanov’s hand instead of his own.

“Tell me,” Rozanov orders. “What you would do if I was there.”

His hand works quickly, desperately.  The words come easy now—he’s too drunk on the way it feels to be embarrassed. “I’d take you in my mouth. Love…fuck, love the way it feels.”

Rozanov lets out a low groan. “I fucking know you do.”

I miss it. I want to feel it again.

Shane bites down on his lip as he works himself up, hot all over and trying to stay quiet and still, it’s not enough. It feels nothing like the real thing.

“And then I’d turn over so you could fuck me from behind,” he whines out, “I really like it that way. When you’re rough. So I don’t, fuck, don’t have to think about anything at all.”

“Jesus, Hollander,” Rozanov says roughly. “You really are a slut, huh?”

Shane is attacked by the mental image of Rozanov in his own bed—cock in his hand, head thrown back to reveal the strong column of his neck. Shane wishes he was there to climb between Rozanov’s legs, to grip his strong thighs as and suck him off.

“I’m not…” he denies weakly, head lolling back against the pillow. But he feels slutty like this, craving Rozanov while in his own bed. In his own town. It makes Shane think he could go to any corner of the world and he’d still want this.

“You are,” he insists. “But only for me, yes?”

The words nearly tip Shane over the edge. Only for you. Only for you, he wants to chant.

His hips thrust up of their own volition, seeking out something he can’t find. He needs…

“I need you inside me,” Shane complains in another whine. “Fuck. I don’t think I…I don’t know if I can…”

He sounds pathetic.

“This is what happens,” Rozanov grits out, “When you deny yourself for so long.”

The words are loaded. And for a second, Shane is reminded again of the girlfriends that have shared this bed with him and the bed he shared with Rose and how none of it had ever come close to this moment. And he thinks it feels like denial more than anything else.

You’re right. I won’t. I won’t. I need this.

But Shane remembers he’s still pissed at Rozanov for before, and that this is still just sex. Even if it feels like something different.

“You’re an asshole,” he mutters, mustering up as much bite as he can.

“Come on, Hollander,” Rozanov coaxes him on in that rugged, growling sex voice. “You can do it. Do it for me.”

The encouragement is enough to have Shane shaking, picturing Rozanov looming over him, muttering the words as he replaced Shane’s hand with his own.

“I would give it to you so good,” Rozanov promises, and then any other thought leaves Shane’s head. “Just the way you need. I know what you fucking need.”

Shane comes like that, alone in his room, with his hand gripping his dick pathetically with Rozanov’s words filling the silence. “Fuck!” He cries out, voice shaking, “I…”

I know you do. Only you.

The pleasure is all-consuming, but Shane is vaguely aware of Rozanov cursing over the phone, coming at the same time. And if he were there, Shane would dig his hand through Rozanov’s curls and grip them tight and make Rozanov come all over his stomach so he could feel it. Fuck. He seizes again just at the thought.

Rozanov groans out something in Russian that makes Shane wish dearly that he knew the language, and then they both are quiet, catching their breath in unison. 

Shane feels some imperceptible tension he’d been holding onto all week leave his body. As if everything he'd been worrying about just...disappeared. Huh. Go figure. “Fuck, I m—“ I missed you. He stops himself. “I needed that.”

“I could tell,” Rozanov taunts. The slight rasp to his voice, that post-sex laziness, makes Shane wish once again that he was there to hear it in person. Can almost imagine the way Rozanov's hands would roam over his body, unhurried and casual. 

He feels his face burning. “Whatever.” Rozanov doesn't grace him with a response, and they lay in silence for a while. How is your eye?” Shane asks suddenly, as the thought occurs to him. “Has the bruising gone down?”

“All better, Doctor Hollander,” Rozanov replies drily. “Can I be cleared for practice?”

“Don’t be an asshole,” Shane mutters.

They are quiet for a minute. Eventually, Rozanov sighs. “It’s fine, okay? Eye is fine. Nose is fine. No blood.”

“Good.”

“People in Boston saw about the fight," he mentions. "They liked it—said I was very scary.”

Shane rolls his eyes. “Of course they did. Boston’s a bunch of fighters. I swear most Raiders fans should just switch to UFC.”

“I love UFC!” Rozanov echoes, entirely serious.

Shane's mouth twitches dangerously with a half-smile. “My point exactly.”

“I would beat you in a match, obviously,” he continues. “I think I could take anyone on the team. Except maybe Comeau. He is big.”

“No way,” Shane objects, scowling. “You could not obviously beat me. You have no skill or discipline. If I trained, I could take you easy.”

“Sure, Hollander,” Rozanov scoffs. “I am fast and strong and much bigger than you. No training necessary. Plus I have fought before. So.”

“Punching someone on the ice is not the same as mixed martial arts,” Shane says. He sounds obnoxious, even to his own ears.

“Is better than nothing,” Rozanov replies easily.

It’s true—Shane has never gotten into a fight with someone. On the ice or off.  “Well, I guess we’ll just have to see. Is there a gym near us in Montreal?” Shane asks seriously.

He can hear Rozanov’s smile at successfully baiting Shane. “Probably. But I think Coach would kill us. So a bad idea, maybe.”

“Fine,” Shane mutters, before realizing there’s a grin on his face. They are silent for a while, but he is fit to just lay there with Rozanov on the other end of the call.

Shane realizes, with sudden horror, it’s because he doesn’t want to hang up. At that thought, his smile drops.

It all hits him at once. He called Rozanov. Jerked off with him—for him. The things Shane said…fuck. With the heat of the moment gone, it suddenly feels too real. He swallows nervously. He has to say something—has to get out somehow.

Rozanov beats him to it.  “Svetlana will be back soon,” he mentions. The words are like a bucket of cold water being poured over him.

“Right.” Shane says too quickly. “Yeah. I should—I should sleep.” Then he adds, pettily, “This was stupid.”

“Stupid,” Rozanov echoes.

“I don’t know why I called.”

He huffs out a breath. “Mistake, remember?”

Shane nods furiously, even though Rozanov can’t see him. “Yeah. Totally.”

“So…you will not make it again?”

“Of course not,” Shane says immediately, like the answer is obvious.

“Okay.”

“Okay.” He feels himself frowning, suddenly sober and awake. “I guess…I’ll see you at practice?”

“Yes. See you at practice.” Rozanov sounds as cold as Shane feels. “Good night, Hollander—”

Shane hangs up before he can finish.

He lies in the dark for a long while, unable to fall asleep. 

________________________

Ilya must have a guilty look on his face because when Svetlana returns home, at around three in the morning, she bypasses the entire story of her hookup and fixes him with a stare instead. “What did you do, Ilyusha?”

He’s sitting on the couch, ESPN on the TV that he’s not paying attention to.

He shrugs. “Nothing.”

Svetlana glances around suspiciously. “Did you invite someone over?” She lowers her voice, “Is she still in the bedroom?”

“No!” Ilya scoffs. “The fuck?”

She strips off her heels and tosses them haphazardly by the door then hurries over. Svetlana leans down in front of him, studying his face with intense scrutiny. Probably taking in the slight flush, the secret in his eyes.

At last, she declares, “You fucked.”

Ilya gasps. “I did not.” I wish I did.

She pokes at his ribs as she sits down, partially on his lap, still studying his face closely. “Tell me what you did.”

I listened to Shane Hollander tell me about how he wants me to fuck him rough in his childhood bedroom.

Ilya was, truthfully, a little awestruck at that. And painfully turned on. And then, for a moment, absurdly convinced that he was capable of making the drive over across country lines to Ottawa in a timely, not at all inconvenient manner to do just that.

“I waited for you to come back,” Ilya answers instead. “It was a long wait.”

“What did you do while you waited?” Svetlana wiggles her eyebrows at him, smirking a little.

“Gross,” Ilya shuffles away, but she tackles him onto the couch and starts tickling his ribs. They both laugh hard, wrestling, until Ilya pins her arms to her sides, and then they are just embracing. He inhales the sweet scent of her dark, curly hair as she begins to tell him about the man she met at the club, in that inconvenient, pressing way—starting with all the details of the sex they had, and then going back to recount how he first approached her. Ilya listens dutifully, and does his best to ward away that unsavory feeling rising inside him.

Chapter 14

Chapter Summary

this chapter was fun/impossible to write i hope you love it !!!!!

