Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Alexei Rozanov | Andrei Rozanov & Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander & Alexei Rozanov | Andrei Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Alexei Rozanov | Andrei Rozanov, Hayden Pike, Jean-Jacques Boiziau | J. J. Dagenais, Troy Barrett, Wyatt Hayes, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Ryan Price (Game Changers)

Additional Tags:

hockey player Alexei, Toxic sibling dynamics, Sexuality Crisis, Depression, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Misogyny, Homophobia, Explicit Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Irina Rozanova Haunts the Narrative, Childhood Trauma, injuries, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hollanov Endgame, Minor other pairings, author has adhd and can't be stopped, Hockey Player Shane Hollander, Hockey Player Ilya Rozanov, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Tags May Change

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-10-08 Words: 6,432 Chapters: 1/?

Lie Down with Dogs

Summary

Shane Hollander enters his rookie season focused on one thing only: playing the best damn hockey he can, and earning a spot in history as one of the greatest players in the league. Standing between him and his goal is Boston’s own promising young rookie, Alexei Rozanov.

Shane doesn’t particularly care about having a rival, but Rozanov seems as good a choice as any. He’s rude, arrogant, obnoxious off the ice and frustrating on it. And he’s pretty damn good at hockey.

Unfortunately, he also has a younger brother, who Shane finds much more interesting.

The Hollander-Rozanov rivalry is alive and well. And caught in the middle of it, is Ilya.

Notes

Hello hello hello!

This story exists because I tricked myself into becoming obsessed with Alexei while writing my last fic, Bad Cop, and decided I needed approximately one million more hours of thinking about him and his terrible, fucked-up relationship with Ilya and their parents.

Then Shane decided he also had something to say about all of it, so here we are.

A few things off the top:

Shane/Ilya are endgame, but they will both engage in minor/casual hookups with other characters over the course of the story.

Canon is absolutely wonderful, but it already exists. Don't expect this to follow the same beats as the story we all know and love.

I have no regular posting schedule and I'm not one hundred percent certain how long this story will end up being, but my roughest estimate is somewhere between 7-10 chapters. Depending on how this all shakes out, feel free to point and laugh at me if I end up being wildly incorrect about that.

Thanks for stopping by, enjoy!

(If you saw this in the 10 minutes when I had it mistakenly marked as a complete one-shot, no you didn't)

Chapter 1: 2010-2011

July 2010

"Alright, guys, hold that position for just a minute while we fix some stuff on our end, okay? Love the intensity I'm seeing between you two, keep it up!"

The director's voice echoes across the ice and the silent, empty stands above them. Bright lights shine down on Shane and Rozanov as they hover, two beings in stasis, waiting to be ordered back to life.

Across from him, Rozanov sighs. Annoyed. Shane suppresses an urge to roll his eyes right back.

He's not stupid. He knows why he's here, why they're both here. The league needs an angle, right? They're coming off an entire season cancelled due to a lockout, desperate to distract fans with whatever story the league can throw at them. So, here. Two top players, centers, drafted first overall in consecutive draft classes. One to Boston and one to Montreal. The story writes itself.

Not that Shane minds, exactly. He glances at Rozanov, who drifts idly backwards and forwards over his mark, apparently incapable of remaining still. He lifts his stick and brushes whatever minuscule flakes of snow he must see there; Shane, for his part, knows it's an act. They've spent the better part of an afternoon mostly standing still under under harsh studio lights.

"Okay, guys, we're ready here, let's hit those marks, okay?" The director calls across the ice.

The wheedling, cajoling tone of the director's voice rubs Shane the wrong way; it's the way the directions are couched as suggestions or requests. Like they're not fucking hockey players. Like they wouldn't be more comfortable with a guy with a whistle, a clipboard, and a bad temper. Shane has never needed to worry about trying to decode a direction from his coach: they tell him to skate, shoot, pass, he does it.

But still, because he's a hockey player— a damn good hockey player, he can't help but add— he obeys the director's instructions as well as he can. He gets into position across the face-off circle as Rozanov does the same across from him. Their eyes meet, briefly, and Shane could be imagining things, but for a second, he thinks he sees a smirk on Rozanov's face.

The director continues to position them, move them, beg for competition and intensity and feeling, and by the end of it Shane wants to bite his head off because what the fuck does any of that mean anyway? When he's facing off against an opponent, his face just looks however it looks, it's not like he's thinking about it. He's focusing on the puck. If he looks competitive, or whatever, it's not on purpose.

Eventually, the director seems to get whatever it is he came here for, and Shane and Rozanov are dismissed. Shane's mom stops him before he can make his way to the locker room to go over some sponsorship thing that he's not really listening to— something about his sneakers. Finally, she relents and lets him go.

In the locker room, he hesitates. Rozanov is already half naked, bare chested, loosening his skates with an almost comical carelessness. It's as if he's forgotten Shane is even there.

He turns towards his own locker and, only slightly tentatively, begins to remove his own gear; gloves and helmet in a pile, removed before he'd even entered the room, followed by jersey, elbow and chest pads. He turns and sits on the bench and focuses on unlacing his skates. In some part of his periphery vision he sees Rozanov stand, sees bare legs as a base layer is peeled off, sees them walking off in the direction of the showers.

Well, okay, now he can focus, at least.

Shane removes his skates, then his hockey pants, shin guards, socks, and everything else. He grabs his towel and heads, with some trepidation, into the showers. There's an unwelcome, anxious twisting in his gut at the thought of being naked and alone with Rozanov.

Usually, the showers are busy, teammates filing in and out, picking an open spot without thought, bodies doing routine maintenance. There's a sort of security in large numbers; it's not weird if they're all doing it. But now, it's just the two of them, and that number feels dangerous.

Shane enters the showers and gives Rozanov a brief, cursory glance. His well-muscled back is to Shane; if he's noticed Shane's presence, he's given no sign of it. He lathers shampoo into his hair near one end of the row of showers; Shane selects one that is three showerheads away. That feels like an appropriate number; far enough away to show that he has absolutely no interest in seeing Rozanov's body up close, without feeling like he's making a point of it. It's not like he needs to be that far away from Rozanov, or anything. He's not interested in him at all, outside of his hockey prowess. He's a great player to watch, nothing more.

Anyway, he uses the third shower stall down from Rozanov, who barely seems to even notice his presence, and that's fine. Comforting, actually. That's how this is supposed to work. Guys play hockey, they shower afterwards. They don't look at each other's dicks.

He's only thinking about it, because image is important. Perception is important. If Rozanov thought he was being weird, he could say something, start a rumor, and that would be that. He'd be the secretly gay Asian hockey player— and he's not! Gay, that is. He's not gay, but that's what they'd say, and that's why this kind of situation is dangerous.

And even if he were gay, which— again, he's not— he certainly wouldn't be interested in some asshole like Alexei Rozanov.

October 2010 - Montreal

The crowd screams all around the rink as Coach Thierault waves Shane out onto the ice. It's late in the game, a little over halfway through the third and Montreal is down by one. The crowd is screaming Shane's name; it's a little bit of an ego boost, if he's being honest with himself.

He knows this is just a PR stunt, for today, at least. The team rivalry of nearly a century, being brought to life and expressed through their shiny new rising stars.

It's not like he even hates Rozanov. That would require Shane to think about him, to devote some kind of emotional energy towards feeling some kind of way about him.

"Shane Hollander," Rozanov drawls, his voice almost coated in velvet. "They are screaming for you. Will you disappoint them?"

Shane grinds down on his mouth guard and grins, or bares his teeth. "Nope."

He doesn't. Rozanov is fast, but not fast enough. Shane deftly maneuvers around Boston players and ultimately buries the puck deep in the back of the net, forcing an overtime that Montreal's first line manages to convert into a win.

He's not sure, later, whether Rozanov had given him another look before he retreats down the tunnel with his team, riding the high of his first of hopefully many victories against Boston.

In the locker room, Hayden slings and arm around him and tells him they're going out for drinks, and although he's going to stick to ginger ale, he figures one drink can't hurt. Hayden's a friendly guy—maybe a little overenthusiastic, sometimes, kind of like a puppy whose obedience training has been neglected by his owner, but he seems to genuinely like Shane, which doesn't seem to happen often. And he's funny, mostly kind, popular with the rest of the team, and he meshes with Shane's playing style surprisingly well, right off the bat.