Shane finds himself on the opposite end of center ice as Rozanov, preparing for a face-off. They are running through power-play setups like there’s no tomorrow—Coach’s orders, after he got spooked by the Minnesota game. This close up, Shane can see that Rozanov looks…good. Rested. He wasn’t lying; his face looks better by miles, just the faint bruise ringing around his eye and down his cheekbone left to speak of. He must’ve gotten some rest over the break.  For a second—just a second—Shane’s brain supplies the wrong image entirely: Rozanov sprawled on his couch, phone pressed to his ear, voice warm and low and—

He looks away before his brain can finish the thought. Truly, in his heart, Shane believes they won’t talk about it. After the drive in yesterday, he spent the entire evening meal-prepping and then doing yoga, and then, in a moment of impulse entirely out-of-character of him, playing music loudly on his speakers throughout the apartment so he wouldn’t be left alone in the quiet.  It was a good night. And now, he’s ready for a good day at practice.

“Had a good Christmas?” Rozanov asks as he skates up to the line, voice casual besides the teasing lilt in it Shane knows he’s not imaging. Shane can’t help but glance up, surprised. Rozanov just smirks.

Oh, he can not be serious.

Shane swallows. “Yeah…sure,” he mutters as he crouches low. “It was great.” A half-answer at best. 

Rozanov tilts his head, watching him carefully, and Shane feels exposed. “Good. I had a good Christmas too.” He winks as Reilly nears, holding the puck up between them. “Very…relaxing.”

Shane barely has time to glance up in stunted shock before the puck drops, and Rozanov wins the face-off.

That fucker.

It doesn’t take long, really. Shane kind of feels like he’s twenty again, chasing after Rozanov in his Raiders uniform at TD Garden. Sweat rolls down his forehead after maybe thirty minutes, and he’s buzzing with frustration.

“Berkes! Catch up!” He calls out to the rookie, chasing after the puck, which is somehow, still with Rozanov.

“Is okay, Berkes. Take your time!” Rozanov calls from in front. Shane’s team scrambles for their defense position as Rozanov nears them.

Shane finally catches up, near the walls, looking to swipe the puck right out from under him. He reaches out with his stick, and—

Not a beat later, he feels himself get slammed into the boards.

“Nice try,” Rozanov says into his ear, sympathetically, as Shane scrambles with his stick, still searching for the puck. The weight of Rozanov’s body on top of him is suffocating, heavy, and much too familiar for his liking. Shane opens his mouth for a reply, but a moment later, Rozanov is gone, skating off.

And he’s taken the puck with him.

Thankfully, Shane makes a recovery during the next play, shouting his victory when his team, down a player, skillfully keeps Rozanov out of their goal for the next two minutes. But then they reset, and although Rozanov doesn’t even play center anymore, he steals the puck again and this time, scores a goal within the first thirty seconds.

Shane clenches his jaw so hard he can feel his teeth grinding against each other.

A little later, Rozanov complains earnestly to Reilly, “Let us switch up the teams now, yes? Let Hollander have the extra player. I’m getting sad watching him lose so much.”

Reilly doesn’t look impressed. “You are the reason we have to do this, Rozanov.”

He smirks, like he’s aware of exactly that and proud of it too.“So I should be punished, no? And yet you are giving me so many other players.” He gathers JJ and Quinn and Hayden and Comeau. “Look at this. Dream team. What more could I ask for? Come on, Coach.”

Shane seethes from his fixed, obedient position on the starting line. “Are we going to play, or not?” He snaps, suddenly angry.

Rozanov turns his attention to Shane, his amusement almost predatory. “I would not be so eager if I were you, Hollander,” he warns lightly. The stare he gives Shane is loaded, to say the least. It’s that word, eager, that sets him off. Something hot pulses in the air between them.

Shane spits on the ice near Rozanov’s skates. “Why don’t you about yourself for a change?” He shoots back, face burning beneath the visor.

Rozanov looks delighted. “Aw, but it’s so much more fun to worry about y-”

“That’s enough,” Reilly says between them, sounding particularly tired. Shane and Rozanov both look in his direction, as if just noticing that he’s still there. He presses his thumb against his temple. “We’re switching in a few minutes. Rozanov, you’ll take the penalty kill after this round.”

Shane stands, unable to stop himself from blurting, “What’s the point? If we’re on a penalty kill, it’ll be his fault anyway.”

JJ snorts from behind Rozanov, then covers it with a cough. Hayden elbows him hard.

Reilly raises his eyebrows, mildly surprised. “Is there a problem, Captain?”

Shane flushes, embarrassed by his own outburst. “Sorry,” he mumbles unwillingly, fiddling with his stick. “Let’s just go, okay?”

He trains his eyes onto the blue line as everyone else gets into position, and tries to ignore the feel of Rozanov staring at him.

Afterwards, he stays in the shower longest, waiting for everyone else to filter out and taking the time alone to himself in an attempt to calm himself down. Rozanov was in fine form today, and though Shane would be lying if he said it wasn’t nice to see his stupid face after the break, he’s still pissed off.

When he finally finishes, he enters the locker room and is met with the sight of Rozanov shirtless, holding court with the team as they discuss plans to go out later. Even JJ and Hayden are enraptured, the traitors, to the point where they don’t notice Shane come in. Which is fine. He starts to get dressed quietly, already checked-out and missing the silence of his apartment, until his phone buzzes with a notification.

“So Hollander, you in or what?” Quinn asks nervously beside him. It’s his first year on the team—his first goal of his career was just a couple of weeks prior against Vancouver. He’s kind of awkward, much like Shane, and Shane likes the kid. Empathizes with him, at least.

So he’s expecting understanding when he says, “Nah, man. I’m probably busy that night.” Without really knowing what Quinn is referring to.

“Oh New Year’s Eve?” He says incredulously.

Shane blinks. So that’s what they were talking about. For a second, he struggles for a response. “Yeah…I’ll probably turn in early. Don’t we have a game or something the day after?” He mumbles, glancing down.

“Come on!” Quinn goads, but he sounds a little disappointed too, which makes Shane feel bad, because he likes the kid. “It’s a team outing. Doesn’t everyone have to go?”

“Forget it, Quinn,” Rozanov calls out, and everyone’s attention turns to them. “Is a lost cause. You know Hollander never goes out.”

Quinn flushes, gaze darting between Shane and Rozanov uncertainly.

“I go out!” Shane says, trying not to growl the words out. “I go out all the time.”

Hayden, in the worst possible timing, suddenly remembers that Shane is there and comes up to him. “Dude. Please tell me Yuna sent you home with some of her fudge.” He cries, “I’ve been craving it like a motherfucker.” Shane flushes, trying to give Hayden a not helping, man look as he feels the rest of the team stare at them incredulously. “Come on!” He continues, “Don’t you make it with her over the holidays? I need you to give me the recipe one day, man, seriously. Jackie can’t make it anything like that.”

“Wow,” Rozanov hums in astonishment. “Guess I was mistaken, Hollander. This sounds a little too crazy, even for me.”

There are snickers around the room, and Shane flushes further. He grips tightly onto the shirt in his hands, and debates balling it up and throwing it at Rozanov’s stupidly large chest. “I had actual fun too,” he grits out. “I went out with some of my old high school friends.” As an afterthought, he adds, snidely, “I talked to Rose.” 

This, at least, piques everyone’s interest. Rozanov’s eyebrows raise, in an oh, really? kind of way, but he’s quickly overtaken. Heads turn towards Shane as they start with the usual tirade of comments, but he’s busy glaring Rozanov down to notice.

“Just talked?”

“Dude, you’ve got to get her to come to a game. I need to see that in person.”

“Did she invite you back to LA? Can you bring a friend?”

“Calling over the holidays,” JJ singsongs, smirking at Shane. “I think I know what that means.”

“What does that mean?” Rozanov and Shane ask at the same time. Then pointedly look away, avoiding the other’s eyes.

“She definitely likes you, man. Seriously. This is big.” Hayden comes up behind Shane, clapping him on the shoulder.

“I called her,” Shane clarifies tightly. Even though he should not at all be offended by the accusation.

“Yeah,” Hayden agrees. “And who wouldn’t like getting a call from hockey star Shane Hollander on Christmas?”

Shane’s face flames as he mumbles lamely, “It wasn’t on Christmas.”

He did call someone on Christmas, though—it just wasn’t Rose. Shane keeps his gaze low, avoiding eye contact with absolutely anyone.

“Dude. This has got to stop.” Hayden gives him a concerned stare. “She wants you, man. I’m serious. Get on that.”