So, yeah, Hayden is his friend, and he wants to get a drink, which is how they end up at a club that JJ swore had "the hottest girls, music, and drinks in Quebec!" Mostly, to Shane, it just feels loud. And sweaty.

Shane stands near the bar, watching as JJ tries to chat up a trio of women near the edge of the dance floor. Hayden, meanwhile, paired off with a blonde woman almost immediately after arriving— Jamie, or Jessie, or something, it had been loud and he hadn't quite caught her name—and last Shane saw of them, they'd been exploring each other's bodies. Enthusiastically. In the middle of the dance floor.

So, Shane stands near the bar with his half-empty bottle of beer and contemplates leaving. Wonders whether it would be ruder to make his escape without saying anything to his teammates, or to interrupt them in their various sexual endeavors.

Well… they have the day off tomorrow, and this is his first (and only) beer; he might as well finish it before he heads home. It would be sort of pathetic if he didn't.

He looks back towards the dance floor as a new song begins. He locates Hayden, and quickly looks away from… whatever that is, that he's doing with his mouth. And hips. It's a lot. Jamie, or whoever, seems to be enjoying it, at least.

He turns back towards the bar. Better, probably, just to not look in Hayden's direction for the rest of the evening. His eyes drift down the bar, which already is proving to be much safer territory. People crowd around, vying for attention from one of the bartenders. No one is looking at Shane.

Oh. He is.

Down near the end of the bar stands a man; he's tall, slender, graceful looking. His hair is loose and wavy and almost to his shoulders, dark in the dim club lighting. He's wearing a navy silk shirt halfway unbuttoned, showing off a hairless looking chest of lean muscle.

Shane forces his eye back up to the man's face. He quirks an eyebrow at Shane, then smiles, winks and raises his bottle to his lips in a way that could only be read as suggestive.

Fuck.

Shane practically drops his beer—still half full—on the bar, turns around, and leaves. In the cab, he texts Hayden. Hey man, sorry I got tired and left. Didn't want to bother you. Have a good night.

At home, he showers, mechanically, and brushes his teeth. The image of the man at the bar keeps floating to the surface, no matter how many times he tries to brush it away.

It just startled him, that's all. He's not used to… whatever that was. Flirting, or whatever. Hayden tells him, on the nights they go out together, that girls are constantly flirting with him, not that he ever realizes in the moment. Maybe guys are just less subtle in how they flirt. That's probably it, he figures. He only noticed it because it was so overt. And he's just caught off guard because he's not used to it. He doesn't pick up on subtle things sometimes, and women are more subtle about this kind of stuff, generally.

He slides into bed and turns off the light. Waits patiently to sink into sleep, but it lingers just out of reach.

Almost without meaning to, his hand begins to move. His palm cups the bulge in the front of his pajama pants, already half-hard.

Shane doesn't touch himself as often, or with as much gusto as his teammates apparently do, if their locker room stories are to be believed, but he's not, like, a monk or anything. He's a 20 year old professional athlete with healthy testosterone levels, of course he jerks off. It feels good. It relieves stress and helps him sleep. And, he's pretty sure he read somewhere that it's supposed to be good for, like, prostate health, or something. Whatever. The point is, he masturbates a perfectly normal amount, like any other guy, and it's fine. It's fun.

It's just that, there was this one day when he was 14. He was at hockey camp, and one of the other boys had snuck in a DVD he'd found in his older brother's bedroom. And when the coaches and counselors weren't around, a group of boys gathered around the TV and watched as a tattooed, muscular man bent a slender woman with huge breasts and long blond hair over a sofa and—

It was sexy, sure. It was fine. It was a little weird, and embarrassing, to be watching that with all these other boys around. Was he the only one who thought it was weird, watching porn in front of a bunch of other guys?

They all seemed to think it was hot. And, yeah, Shane guessed, it was hot, but as he listened to his teammates talk, he began to worry he'd been focusing on the wrong parts of the video. The way the man's hands gripped the woman's waist, the way his hips snapped into her, the flexing muscles of his chest and abs. He put it out of his mind, determinedly.