He unfolds his shirt tersely, shrugging it on. “I’m not going to get on that. Whatever that means. I already told you. We’re friends.”

“Sure,” he snorts, exchanging a look with JJ. “I’ve heard that one before.”

Shane rolls his eyes, and when he sneaks a glance over, Rozanov is glaring in Hayden’s direction, looking more upset about the accusation than even Shane is. He glances over, catching Shane’s gaze before he can look away. Shane ducks his head and gets dressed quietly, hoping no one notices his face flaming red.

_____________________

They have their first game against New York at home and it ends in an overtime loss that makes them disappointed in a what can you do? kind of way. But Shane played well, scored two goals, and Rozanov managed to keep himself out of the penalty box, so he counts it as a win anyway. That night, though, as he’s catching up on emails at his kitchen counter with a half-eaten quinoa bowl at his side, Shane gets a text he’s not expecting.

JJ: Going out with Rozanov. Want to come with?

Shane stares at his phone for a beat, not really comprehending the idea. He almost thinks it’s a joke until he checks the group chat and sees evidence of Rozanov asking if anyone wanted to go out and JJ rallying behind him. He hesitantly types out, We didn’t win. What are you celebrating for?

JJ: Who said we’re celebrating anything?

Shane exhales through his nose. He could go. There’s nothing actually stopping him. No early flight. No injury. No real excuse. Still, he types, I’m turning in early. Be safe. Practice tomorrow won’t be easy.

JJ: Is that a threat, Captain?

Shane rolls his eyes and tosses his phone back onto the counter, takes another bite of his salad he suddenly has no appetite for. His apartment suddenly feels bigger, emptier. Whatever, he doesn’t care. JJ goes out with people all the time, and really, it was only a matter of time before him and Rozanov were in cahoots with one another. Shane should’ve seen it coming.

He gets up and washes his bowl slowly, deliberately. Shane resists the urge to put on music again, just to fill the space. After he shuts off the water in the sink, the silence presses in, heavy and insistent. He doesn’t know why he feels like he’s owed something. What was he expecting? Another call from Rozanov? Not fucking likely. He’s probably out fucking another girl at the very moment.

And Shane…well, Shane doesn’t care at all.

_____________________

Ilya never thought he’d find himself going out with JJ. But he texted the group chat after the game asking if anyone wanted to go out, because technically it’s still holiday season, and JJ enthusiastically agreed. And that’s how Ilya ends up barhopping in Montreal with JJ and Comeau and a few of the rookies, celebrating for no particular reason at all.

“No, fuck that shit,” Ilya says when Quinn nervously orders a vodka cranberry. “We will take ten shots, yes? Do you have Beluga?”

The bartender nods and leaves in the other direction, leaving a horrified Quinn in her wake.

Ilya raises his eyebrows. “What is the problem? Tell me.”

“Well—I’m not that big of a drinker.” He says.

“Shots are small,” he makes a shrinking motion with his fingers. “Teeny tiny. You can be small drinker, right?”

Quinn pushes his hair out of his face. “I guess. But. Like, I know the drinking age is eighteen and all, but it still feels weird. Sorry. Back in Colorado, it’s not really a thing we do. At least I did. I just—”

Ilya puts his hands on Quinn's shoulders and steadies him. “Look at me, kid. You are man. Drink, don’t drink, it’s fine. But stop being so nervous. We’re here to have fun, alright?”

Quinn is nodding along hesitantly when JJ comes up behind him. “Is Rozanov terrorizing you? It’s okay to tell him to fuck off, y’know.”

“Fuck off,” Ilya quips delightedly.

He is, admittedly, determined to have fun tonight. Despite the loss, he can feel his blood thrumming with that good, frantic energy. The music is so loud he can barely hear himself think, lights flashing in various different colors and every few seconds, people are bumping into him.

He and JJ couldn’t get much of the team to come out tonight—though Ilya suspects it’s because they’ve all already agreed to come a couple nights later for New Year’s after their game in Florida, but he doesn’t think too much about it. Doesn’t think about the fact that JJ texted Hollander asking to come with, and when Ilya brought it up casually just fifteen minutes ago, he dejectedly informed that Shane’s being Shane. He’s not coming.

Because of course. Of course he wouldn’t come. He’s probably busy on the phone with Rose Landry while…folding clothes or doing homework or something.

Admittedly, Ilya was surprised to hear that they had been talking over Christmas. He doesn’t know why he’d thought Los Angeles would be the last he heard of them. Maybe Svetlana is right. Ilya guesses it’ll only be a matter of time before they make their relationship official.

It doesn’t make sense to him, then, why Hollander would let their phone call go on the way it did. He certainly seemed to fucking love it. But maybe it meant nothing to him—just a way to let off steam—and Rose is the real thing.

Ilya doesn’t want to think about it. So when the shots come, he does a few, and cheers when Quinn hesitantly does a couple of his own, and then lets the loud music pull him in.

It doesn’t take long until a woman approaches him at the bar. She has dark hair and pretty eyelashes and doesn’t smile too much, which is kind of a comfort to Ilya, who thinks people in Canada smile way too often. She talks in this dry, blunt way that makes Ilya think they could be friends, maybe, if the situation were different. But then she pulls him onto the dance floor, and he obliges, with about six shots of vodka in his system. The cheap kind, but still. And he knows he has practice early tomorrow and then a flight, and if he keeps it up he could become hungover, but somehow, he can’t find it in himself to care.          

“Want to get out of here?” Ilya bends low to whisper into the girl’s ear. She twists around, bats her eyelashes without smiling, and nods. Ilya takes her hand and leads her out of the bar.

Later that night, when he’s fucking this dark-haired girl in his bed, Ilya stares down at his dark-blue sheets. He didn’t even take Hollander here the one time he came over. Shit, he thinks to himself. If Hollander is going to date Rose Landry, Ilya will have to live with the fact that he never got the chance to fuck Hollander in his own bed. Which he realizes, as the girl moans beneath him, is something he will deeply regret.

_____________________

New Year’s goes something like this—they are in sticky, humid Florida for a game that goes into overtime which they win, thankfully. But Shane is bone-tired by the end of it and can’t avoid the excited frenzy in the locker room as all the other guys talk about where they are going out, to make matters worse. He spends the night in his hotel room, calls his parents for a long while just so he won’t be sitting in silence. Then he turns off all the lights and gets into bed and shoves the covers up to his chin and screws his eyes shut, trying not to imagine all his teammates drunk and partying without their captain. 

Some time past midnight, Rozanov sends a video into the team group chat of him and majority of the team at a club, doing the countdown and celebrating together. Shane isn’t awake to see it, but it’s the first thing he sees when he wakes up in 2015. The second is a couple of Happy New Year! texts—one from Hayden, one from Rose. Most of his teammates send them through the group chat. He gets one from Wyatt. And then from his parents. Shane scrolls down farther, despite himself.

There’s nothing from Rozanov. And for one petty second, Shane wonders which lucky woman got to spend the New Year’s with him. And it makes him regret staying in, just a little bit. Until he imagines the sight of Rozanov cuddled up with some hot, blonde Miami 10 in the corner of whatever club they were at, and it makes Shane sick enough to banish the thought entirely.

Anyway, the sight of the team all violently hungover at the airport the next morning while he is pleasantly refreshed from a good night’s rest vindicates him, just a little.

But New Year’s is hardly the end of it. In fact, as they head into January, it appears to Shane that half of the team’s resolution is to live it up with Rozanov every night. Some nights, he sees it on Instagram before he hears about it in the locker room. JJ’s arm slung around Rozanov’s shoulders. A blur of rookies’ faces behind them. Neon lights. Someone holding up a drink, mid-cheer. Rozanov grinning like he’s exactly where he’s meant to be.

Shane stares at the picture long and hard before shutting off his phone and putting it away for good.

It’s like they’re all having one long party, interrupted only by the time they spend playing hockey. Okay, maybe they’re not going out every night, but that’s certainly what it looks like to Shane. 

The morning before their game in Pittsburgh, they’re all waiting at the gate in the airport, and most of the team are quiet, half-asleep as they hold coffees in their hand they’re barely touching. Shane feels as good as he usually does. He’s gotten his seven hours, had a carefully portioned amount of oatmeal with almond butter and sliced banana. He even had time for some stretching and yoga. 

Rozanov and JJ arrive together, late, with suitcases that looked hastily packed. Rozanov drops into the seat across from Shane, sunglasses on indoors “Morning,” he says pleasantly.

JJ groans, looking sickly, a tell-tale Gatorade clutched in one hand. “Never again.”

Rozanov’s mouth stretches out into a satisfied smile. “You say this every time. Is never true, JJ.”

First name basis? Shane and Hayden share a look, but don’t say anything.

“Oh, give me a break,” JJ groans. “You weren’t even there for the worst of it. We all saw you leave halfway through the night.” He gives a little chuckle at the memory, but it sounds hoarse. “What was her name again?”

Rozanov shrugs, aloof. “How would I know?”

JJ snorts. Hayden looks a little mystified.

Shane clenches his jaw and looks out the window, refusing to say anything.

The most infuriating part might be that even hungover and wrecked from nights out, Rozanov still crushes it out on the ice. When he’s not busy slamming Shane into the boards, that is.  And Shane would be lying if he said it didn’t bother him, and that every night he went home to an empty apartment he didn’t get more wound up watching Rozanov have fun with their teammates.

One day after practice, he and JJ are hanging out at Hayden’s place, and it’s not an intervention, but it kind of is.

“It’s not that we think you’re going out too much,” Hayden is saying, chomping on an apple slice. “It’s just…Rozanov? Really?”

JJ looks between him and Shane, affronted. “What the fuck? He is our teammate.”

“Yeah, obviously,” Hayden waves his apple slice pointedly. “But it’s like…there’s teammates, and then there’s teammates.” He gestures between the three of them. “We’re teammates. Rozanov is a teammate. He’s cool. We like him.” He exchanges a look with Shane. “But going out with him every night? Like, before games, too?”

“Come on. We’re just having fun,” JJ leans back in his chair in defeat. “He just moved here, you guys. He needs to go out and see the city.”

“Every single night?” Shane points out, the words tight.

JJ gestures to him broadly. “You are welcome to join us whenever you like, Shane. You do not want to! So?”

“Whatever, man,” Hayden sighs. “Look, if you’re happy, we’re happy. But don’t get the rooks involved too.”

“They love it!” JJ exclaims. “They don’t have to drink. But we need to bond somehow, yes?”

Shane fights a grimace at the subtle jab to his captaincy. Fine, so maybe he’s not the most socially-extroverted captain a hockey team has ever had. So what? He’s still there for his team, when it really counts. On the ice, definitely. Off it, most of the time.  So he swallows his pride, and sighs. “As long as you guys are happy.” He echos Hayden’s sentiment. Because what else can he say, really?

Shane tells himself he’s annoyed on principle. He’s captain—it’s his job to keep his teammates in check. It definitely has nothing to do with the way they all come back to practice laughing about something they did the night before, and all Shane can think of is who Rozanov had done it with. He’s not jealous. He can’t be.

So Shane just does what he always does: he keeps his head down, and he plays hockey. As the middle of the season approaches, he pushes harder in practice. Leads the team through conditioning sessions they curse him for, and then stays in the rink long after they’ve all left, working through plays in his head. Shane gets used to waking up to tight soreness in his muscles every morning, his own twisted version of a hangover. He’s solidly in the lead of most points scored in the league, and Rozanov lags behind at his tail. Which is more than a little satisfying to him.

One day, after a particularly brutal conditioning session that Shane had championed, Reilly glides past him, expression uneasy. “Take it easy on them, Cap,” he says, glancing toward a pair of rookies hunched at the boards, pale and breathing hard. “They should still be able to play tomorrow.”

Shane just wipes the sweat away from his brow as he skates off, muscles aching in a way that ensures he’ll feel it later. “They can take it.” He huffs. What he really means is, I can take it. Because the harder he goes on the ice, the less energy he’ll have to think about anything else later.

_____________________

Before their game against Detroit, the locker room hums with low noise as they get ready, skates clacking against the floor, the steady hiss of the showers. It’s been more than two weeks since they came back from Christmas. More than two weeks since Shane has said anything to Rozanov more than a passing chirp on the ice, since he’s thought about anything but hockey. It’s more than likely that every night he’s been studying up on their plays, Rozanov has been out, sleeping with a different woman each time.

Shane stands near the center aisle, stick tucked under his arm, helmet dangling loosely from his fingers. He’s nervous—of course he is. It’s an important game. They’ve managed to stay neck-and-neck with Detroit in the scoring race. With the halfway point of the season approaching, they’re all antsy to solidify their standing at the top of the division.

He waits. It takes a second—two—for the chatter to die down. “Alright,” he says, voice firm and even. “Everyone listen up!” A few guys glance over. JJ swivels on the bench. Hayden straightens, elbows on his knees. “Detroit’s not gonna go easy on us tonight. There’s no room for fuckups, okay? We have to be on our A-game tonight.” There’s a few tense nods around the room. “We all want to win this—well, we have to win this—”

“Oh my god,” Rozanov says from his bench. Shane freezes. Rozanov hasn’t even looked up. He’s taping his stick with infuriating calm, head bent, voice lazy. “You sound like coach,” he adds. “Is exhausting.”

Shane turns slowly. “Do you have something you want to add?”

He glances up then, eyes reaching every player in the room. Calmly, Rozanov shrugs. “Just—go play hockey. It's a game. Should be fun, yes?”

“This is important,” he snaps before he can stop himself, voice cutting. “Do you want to win or not?”

He considers this for a second. “Yes,” Rozanov nods thoughtfully. “Winning is fun.”

A couple guys snort before they can stop themselves.

“Well,” Shane turns back to the rest of his team. “If we want to win, we have to focus. Detroit’s not going to let us make a mistake out there just because we’re busy having fun.”

“Okay. But is not life or death.” Rozanov interjects again. He waves a dismissive hand. “You make mistake, move on and fix it. Okay?” Shane cuts him a dirty look that says, what the fuck? Stop interrupting me. “What?” He says, then gestures to Quinn. Shane glances over, and the rookie looks so pale he might vomit. “Look, Hollander! You are scaring them shitless.” Rozanov shakes his head. “No one will play good like this.”

JJ adds quietly, “He’s got a point, man.”

Shane steps closer. He can feel it—control slipping, just a little. He straightens, voice clipped “I’m not telling anyone to play scared! I’m telling them to play smart.”

“Maybe if you just calmed the fuck down, Hollander, you wouldn’t have to tell them to do anything,” he says matter-of-factly, with an unimpressed stare.

Shane feels himself flush as embarrassment rises inside him. He’s acutely aware of the rest of the team watching them in rapt silence. “The fuck is that supposed to mean?”

Rozanov just shrugs, standing from the bench and taking a step towards him. “Just that you need to relax, maybe. Everyone thinks so.”

“Really?” He pushes, voice rising to an angry pitch. “I only see you complaining about it.”

“Yes, because everyone else is too scared to say anything to you—”

“Okay!” JJ cuts in between them, and it’s only then that Shane realizes how close they’d gotten. “That’s enough! Let’s not fucking kill each other before we can actually play the game. Okay?”

Shane huffs out a breath, still glaring at Rozanov tightly. He feels more words rising up in his chest, begging to be let out. But instead of saying any of them, he just mutters, “Fine,” and turns away. “Let’s just get out there and do our best, okay?”

Hayden lets out an uneasy laugh. “I like the sound of that!” The noise creeps back in, louder than before—but not normal. Charged. He leans toward JJ and mutters, “Jesus Christ.”

JJ whistles under his breath. “Fucking toddlers.”

_____________________

January 4th - DET @ MTL (BROSSARD TRAINING FACILITY) 

Post-Game Availability

REPORTER: Shane, tough loss tonight. How do you feel heading into the second-half of the season after this crucial game against Detroit? Do you have any worries about securing a spot at the top of the division?

HOLLANDER: Yeah, they certainly put up a hard fight for us tonight. It didn’t go the way we wanted, but  I’m not worried. We focus on our process—playing our game, staying structured, trusting the work we’ve put in. The rest will follow naturally. I try not to put too much pressure on us as a team.

REPORTER: But there seemed to be some visible frustration on the bench tonight. The cameras caught glimpses of you and Rozanov in what looked to be several disagreements throughout the game. Did the rivalry come back to life for you tonight under all the pressure?

HOLLANDER: [laughs] Look, man. No harm, no foul. Hockey’s an emotional sport for all of us. We all care about it so much—of course there’s gonna be disagreements. I’d be worried if there weren’t any. That’s no rivalry. That’s just teamwork.

REPORTER: So the dynamic is…fine? There’s no tension?