The next time he thought about the video, alone in the shower the next night, he tried to remember the woman, to focus on her instead. It worked, kind of, especially when he imagined what she would be feeling. The weight on top of her, hands holding her down, the fullness inside her— fuck, no wonder she sounded like that— he'd come, hard, all over the wall of the shower, surprising himself.

So, yeah. He liked girls. Found them sexy. And maybe he thought guys were interesting to look at, too, he just knew enough, even back then, to keep it to himself.

Now, lying in the darkness, his hand slips under his waistband and, instead of the more familiar, well-worn fantasies of disembodied hands, mouths, pressure, sounds, divorced from bodies or genders or real people, he decides to live dangerously. Give in a little, as an experiment.

The image of the man from earlier appears behind his eyelids. He approaches Shane, rounding the bar. The crowd parts around him as he walks forward until he's there, towering over Shane, now, looking down at him with dark eyes. That wink again, that smirk, he puts a heavy hand on Shane's shoulder, pushes him down to his knees, pulls out his cock, huge and leaking—Open up for me—there are eyes on him as his lips part, taking him in—Shane lets out an embarrassing noise, a whimper, almost, as his release tears through him, coating the inside of his pants which he hadn't even bothered to properly remove. He wasn't expecting it to happen so quickly.

He scrambles out of bed with a hot rush of shame. Coming in his pants like that, like some desperately horny teenager… Shane's cheeks burn as he strips, balls up the pants, and throws them into the laundry hamper before stalking into the bathroom to clean himself up.

He lies in bed a few moments later, in a fresh pair of pajamas, his limbs loose and heavy, his thoughts slow.

It's just that the fantasy was taboo, he rationalizes. It's sexy because it's wrong. Not that being gay is wrong, of course. It's just that, he's not. So it's wrong for him. Lots of people get off on things they don't actually want, right?

He sinks into sleep before he can find an answer to the question.

October 2010 - Boston

"Rozanov, come on in," calls the gravelly voice of Coach LeClaire through the open door. He'd pulled Alexei aside as the team filed off the ice at the end of practice and asked for five minutes. Now, Alexei stands sullenly in the doorway, out of his gear but not yet showered, auburn hair plastered with sweat to his forehead and the back of his neck. Too long. You look sloppy. Don't you have any pride in your appearance? His father's voice reprimands him, but soon enough it's drowned out by another disappointed looking old man.

"We're going to try you on left wing against New York," says LeClaire. "Your strength is in your scoring, let's focus on that."

The part that he doesn't say, that Alexei hears loud and clear: Your defensive play is sloppy. Your play-making is weak. You lack the presence to anchor this team.

Fine, then.

Alexei nods once, brusquely. "Okay."

Neither of them seem to feel the need to draw the conversation out with meaningless pleasantries; LeClaire goes back to his computer, and Alexei turns and stalks off towards the showers.

If his teammates notice that he's seething under the surface, they don't mention it.

He turns the shower on hot, uncomfortably hot. His skin will be pink by the time he's done.

Center to wing.

There is painful, stinging truth in LeClaire's words. Alexei has always been stronger offensively, hungry for goals, big and fast enough to plow through whatever unlucky defensemen got in his way or tried to steal his puck. The sickening part of it is that he probably will play better as a wing than as a center.

It feels like a demotion. A dismissal. A polite hand pointing him off to a supporting role, rather than the star he's supposed to be.

He's acting like a fucking child again. Throwing a tantrum. Head down. Shut up. Do your part, do your job. The reward is knowing you contributed something of value. Why the fuck would you be the leader? Why would you be the one whose name they're cheering?

Fuck. Shampoo stings his eyes; what the fuck is the matter with him? He's not paying attention, staring off into space like some kind of fucking halfwit. He splutters; rubs at his eye, irritated.

"Hey man, you good?" asks a voice to his right. He squints; Marlow looks over at him with an expression of mild concern. "You've been looking like you want to fight the wall for like 2 solid minutes, brother."

Brother. Alexei suppresses the urge to sneer. Everyone on this team— everyone in North America, as far as he can tell, seems obsessed with this bullshit idea of brotherhood. Oh, we're on a team together, therefore we're brothers, and therefore we're the best of friends, and we always look out for each other.

Bullshit.

Alexei doesn't need any more brothers. One is more than enough.

Marlow is still looking at him, slightly more concerned now than before, and Alexei grumbles something indistinct and shakes his head, which appears to be enough of an answer to satisfy his curiosity. Sometimes, being assumed to be ignorant of the English language has its perks.

He dresses in stormy silence, unbothered by any further advances by his idiotic teammates.

He's still a professional fucking hockey player. He's still pulling in over three-quarters of a million USD each year, and that number will only go up in a few years. He can still be a load-bearing part of the franchise. He can still be a millionaire.

Ilya will turn 18 this summer. He'll have to figure his own shit out, then, one way or another. And some day, probably someday soon, their father will be dead. And then, Alexei will be free.

January 2011 - Nashville

The bursts of camera flashes leave imprints on the backs of Shane's eyelids. A crew member feeds a mic receiver into the pocket of his blazer, while to his right, another fusses with Rozanov's hair. A crowd of journalists stands expectantly, waiting for the signal to proceed with the onslaught of meaningless questions they'll ask over the next quarter of an hour.

The crew members retreat, and the questions begin— a PR representative calls them one at at time to receive their soundbite.

"Shane, Montreal's on a winning streak right now— 5 games heading in to the All Stars Weekend. You've scored in three of those games, how are you feeling right now?"

Shane leans forward, pretends like he hasn't considered this exact question before. "I feel great, all I want is to help the team win games and I'm grateful for the opportunity to do that."

"That brings your total goals for the season up to thirty-one so far. Want to make any predictions on how many goals you'll end the season with?"

Shane laughs. "Not a chance."

The reporters politely laugh along with him.

"Alexei—you were initially drafted as a center, but Boston has had you playing left wing for most of the season now. Has it been a difficult adjustment?"

Rozanov shrugs. "No. I get the puck, I put it in goal. Not that different from center."

"And you've certainly been doing that— thirty-three goals for you so far this season. Are you worried Shane will catch up to you?"

"No." Rozanov smirks.

"Shane? Who do you think will win the scoring race this season?"

"Scott Hunter's having a good year, my money might be on him." Shane says to another round of polite laughter.

And so on.

After what feels like an eternity, they are ushered offstage. Rozanov stomps off down a hallway, scowling at his phone, and Shane takes a moment to look around, adrift. For the moment, he's directionless, free of responsibilities. Allowed to just exist.

His parents are here, somewhere, and no doubt his mother will be calling any moment now. There will be sponsorship emails to go through, media requests probably, plus she'll want to grab lunch at the hotel restaurant, even though he'd really rather just order room service and take a nap.

He turns down a nearby hallway, following signs for the restroom. Maybe he can buy himself a few minutes of peace, at least. The hallway is quieter already, emptier; his shoulders relax with each step. He turns again and freezes.

At the far end of the hallway, Rozanov stands, tense, speaking in hushed, angry Russian. His back is to Shane; the bathroom is just a few more steps in front of him. He fixes his eyes on the floor and steps forward, doing his best to project an air of Not Listening on the off chance that Rozanov notices his presence.

He makes it into the bathroom and lets out a heavy sigh. Here, finally, he's alone. He can take off the costume of Shane Hollander, Hockey's Next Superstar.

He relieves himself, washes his hands, and splashes a bit of cool water on his face, feeling more settled already. The press is done, and now he can begin to properly look forward to the fun part of the weekend— the part where they actually get to play hockey. Tonight is the skills competition, which is a bit silly, but at least they'll be on the ice, and tomorrow is the tournament.

The shine will wear off at some point, he knows. Most veteran players, as far as he can tell, look at the All Stars Weekend as a waste of a perfectly good weekend off, just to play a meaningless exhibition game. They're not wrong, technically, and maybe someday he'll agree with them, but there's something satisfying about mattering enough to be here. He's an All Star, as a rookie. He's got less ice time and more goals than at least half the guys here. Yeah, this will probably get old, but for now, he's determined to enjoy it.

Shane takes one final glance at himself in the mirror, grabs a paper towel to dry his hands, and turns towards the door, only for it to swing open, almost hitting him squarely in the face. He steps back, surprise quickly turning to irritation as Rozanov shoves past him without a second glance.