HOLLANDER: Nope. At the end of the day, we’re all in it together. It’s a great team, and I’m grateful to lead them everyday—win or lose.

REPORTER: Even Rozanov?

HOLLANDER: [smiles] Even Rozanov.

Five minutes later

PIKE: Don’t listen to a word he says, man. It’s all media-trained bullshit. I mean, listen—love the dude. He’s my best friend and my captain. But there’s not a day that goes by where the rest of us aren’t worried about him and Rozanov murdering each other when no one else is looking. It’s fucking nuts, man.

REPORTER: Can you elaborate on that?

PIKE: I feel like it speaks for itself. [winks] Roll the tapes back. You’ll see what I’m talking about.

_____________________

In the locker room afterwards, Shane feels like he could punch a wall. Maybe a really soft wall, but still. The loss sits heavy in his chest, sour and unresolved, and it doesn’t help that the room sounds exactly the same as it always does. Laughing and bantering, while someone blasts music too loud from a speaker.

And of course Rozanov is in the middle of it all, towel slung low around his hips, holding court like they didn’t just lose a game that mattered. Shane wonders, not for the first time, if anyone else can feel the tension pulling tight between them, or if it’s just him—this constant, buzzing awareness, like a wire drawn too thin.

“Come on,” JJ calls as he tosses his gloves into his stall. “Don’t go home and brood, Cap. You look like you could use a night out.”

Hayden glances over from unlacing his skates. “Seriously. Just one hour. You’ll feel better.”

Shane scoffs. “Why is that always the solution? I’ll feel better when we win a fucking game.”

“Yes,” Hayden agrees. “But come out with us and let’s have a good time. The fun will hold you over until you can crush Pittsburgh in a couple of days.”

He inhales a sharp breath, shaking his head. “Nah, I think I’m good. I’ll just have one of my boring nights at home.” Shane adds as an afterthought, his voice bitter, “Don’t wanna scare the rest of the guys off again.”

“Dude,” Hayden shakes his head. “What the fuck? No.”

“Who is scared?” JJ adds.

He glances around. “It’s fine. I get it. I have to keep you guys in check—it’s my job.” Shane releases a tight breath, “And I don’t let loose like everyone else does. It’s fine. I don’t care—”

And of course Rozanov chooses that moment to speak. “Maybe,” he says casually, leaning back against his stall, towel slung around his neck, “you are just jealous we have fun without you.”

Shane’s head snaps up. “Jealous?” He repeats incredulously, eyes wide.

Rozanov lifts one eyebrow, unfazed. “Is not a hard thing to imagine.”

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, face heating. They’d been fighting before, practically throughout the whole game, and he can’t even let it rest now. “You think everything is about you.”

Rozanov gives a slow, infuriating shrug. “Some things are.”

JJ stands, hands raised. “Okay, okay. We are not doing this again.”

“Fucking right, we’re not,” Shane mutters. If he keeps looking at Rozanov he’s going to say something stupid, so instead, he grabs his towel and storms off to the showers.

His heart pounds in his ears, and he feels angrier now than he was about the loss. It takes him a few minutes to notice Rozanov has casually strolled in after him, leaning against one of the towel racks and staring at him with a raised eyebrow. “You did not have to run away, Hollander.”

“I’m showering,” Shane grits out.

“You are hiding.”

He bites the inside of his cheek. “Go away.”

Rozanov hums, thoughtful. “So wound up.” A pause. “This is not about hockey.”

Shane glares back. “You don’t know anything.”

“I know you cannot look at me without getting worked up,” Rozanov says, maddeningly calm. “All game, you could barely think straight.”

"Hard to think when I'm busy being pissed off at you," he quips back, but his voice sounds weak, even to his own ears. Rozanov raises an eyebrow, acknowledging his obviously unwound state. And Shane clenches his jaw so hard, it aches. He can’t tell what’s worse—that he really is this worked up over Rozanov, or that Rozanov can see right through him. He sighs unsteadily. “Just shut up, man.” He spits, even though Rozanov hasn't said anything.

“Hey,” Rozanov says, pinning Shane with a startlingly intense stare. Then he reaches up and grabs Shane’s chin, forcing him to meet his eyes. “Look at me. You are denying yourself. This is not my fault.”

Shane chokes out a laugh of disbelief, face red with outrage. “The fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

Rozanov tilts his head a bit, as if saying, really? And Shane is chastised into slightly humiliated silence. He leans in closer, lowers his voice. “If you want something,” he murmurs. “Ask for it.”

The words brush along Shane’s lips, warm and tempting. Just the feel of it, after weeks of nothing, make him crazed. He opens his mouth without thinking, to say something, to gather more of the taste of Rozanov’s breath on his tongue, as much of it as he can take—

But then Rozanov lets go, and he walks away. And Shane stands there, decidedly unsatisfied as he watches Rozanov return to their teammates outside of the showers.

_____________________

Shane has trouble falling into his usual post-game routine that night when he gets back home. Protein shake, yoga and stretching. An ice bath that does nothing to cool the heat in his blood.

Rozanov’s words keep rolling around his head, filling the space he prefers to be empty so he can relax in silence. Ask for it. Ask for it. Ask for it.

He feels almost sick, feels like maybe he’s been going about this thing all wrong. Deep down, a small part of Shane wanted to give up right then, in the humid air of the showers with Rozanov bare-chested in front of him. It would've been so easy—leaning forward, catching a taste of his lips. Running his hands through those soft, brown curls…

Shane sits in front of his TV, a New York game from the night before playing. His phone sits innocently on the cushion beside him, screen dark.

He doesn’t want to want this. Obviously. But Rozanov’s words, this buzzing tension beneath his skin, the barely-contained anger at the thought of him going out with someone else instead—it all is too much to bear. And Shane doesn’t know how much more of it he can take.

He pictures the shower again, unbidden. Steam curling around Rozanov’s bare shoulders. The lazy confidence in the way he’d leaned in, like Shane was already halfway there. How easy it would have been to give in.The thought is just as terrifying as it is alluring.

Because if Shane lets himself want this — really want it — he has to acknowledge the fact that he’s been holding it all back. This whole time, he’s been pushing it down, because it’s safe. Manageable.

Shane exhales sharply as he grabs his phone off the couch. This is a terrible idea, his brain supplies immediately, helpful and loud. You’ll regret it. So much.

He opens his phone and goes to his messages.

________________________

Jane: Come over?

The notification lights up Ilya’s phone at the bar. The message sends surprise shooting through him, and he picks it up instantly, staring at it and reading it over again. He really didn’t think Hollander had it in him. He’s almost impressed—Ilya had mostly been teasing Hollander earlier, goading him just to get a reaction out. After weeks of nothing but stoic silence, he was coiled tight with frustration. And he’d noticed the tension gathering in Hollander’s shoulders, the bite in his voice as he yelled out drills to the team on the ice during practice. He was frustrated too. Stressed, upset over anything and doing nothing to help himself. Everyday was a struggle on Ilya’s part not to wait for Hollander after practice until they were alone and fuck him hard against the tiled wall in the showers, make him cry out loud enough to be heard over the running water.

Now, Ilya fights a smile at the thought of Hollander sitting alone in his apartment, overthinking himself to pieces before finally swallowing his pride and hitting send. He can almost picture Hollander typing and deleting messages, trying to sound as casual as possible. Ilya sees right through it, obviously. And it feels like a victory sweeter than any win he’s had on the ice. And hell if it doesn’t make Ilya want to walk right out of the club and call a cab while texting Hollander for his address.

But still, Ilya hesitates. The words stare back at him, inviting and intoxicating as ever, as he tries to piece it together in his head. What kind of arrangement does Hollander have with Rose Landry that would let him text Ilya like this? Could she know about them? Ha Hollander told her?

Or perhaps he’s doing this, as he always does when it comes to Ilya, in secret.

Ilya can’t decide which possibility he likes less.

“Roz!” JJ yells from across the bar, beckoning him over. “Where’d you go?”

Ilya blinks, glancing up from his phone. He realizes he’s been staring down at it for the past few minutes, completely distracted. Right. Teammates. He almost just left without saying anything, and they haven’t even been here for an hour.

Ilya shuts off his phone without responding. He hasn’t quite figured out what to say yet—doesn’t know what he could say. He drains the rest of his drink down, barely tasting it, and heads over to join the rest of his teammates. Against his better judgement, anticipation settles low and heavy in Ilya’s gut, more intoxicating than anything he’s felt in weeks.