"Excuse you," mutters Shane, collecting himself and reaching for the door. Rozanov steps up to a urinal and ignores him. Whatever. Shane rolls his eyes and steps through the door, back into the hallway. So, Rozanov is a dick. It's hardly news. It'll just make it more fun to beat him this weekend.

"What is it? I'm busy," Alexei mutters into the phone as his eyes dart down the hallway he just escaped down. They will come looking for him soon; no doubt looking for yet another media opportunity, another opportunity to position him against that smug, perfect, obnoxious Hollander.

A ragged, shuddering noise tears through the phone and Alexei's Irritation is quickly replaced with an icy sense of fear. His voice drops, shifting into a low, soothing register. He walks further down the abandoned hallway, desperate for privacy.

"Ilya? Ilyukha, fuck— what's wrong?"

"Papa fell," comes the ragged response. "Getting out of bed, he can't get up."

Shit. Panic surges through Alexei— fuck, not the fucking bedroom, anywhere but that awful room— "is he okay? Is he… alert? Awake, or whatever?"

In the background, Alexei can hear a horrible sound; the sound of his father, once a formidable force of nature who could make his subordinates and children scatter in fear with just the slightest shift in register or the raise of an eyebrow, groaning like a wounded animal.

"I don't want to hurt him," pleads Ilya. "I called for the ambulance already, he's just— he's upset—"

"Hey, enough," Alexei screws his eyes shut and slams shut the door that holds back the worst memories. His voice drops a shade lower, softer. "Ilyukha. You called the ambulance, that's good. He's upset? That's good too, that means he knows what's going on."

The image of a terrified, frozen child crouched in the corner of their parents' bedroom floats to surface. Alexei shoves it back behind the door in his mind where it belongs. He needs to keep Ilya focused. If he thinks too hard— and he's already halfway there, from the sounds of it—

"Do you want me to talk to him?" Alexei asks, helplessly, "or should I stay on with you until the ambulance arrives?"

There's a pause, just the sound of Ilya's rapid breaths as he thinks. "Maybe, talk to him? Papa— Papa, Alexei is on the phone— do you— " indecipherable noises fill Alexei's ear.

"I don't know, Lyosha, he pushed the phone away."

"It's okay," says Alexei, forcing a lightness into his voice that couldn't be farther from how he's really feeling. "Sounds like he's feeling like himself then, huh? Doesn't want to talk to me, since I lost my last game?" It's not a funny joke, but it's a familiar one, and maybe that will help.

There's no response. There's banging at the door in his mind. If he opens it he'll see a dead woman and he doesn't want to see that, can't deal with seeing that right now, so.

"Father will be going to the hospital, yeah? Better pack a bag. They'll want you there to answer questions, and he'll feel better if you're there."

"I— I can't just leave him here—"

"Ilya, he's not fucking going anywhere, is he? He'll be fine for two minutes. Get a bag. Now." He lets the edge come out now, razor sharp. It will give Ilya something to press against, to focus on.

There's a heavy breathing for a moment.

"Ilya! Fuck, get a bag. Tell me when you have it."

"I have it."

"Get your toothbrush and toothpaste. Deodorant. Razor."

There's a moment of fumbled sounds in the background, a muttered curse as something falls to the floor with a clatter.

"Done?" Asks Alexei impatiently. The hallway is still deserted; it won't stay that way much longer. If he could get to his room—

"Done," says Ilya breathlessly.

Alexei talks him through a hasty packing list; it eats up a few minutes, time Ilya desperately needs filled, time that Alexei probably can't afford to spend, until finally—

"The ambulance is here," says Ilya, and Alexei lets out a breath.

"Well, let them in, then. Do you need me to talk to them or can you manage?" He hears Ilya's footsteps, the creak of the front door. Ilya greets the medics, his voice distant now, as if the hand holding the phone has dropped to his side, forgotten. "Ilya?"

More noises drift through the speaker. Unfamiliar voices, the complaints of his father, Ilya's anxious interjections. The scene plays out without his input. He can hang up now.

He doesn't.