He could try to stay away. Do the right thing, leave Hollander alone. They’d probably both regret it afterwards, anyway.

But the thought of Hollander alone in his apartment— checking his phone, unable to sleep, waiting for Ilya —slides under Ilya’s skin. Stays there as he tries to enjoy the time with his teammates, with some of Hollander’s best friends. By the time the night starts to blur around the edges, Ilya knows, there was never really a choice to begin with. He knows how this will end.

_____________________

Hollander is a vision when he opens the door. Hair slightly rumpled, wearing gray sweats and a faded, red McGill t-shirt that stretches over his chest and white socks and fuck, glasses. Hollander is wearing glasses, and suddenly Ilya is very angry he’s never seen Hollander in glasses before.

“Rozanov?” Hollander hisses, eyes narrowing. He leans forward to glance out to the hallway, as if to check no one else is there. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

Ilya blinks. “You said come over.”

“Yeah,” Hollander scowls, face flushed. “Like three hours ago. But you didn’t respond. I figured you were out.”

“I was.”

Hollander grips the door handle, starts to shut the door on him. Ilya sticks his foot in the way and pushes through, shuts the door behind him. “What the fuck?”

Hollander crosses his arms. “It’s late, Rozanov. Go home.”

“Where is your Canadian hospitality?” Ilya gasps, “Closing the door on me. I need to call the police.”

“Fuck off,” he scoffs. But he doesn’t push Ilya back out the door. Ilya pushes his way through, and takes the chance to look around Hollander’s place, taking in every last detail.  It’s nice, if not lacking personality. The living room is very tidy and there are some plants in the corner and decorative, useless pillows piled on the couches. Hollander even has a little fireplace. A dining table with evenly spaced chairs.

“Wow,” Ilya hears himself say. “Even your apartment looks boring. Good job, Hollander.”

“Leave at any time,” he snaps back. Agitated. Ilya casts him a look, and he can see Hollander standing stiffly a few feet away, hands shoved into his pockets. If Ilya didn’t know any better, he’d think Hollander was put out at having to wait so long. The thought fills him with immense satisfaction, even though it shouldn’t.

Ilya is quiet for a moment. “I don’t think that’s what you want.” He says finally, slowly walking towards Hollander until he’s backed up to the edge of his stupidly clean dining table. Hollander, surprisingly, doesn’t jump away.

Something shutters over his expression, almost defeated. “Maybe not,” Hollander mumbles, gaze darting down to Ilya’s mouth before coming back up to his eyes. Just like he’d done before, in the showers.

The move is so endearing, Ilya kind of feels like he’s being ripped open. It only worsens when, to his surprise, Hollander moves before he can. He grabs Ilya’s shirt in his fists and pulls him in, kissing him. The warmth of his mouth is soft, but insistent, and Hollander is as eager as ever.

Wow. Ilya hums against Hollander’s open mouth. “So you did not want me to come over?” He mutters, just for the sake of it.

“Shut up,” Hollander hisses. Ilya takes the invitation and pushes his tongue against Hollander’s, eliciting a choked sound from him. Ilya grabs the back of his head and tilts it up, and hears the shift of his glasses on the bridge of his nose. He moans into Ilya’s mouth and fumbles with the zipper of his jeans. Ilya can feel how hard Hollander is, already. Hard, and doing nothing to help himself.

Ilya pulls back, watching him closely in the dim light of his apartment. Hollander’s mouth is slightly open; Ilya can see the pink of his tongue. He’s breathing hard, glasses all fogged up, flushed beneath his freckles. He looks so fucking perfect.

Ilya reaches up and grabs his chin, hooking his thumb into his mouth. “You want this?” He asks, with the suggestion of sliding is index finger inside too. Ilya watches in muted wonder as Hollander’s full lips close in around his fingers and he obliges, sucking on them savoringly, eyes rolling back.

“Fuck,” he hisses as Hollander’s head bobs back and forth, putting on a show for him. The feel of his tongue as warm and eager as it would be on Ilya’s cock, along with the feel of Hollander’s erection pressing through the soft material of his sweatpants, evidence of how much he wants this, is almost too much to handle.It feels so fucking good, Ilya thinks he should’ve just skipped the club altogether and come here.

He slips his fingers out with a pop, reaching down to take off Hollander’s shirt, even though Hollander makes it impossible by keeping his hand at the front of Ilya’s pants, palming his cock. Ilya tugs at the hem of Hollander’s shirt forcefully enough that he finally lets go, lets his arms come up as Ilya takes his shirt off and tosses it away somewhere. Ilya runs his hands along the expanse of tan skin and abs and freckles and Hollander’s perfect nipples. He is overwhelmed by the sight, at how long it’s been since he’s last had Hollander like this. Ilya wants to bite them, maybe. Maybe while Hollander sits in his lap and rides him hard. Yes. He would like that.

“What?” Hollander says when he notices Ilya staring. Ilya glances up and sees the shyness shining in his gaze, the flush in his cheeks, as if he can’t fathom what Ilya would be staring at. As if he has no idea just how gorgeous he really is. You’re so fucking perfect. Ilya almost says. ты такая красивая.

I need you so badly.

“Get on your knees,” he whispers, and then gets to watch as the command runs through him, a flush creeping down Hollander’s neck as he shivers. As if dazed, he leans into Ilya, practically falling against his chest while still trembling, placing hot, open-mouthed kisses down his neck. He grabs Ilya’s shirt and starts to fumble with the buttons, and he might be muttering yes, yes, fuck yes, under his breath, but Ilya can’t be sure. Then his hands are running up underneath the shirt, pawing at his abs. And Ilya is kind, so he helps Hollander with all the buttons and shrugs the shirt off.

Hollander pulls back, gaze roving over his shirtless form, hungry behind those innocent glasses. “Fuck, look at you, you’re so—” he starts, nearly whining, but is so overtaken, he can’t even finish the sentence. Hollander looks just as affected as Ilya had been at the sight of him, and Ilya feels a sense of pride coursing through him hotly.

That’s right, Hollander. Nobody else fucking looks like this. Just me. Just you.

Nobody fucking else.

Then, suddenly, Hollander’s gaze seems to stall somewhere above the broad expanse of Ilya’s chest. His hands still on their path down to Ilya’s cock.

“What?” Ilya breathes, desperate for Hollander’s hands to continue. “What is it?”

Hollander looks up, dark eyes meeting his, shining and perfect as always.   Ilya thinks he must be imagining the confused wash of emotions shuttering over Hollander’s gaze for an instant, because it’s gone before he can make anything of it.

Hollander just shakes his head, pushes the word, “Nothing,” through his plush lips. And then he drops to his knees.

__________________

Shane thinks that this might be the gayest thing about him—how much he likes sucking Rozanov off. He’s often wondered if he’d like it this much with any other guy. If it’s just the feeling of having it in his mouth, of getting someone else off.

But that’s not really what gets him. No, as he gazes up at Rozanov, letting all the want and desperation that he usually tries to hide wash over his expression and grasping Rozanov’s cock in his hand, Shane doesn’t think it would be like this with anyone else. Not when Rozanov’s fingers twist into his hair as he wraps his lips around him.

It’s something about the fact that it’s him. Rozanov is the best fucking hockey player. Maybe better than Shane. He’s so charming, people can’t help but like him. He’s fun to go out with and he knows how to dance and talk to women. He doesn’t have to follow a strict diet and sleep schedule to fucking smoke Shane on the ice. And he has a perfect fucking dick. His very existence is so infuriating, Shane can’t help but be turned-on by it.

Shane suddenly takes him deep all at once, eager despite himself, and is rewarded by Rozanov’s low, husky voice. “Shit. You missed this, didn’t you?”

Shane moans helplessly, his untouched cock straining against his sweatpants. Rozanov starts to guide his head back and forth in a steady rhythm, the drool from Shane’s mouth making wet, obscene noises around him.

Yes, he thinks, and hopes it’s not obvious in his eyes how quick his agreement is. Yes, I missed this.

“I fucking know you did,” Rozanov stares down at him, daring to bare his teeth in a grin. “My Hollander. So needy for this dick.”

My Hollander. Mine. Mine. The words float around in his head until Shane feels so turned on he could die from it. And it makes all his frustration from the past few weeks vanish, into thin air, leaving behind only a pleasure so consuming he can barely think around it. He can’t come from this, can he? He can’t. It’s not possible, it’s—

But as Rozanov begins to guide his face back and forth, dictating the pace, Shane feels himself float away somewhere, somewhere where he can forget all the reasons he shouldn’t be doing this.

He presses his tongue against his tip and sucks on it, rewarded by the sound of Rozanov cursing above him. “Shit, Hollander,” he rasps out, then glances down. “Look at you.”

Shane can’t contain the moan building at the back of his throat. He reaches up and holds onto Rozanov’s thighs for support as he starts to thrust in, the movement rough and deep. Again and again, until Shane feels drool collecting at his chin and he can’t do anything about it. He’s vaguely aware of the hardwood floor digging painfully into his knees, but Rozanov is watching him through hooded eyes, brows furrowed and his mouth slightly open, like Shane sucking him off is the the center of the universe. And then the pain doesn’t matter much at all.

It would feel like a win, reducing Rozanov to this, if Shane didn’t feel so overcome himself he’s worried he’ll finish before Rozanov can. Heat builds steadily inside him, and his hips start mindlessly shifting in the air, against nothing. Rozanov fucks into his mouth with urgent thrusts, and he can almost imagine what they would feel like, fucking into him, hitting him perfectly each time as his eyes rolled back in pleasure.

“So good for me,” Rozanov mutters, voice barely above a growl. “You should see yourself right now, Hollander.”

Shane’s face burns from lust and humiliation. He can only imagine what he looks like—glasses fogged up, face red with drool dripping down his chin as he chokes around Rozanov’s dick. The first taste of precome in his mouth makes his eyes roll back, and he’s only vaguely aware that he might be enjoying this too much. Shane can't last long, not like this.

It doesn’t take long for Rozanov to quicken his pace, dick pushing in and hitting the back of Shane’s throat again and again. Shane fights to keep his eyes open, even as they water, wanting to capture every moment of Rozanov losing control. He’s moaning now, mouth slack as he watches Shane in awe. Shane practically preens under the attention—flushed with heat, mind empty as he lets Rozanov use him for his own pleasure.

He gets so distracted by the pleasure from it that he almost doesn’t notice when Rozanov’s thighs tense under his grip, his hand shooting out to grip the back of Shane’s head to keep him in place. His throat is hoarse, and Shane vaguely notices that minutes have gone by with him moaning around Rozanov’s dick loudly. Rozanov groans above him, grip tightening in his hair.

At the first feel of his come shooting down Shane’s throat, Shane seizes up, his orgasm pulling him under unexpectedly, so sudden and violent his eyes roll all the way back. He comes, fully comes, untouched. He shakes from it, grasping onto Rozanov’s legs for support, and Shane can only hope he is too distracted to notice, because he just knows that fucker would never let him live it down.

“Fuck, Hollander,” Rozanov gasps, shuddering as he comes down. Shane can barely hear him. He can barely hear anything over the ringing in his ears, so shocked by the intensity of the pleasure he feels, it’s as if he’s floated out of reality. Rozanov pulls him off his dick and up to his feet as Shane pants, mouth still hanging open. He rises unsteadily, still trembling, and Rozanov gapes at him in awe. “Did you just…”

“No! No, I—” Shane shoots back automatically, but the hoarse rasp of his voice gives away just how wrecked he is. From Rozanov’s dick. They both seem to notice in tandem. Shane flushes harder, if possible, and looks away, but Rozanov just mutters something in Russian and pulls him up off the ground, kissing him hard. It’s a messy clash of tongues and hot breath and Shane’s chin, wet with saliva and Rozanov’s come, only gets worse.

They kiss like that for a while, frantic and so heated, Shane is almost convinced they’ll somehow end up fucking even though they both just finished. He certainly feels like he could go again. Rozanov runs his hands down along his back, hands palming over his ass. Shane kind of whimpers at the feeling. “You’re so…fuck, I don’t know.” Rozanov groans into his mouth.

As he comes down from his high, Shane’s gaze snags on a spot above Rozanov’s collarbone by his neck, suddenly apparent in the faint light filtering through the windows. And there’s a purplish, blotted spot there, one Shane certainly isn’t responsible for.

He blinks, hoping impossibly that it’s a trick of the light, or a figment of his imagination. But as Rozanov tracks Shane’s gaze curiously and shifts to the side, Shane can’t deny it any longer. It’s right there, staring back at him.

A fucking hickey.  And is that…a smear of lipstick around it?

The sight of it abruptly brings him out of his lust-filled daze, and Shane takes a step back. He turns away before he can meet Rozanov’s piercing gaze, and grabs his shirt off the ground, his eyes burning.

He shouldn’t have done this. He knew he shouldn’t have done this, and he did it anyway. Shane can still feel the taste of Rozanov in his mouth as the warm pleasure inside him sours into something ugly.

Rozanov had said he had been out that night, but seriously? Hooking up with another woman and then coming to Shane for seconds? Just the idea makes him hot with anger, and humiliation, and he seethes with jealousy.

“You’re fucking amazing, Rozanov,” Shane mutters hotly. And doesn’t mean it in a good way. “A piece of work, really.”

Rozanov just snorts behind him, completely oblivious. “What is it now?”

Shane shrugs his shirt back on, hopes it’s dark enough in the living room that the wet spot in his sweats isn’t too visible. He hopes Rozanov doesn’t notice the way his hands are fucking shaking, and he feels like he could collapse at any moment.

He turns, takes one glance at Rozanov leaning against his dining table, hair messy and head cocked to the side, and looks away. “It’s late,” is all he can manage. “I need to sleep.”

He feels Rozanov’s silence in response. He doesn’t glance over as Rozanov zips up his pants and leans down to grab his shirt and starts to button it up. Shane feels so fucking stupid. He can’t believe he waited…past his bedtime.

“You are maybe more amazing than me,” Rozanov says eventually, voice casual. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone come just from sucking dick.”

It’s probably a long list. Shane bites back the words. He crosses his arms, faced away, and waits for him to leave. But Rozanov seems to notice his lack of response.

Rozanov circles around him, raising an eyebrow. “What, embarrassed? Is okay, you know. I am very hot.”

“Fuck off,” he mutters half-heartedly, refusing to meet Rozanov’s piercing gaze. His face burns. All he wants to do is shove Rozanov’s chest and yell at him and maybe throw him out too. But really, he should’ve expected this. So Rozanov sleeps with other people. So what? It’s like Shane is mad that the sun rises every morning, or that the grass outside is green.

He realizes with horror that this doesn’t stop that hot, sick feeling from curdling through his stomach. Jealousy. He realizes that if he could, Shane would like to leave marks all over Rozanov for people to see. Hickies and red marks down his back and maybe even bite marks. Everywhere, claiming Rozanov so thoroughly that he wouldn’t be able to take his shirt off for anyone else without them thinking oh shit, he’s really taken. Realizes that he finds the idea quite hot, actually.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Shane manages eventually, his voice just barely steady.

Rozanov watches him for a second, clearly sensing that something is wrong. “What the fuck, Hollander?”

My Hollander.

“We need to sleep,” he says, hopes it doesn’t sound like he means we as in the two of them together in a bed, even as the idea rapidly takes root in his head. “Practice tomorrow—game. Y’know. Work.”

Rozanov just stares for a while, clearly confused, then he shakes his head. “I don’t understand you. I need a cigarette.”

I don’t understand you, Shane wants to yell back.

“You can’t fucking smoke in here!” Is what he says instead, the sharpness in his tone ringing through the living room.

“Fucking relax, Hollander,” he scoffs, not looking fazed. Rozanov turns to the door. “Was a joke. I won’t stink up your boring apartment.”

“Too late for that,” Shane mutters under his breath.

“Yes,” Rozanov heads to the door with one last parting look, loaded with meaning Shane doesn’t want to unpack. “Good night to you too, Captain.”

Shane watches the door slam shut behind him, ignores the feeling of tears burning behind his eyes, and stomps off to bed.

_____________________

Hollander has bags under his eyes the next morning at practice. Ilya can’t stop staring at him in the locker room as they all get ready. He doesn’t want to be curious but he is, and it takes everything in him not to walk over and grab Hollander by the shoulders and yell what the fuck did I do? He refrains only because he knows it would scare the shit out of the rest of the team.

Ilya shrugs his hoodie off, going for the folded up thermal shirt in his bag, moving with just a little more aggression than strictly necessary. His t-shirt comes off next, leaving him shirtless, and Ilya all but throws the thing into his bag.

“Sheesh, Rozanov,” Comeau hisses, leaning in close. “Did a vampire get you?”