He grips the phone. In the waves of static the dead woman reappears, knocks at the door again. The scared boy wets himself. It's a mess, disgusting, pathetic, but it's not his fault, not really. It's her fault. He ignores her, stupid fucking bitch. If she was so set on leaving she should have done it about 16 years earlier and saved them all a lot of trouble.

When he eventually hangs up, the call log reads 28 minutes and 34 seconds. Long enough to hear, he thinks, his father loaded into an ambulance, his brother clambering in with him, a set of doors slammed shut, medics speaking in clipped, professional tones about his father's condition.

He sends off a text: call me if anything comes up.

If anything comes up. Be it a medical complication, or an issue with money. He'll be there, because it's not like there's anyone else to fix things.

Alexei's feet carry him back in the direction of the press conference room. His feet slow; he needs a minute. Fuck, he needs a minute. There's a bathroom; he turns on a heel and strides forward, pushes the door open with maybe more force than necessary and—of course, of fucking course, there's Hollander.

June 2011 - Las Vegas

The Rookie of the Year trophy was cool and smooth in his hands when they first handed it to him. Now, half an hour later, most of which he's spent trying to school his face into something closer to a human smile than a rictus grin, it's uncomfortably warm, sticky with sweat and fingerprints from where he's gripped it. He wants to set it down, if he's being honest. He wants to slip away from the cameras and the crowd and the self-satisfied old white men who keep coming up to congratulate him on his achievement. They congratulate him in a way that makes it clear they expect him to be grateful to have been given the opportunity in the first place, and his mom would probably tell him to let it go, but it pisses him off just a little bit.

It's not that he's not proud. Or grateful. He is— it's just all a bit overwhelming.

Finally, at some point, the photos are done, and Shane is shepherded into a banquet hall full of even more people, all of whom seem to want to be seen talking to him. For tonight, at least, he's the most popular figure in hockey.

Figure. Not player, not person, not human. He's here as a concept, whichever one will perform the best with the fans. He's the rising Canadian star. He's the diversity hire. He's the straight-laced, serious kid who lets his on-ice performance do the talking.

He's fucking tired, is what he is.

But it's not even 10:00, so Shane soldiers his way through the reception with a queasy feeling in his stomach. He tells himself it's residual nerves, or it's because of the smell of alcohol he's not legally allowed to drink and the bite-sized bits of fussy-looking food.

Polite, meaningless conversations drone on around him. He stands between his parents and tries to stay focused, to be quiet, respectful, and attentive. He smiles when he thinks he's supposed to, nods along as strangers talk about him as if he were a prized racehorse, and tries to convince himself that they are being complimentary.

"You must be thrilled by Shane's performance this year—"

"His hockey IQ is unmatched right now, he's remarkable."

"Rozanov may have more personality, but if you compare their stats, Shane is the clear winner..."

Another middle-aged man in a suit approaches them. Another round of handshakes, another deferential refrain of thank you so much and it's such an honor and I'm looking forward to next season.

Scott Hunter, of all people, ends up being the one to rescue him. He pulls Shane away from what some might call a conversation but what Shane would privately consider more akin to a hostage situation with some bigwig from some Western Conference team; Shane can't even be bothered to remember which one. Out of earshot, Scott leans over.

"Some of us old fucks were thinking about doing a couple shots with all the rooks, would you be into that?"

Shane's not much of a drinker, but the idea of doing shots with Scott Hunter sounds a hell of a lot better than remaining on display at the world's most humiliating after party. "Absolutely," he grins. "Let's do it."

"Great! I think I saw Rozanov around here somewhere, let's grab him and hit the bar."

At the mention of Rozanov, Shane's stomach does that uncomfortable twisting thing it always seems to do in his presence.

He just… can't stand that guy. He just doesn't like him.

He plasters a smile on his face, again. It's been there all evening; he might as well keep it up for a little while longer. "Sounds great."

They find Rozanov tapping away at his phone, looking bored. He glances up as they approach, looking wary at Hunter, then amused when he sees Shane.

Fuck this guy, seriously.

"You are babysitter tonight, Hunter?" he asks as they reach him. "Is generous of you. I hope they pay you well."

Hunter laughs. "Yeah, I'm in charge of bringing the rookies to the bar for shots. Come on, if you want."