He rears back, a little startled at the noise. “What the fuck?”

“Look at that,” he points. Pike and JJ follow his direction, all gazes pointing to Ilya’s neck. He feels like a spectacle.

JJ chuckles as he walks past Ilya and pats him on the shoulder. “Well done, man. Was that last night?”

“What the fuck?” Ilya mutters, then walks over to the mirror while still shirtless. Then he spots it—the bruising at the juncture of his neck and shoulder, reddish and unmistakable. Shit.

Ilya is no stranger to hickies. He even finds them hot—the idea of someone marking him up with their mouth. But mostly, when he thinks about it, he finds the idea of Hollander marking him up hot. Even though Hollander would never do that, not unless he was seriously drugged or psychotic. It would be too risky.

Only now, Ilya is pretty sure this is what Hollander was staring at last night after they kissed. It explains everything—his sudden change in mood, the way he reared away like a scared animal, and practically threw Ilya out. And fuck, Ilya feels like an asshole. He stares into the mirror, past his own reflection, to where Hollander watches from afar, as JJ and Pike joke about Ilya’s latest escapade. He looks almost…heartbroken.

Ilya turns away from the mirror and Hollander quickly glances back down to his skates, avoiding the chance of anyone noticing his crestfallen expression. Ilya quickly shoves his thermal shirt on, the neck concealing his skin and the purple mark there.

He racks his brain trying to remember where it had come from, but honestly, he can’t remember. There’s no chance it was from the night before—he’d left before anybody had approached him at the club, but it possible could’ve been from two nights ago. Or three. The fact that he doesn’t know which only makes him feel worse.

Practice is long that day, and it feels even longer because Hollander refuses to even look in Ilya’s direction once. That doesn’t stop Ilya from openly staring at him, though. He can tell Hollander notices—that red flush of his neck gives him away easily.

Only after they’re done, when everyone else filters into the locker room to leave, Hollander stays on the ice. When Ilya is done changing, he goes back to the rink and Hollander is still there, running through drills by himself in the rink. Lost in his own world.

Before he can think better of it, Ilya grabs his skates out of his bag, the ones he just put away, and tugs them on on the bench outside the rink. He grabs a stick and joins Hollander out onto the ice, skating towards the blue line where Hollander seems to be working through plays. If he notices Ilya’s presence, he doesn’t say anything to address it. He shuffles a puck back and forth with intense speed, skating down towards Ilya, and Ilya steals the puck before Hollander can retrieve it, finally forcing him to skate to a stop.

Ilya stands there quietly for a few seconds, just watching him in silence. “Is not from last night,” he says conversationally. “The hickey. Is old, you know. From maybe three days ago.”

Hollander doesn’t glance up from the puck. “Makes no difference to me.”

“Yes?” Ilya asks, fighting back a smirk despite the guilt eating away at him. Hollander’s so full of shit. “Is that why you pouted and kicked me out last night?”

He glances around quickly, hissing, “Keep your voice down.” Then, in an equally prissy voice, he adds, “And I didn’t pout.”

Ilya leans against his stick, staring at him. “You should have said something.”

“What was there to say?” He mutters.

“Rozanov, you are so handsome. You are so much better than me at hockey. You have such a nice c—“

“Shut up!” Hollander hisses, red beneath his visor.

Ilya grins wolfishly. “Any of them would be good.”

“Right,” Hollander snaps, starting to skate away. “I’ll try that next time.”

Ilya just follows after him. “Come on, Hollander. Is not a big deal.”

“I know it’s not.”

“So you are not…” Ilya smiles as he finds the word. “Jealous?”

Hollander glances up, staring at him in pure distaste. “You’re a manwhore. What is there to be jealous of?”

His smile falters a bit. “Right. And you are so pure, yes? Perfect Hollander.”

Hollander brushes him off with a shrug. “At least I’m not getting around every night with someone new.”

Ilya narrows his eyes at Hollander’s comment. The hypocrite. “But cheating on Rose Landry, that is okay?”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Hollander’s voice pitches, and he looks genuinely offended. “For the last time, we’re not dating!”

“Yes, but almost, right?” Ilya pushes. “Maybe not yet. But eventually you will.”

“Really? Who told you that?” Hollander snaps.

“It’s obvious!” Ilya says, unable to keep the bitterness from entering his voice. “You hooked up and now you talk all the time, don’t you? Such a nice couple. Soon, you will go visit, or she will visit, and then you’ll be together. No?”

“No!” He growls in mounting frustration, “Will you stop trying to tell mewhat’s going to happen? We aren’t a couple. We aren’t anything! We didn’t even—“ Hollander stops himself, suddenly.

  “Didn’t what?” Ilya insists. 

He glances around, expression closing with something like hesitance. “We didn’t even have sex, okay?” He hisses quietly. “We just kissed. That’s it. Then I slept over.”

And it’s something about the way he says it—reluctantly, with a flush to his cheeks—as if this confession is more illicit than the things they have done together. As if this is a bigger offense than Hollander coming just from having Ilya’s dick in his mouth.

Ilya finds himself fighting a grin. “You could not?”

Hollander scowls at him. “She didn’t want to, asshole. And I…didn’t either.”

“No?”  He waits for a second, not daring to feel appeased. “And in the future?”

He heaves a sigh, glaring at Ilya. Ilya wants to kiss him maybe. “No. Okay? I won’t. I don’t even—Whatever. It’s not important.” The air stretches between them tightly at that, at it’s not important, maybe because they both can sense that it would be important, if Hollander said it out loud. And then, because he’s Hollander and he can’t leave anything alone, he adds, “And who are you to pass judgement on me anyway? You’ve probably slept with more people than me and Rose and the rest of the team, combined.”

A beat passes. Ilya stares at him, trying not to smile. “Wow,” is all he says back. “You did not want to sleep with Rose Landry? Is everything okay?”

Hollander doesn’t look amused. “Contrary to what you might believe, Rozanov, not everyone feels the need to fuck someone they like. Me and Rose are friends. That’s enough for me.”

Ilya skates up and brushes against Hollander’s shoulder, his mouth ticking up in a smile. “I guess you only feel the need to fuck people you don’t like, yes?”

“Fuck off,” Hollander mutters, but his cheeks are flushed beneath his freckles. Ilya wants to take off all his hockey gear and see how far the flush reaches. Wants to find out all the other interesting ways he can get Hollander to come without touching him. By the sudden glaze over Hollander’s dark eyes, he’s thinking the same thing.

“So, is no problem then,” Ilya says eventually, voice rough. “You are not dating. I am not dating. So we can keep…”

Hollander cuts him a warning glare, so Ilya doesn’t finish the sentence. Instead, he dares to ask, “Unless there is a problem?”

He huffs. “What, am I going to find lipstick around your dick next time?”

“That sounds unsanitary,” Ilya tries to sound exasperated, but really he is just amused at Hollander’s obvious jealousy. “You know that won’t happen, Hollander.”

He casts Ilya a dubious look. “Do I?”

Ilya rolls his eyes. “Any real problems to address, then?”

Hollander lets loose a heavy breath, and casts a wary glance around the rink. “You know what the problem is.”

“What?” Ilya follows his gaze. When he catches Hollander’s eyes, he sees the hesitance in them. “I am not going to tell anyone. You know this.”

“Obviously,” Hollander mutters. “But we’re here together everyday. Someone could…I don’t know.”

Ilya waves him off. “No one will suspect anything. Not after they have seen me with so many women,” he grins. “I have reputation, Hollander. What is the word you used? Manwhore?”

Hollander narrows his eyes. “That's not a compliment, you know.”

“It’s not?” He tilts his head innocently.

But Hollander doesn’t look amused. Beneath that constant, sullen set of his jaw, he seems troubled. Angry about something. Is it because Ilya mentioned being with other women? He doesn’t dare voice the question out loud, even though Ilya still senses that Hollander is more upset than he’s letting on.

Why? Because he thinks every night Ilya isn’t with him, he’s going out and finding other women to sleep with? It’s far from the truth, and even if it wasn’t, it wouldn’t matter anyway. Not when

…Fuck. The thought strikes him with terrifying clarity. No one makes him feel how Hollander does.

Ilya clears his throat and looks away, feeling the hard press of his cross against his chest as he does.

Eventually, Hollander just shakes his head, seeming to rid himself of his own troubling thoughts. “Fine. You’re right. There’s no problem.”

Ilya nods in agreement. “Right.”

Somehow, Ilya feels like they are both lying to themselves.