Rozanov shrugs, and glances at Shane. "Sure. Will be fun to watch this one. Shots of warm milk for him, yes?"

"Fuck off," says Shane, trying to sound like he's joking.

Maybe it's because of Rozanov, then, that he ends up doing three shots of vodka. And, three shots in, Shane remembers why he doesn't usually drink like this. His face feels flushed, the room is stuffy and warm and kind of crowded and so fucking boring and suddenly the idea of being somewhere else—somewhere quiet, cool, maybe with a nice breeze, or a soft mattress—sounds absolutely irresistible.

No one is paying attention to him, anymore. He slips out of the room and wanders in the direction of the lobby. It's crowded; even at almost midnight, groups of women in short dresses and heels and guys in garish shirts filter in and out. Shane glances at the doors and is deeply irritated to remember that he's in Las Vegas. There are too many people in this ugly, stupid, loud, tacky city.

He makes his way to the elevators and waits patiently. As the elevator arrives, so does a group of apparently very drunk women, probably a bachelorette party, considering the "Bride-to-be" sash one of them is wearing. They crowd into the elevator around him, laughing and chattering and shrieking with laughter, and one of them seems to realize he's an actual human and starts apologizing while also complimenting him on his cheekbones, which is a weird fucking compliment, how does someone even respond to that? He says thank you, because he's polite, but it comes out sounding like a question, and that makes the woman laugh, and then the rest of them start laughing too, and—fuck, are they at his floor yet?

The elevator doors open, and he steps out of them, head down, a homing missile aimed directly at his hotel room door. The path is not complicated: turn left, down a long hall, then to to the left again, a few doors and to the right.

It's the second left turn where everything goes wrong. He rounds the corner and collides squarely with a solid mass— he realizes, belatedly, another human, and not just a regular human, but someone maybe more deserving of a higher title. He's broad-shouldered, well muscled, lean through the waist, but undeniably strong. Great hands. Shane looks up to see—

Jaw. Curls. Mole. Lips. Fuck. Fuck.

A hundred thoughts that he'd told himself he'd think about later come rushing into his head.

The stranger is looking at him with mild concern, or… something, Shane is in no condition to try to explore the depths of other people's psyches currently. He looks like he's thinking Something.

"Sorry," Shane manages to get out, because that's what he should say after almost knocking someone down in a hallway. Not that he could knock this man down, not without trying, at least, and maybe if he did try, what then?

What if he knocked him over, flat onto his back onto the filthy hallway carpet of this hotel? What if, in the process, their hips happened to slot together just so, and maybe his cock just happened to brush up against the bulge in this stranger's sweatpants? What if the stranger just happened to tilt his hips in a certain way—

Okay, hold on. What the fuck. No, this is insane, actually. What the fuck. Shane shakes his head and apologizes again, which makes the stranger's face do something, like he's figured out all of Shane's secrets, and Shane needs to get the fuck out of here, actually.

He steps past the stranger and forces himself to walk, not run, the rest of the way to his room. He doesn't look back, he finds his door, swipes his key, and finally, fucking finally, sinks back into the safety of solitude.

Those lips... they were so full, looked so fucking soft. And his hands—long fingers that could grip his arm or his hip or his cock. Strong arms that could shove him against a wall, or push him down onto his knees, or pin him down face first into the mattress—

His pants are halfway off, hovering around his knees by the time he makes it across the room to his bed. He throws himself onto the bed, kicks off his pants, and peels off his underwear. He doesn't have any lube, which is a shame, because he feels a desperate, aching need to shove two fingers in himself. Fuck, he grits his teeth as the pads of his fingers rub at his rim, desperate to push in.

It's no use. He brings his hand up, spits on his fingers, presses them against his hole as his other hand wraps around his cock. It's still not what he wants, but it's close enough that it only takes a few frantic moments before he's coming all over his fist with a punched-out groan, imagining those perfect hands were the ones drawing his orgasm out of him instead.

Two days later, Shane watches in silent horror as his hallway stranger beams at him through the TV.

"Selected 4th overall for the 2011 MLH Draft, Ilya Rozanov to the Toronto Guardians!"

Well. Fuck.