Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Categories:

M/M, F/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Kip Grady/Scott Hunter, Scott Hunter/Ilya Rozanov, Scott Hunter & Ilya Rozanov, brief rose landry/shane hollander

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Scott Hunter (Game Changers), Shane Hollander, Kip Grady, Rose Landry

Additional Tags:

do not be fooled, this is a hollanov story, even if it doesn't look that way to start, Angst, Miscommunication

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-02-04 Completed: 2026-06-10 Words: 21,440 Chapters: 12/12

Scott Hunter, Really?

Summary

Ilya is lonely, and tired, and really, really drunk. And so he kisses Scott Hunter. But that doesn't really help, because that's not the hockey player he wants to be kissing.

Notes

Y'all I am playing fast and loose with some timelines here, just bear with me and pretend it all makes sense. Scott Hunter has had his fight with Kip and Shane is with Rose Landry at the same time, I think this makes sense, but let's not worry about it too much. And Shane has not yet fought Scott Hunter, that is important! Also I swear there will be Shane eventually please be patient with me.

Chapter 1

Ilya was drunk. Drunker than he’d been in years. He liked to go out, of course, but too much alcohol wasn’t good for hockey, and Ilya lived for hockey. Or rather, he thought he’d lived only for hockey. Lately, a certain pair of brown eyes and a smattering of freckles was making serious inroads into his thinking time. 

Ilya shook his head, pushing back away from the bar stool, swaying only a little as he got to his feet. That was the whole reason he was so drunk, so he could stop thinking about those stupid freckles plastered all over the internet next to Rose Landry. God, she was probably looking at them right now, staring into Shane Hollander’s eyes. Maybe they were out together at a restaurant, or going shopping, or maybe she’d taken him back to her house, not caring who saw them, with her hands all over him…

Ilya threw some money at the bar and stalked outside, flipping up the collar of his coat. To add insult to injury, he was out drinking alone, because his team had just lost to the Admirals, and to Scott fucking Hunter. He hadn’t want to go out drinking with them, hadn’t wanted to do anything other than get utterly plastered, but now, even the light and warmth of the bar was too much, and he fled.

The cold night air did nothing to distract him from thoughts of Rose Landry and Shane Hollander. He couldn’t stop thinking about it, even as every new image made his stomach twist. Her hands on his broad chest, her delicate hand wrapping around his dick…

Ilya swore, and walked faster, not paying attention to where he was going, trying to outpace his own thoughts.

It’s your own fault, his brain whispered. You pushed. You knew he was scared. If you’d just left well enough alone, he wouldn’t be there, with her.

Ilya just walked faster and faster, but the voice rang too true. Shane had looked so beautiful, in his house, on his couch, god. Ilya had wanted to forget, just for a little while, that it was just sex. He’d wanted connection, and he’d thought they had it. He’d been so careful, so careful not to say anything, not to push, but apparently not careful enough. Whatever Shane had seen in his eyes, it was enough to make him bolt. And now Ilya was alone on the streets, with no idea where he was.

He put his head down and kept walking. Eventually, he’d have to come across something interesting. The street was dotted with little restaurants and shops, and sooner or later, he knew he’d find another bar. And there one was, a little bar that appeared to be showing hockey replays visible on the TV through the windows, with wooden booths and soft golden light spilling out as well.

Ilya almost went in without thinking, but something about the place stopped him, and he paused, just a moment, his drunken brain trying to figure out why this bar was somehow different. 

It took a moment or two, but Ilya didn’t have anywhere else to be, and thinking about this bar meant he wasn’t thinking about Shane–Hollander–Shane with his hands on Rose Landry’s waist, so much softer and curvier than Ilya’s own. And then everything clicked into place. The rainbow flags, the little signs that said All Are Welcome Here, the group of very short haired women with lots of piercing and pins heading in: this was a gay bar. The couples he spied at the bar were overwhelmingly same-sex couples. Definitely a gay bar. And not the sort of anonymous leather place where Ilya might be able to go and find someone mindless to fuck, with discreet entrances and private rooms and above all a code of anonymity, but a more local, friendly, soft space, that looked like it served food as well as beer.

Standing outside of this gay bar made Ilya feel even worse. In Russia, such a thing would never have been tolerated, and here, in the US, where things were supposed to be different, it still wasn’t tolerated for Ilya. All these other people, they could have what they wanted. They could wrap their arms around their partners, press kisses to their foreheads, and sit pressed up against each other in the bar. Ily couldn’t even cuddle on his own couch.

The thought depressed him so much that he turned abruptly away. He was still Ilya Rozanov, best hockey player in the league, and he would not stand outside of a pathetic little gay bar moping. If he was really determined to have some sort of wild gay experience, he could go find a proper club, and find a man who valued privacy as much as he did, and they could have something mindless and meaningless in Ilya’s hotel room. Or maybe he would just go back to his hotel room and drink until he passed out, although even to himself he could admit that he was still too drunk, even after his walk. It didn’t matter. He just needed to be away from here. 

Ilya had been so preoccupied with his own misery and his haste in leaving that he didn’t even notice the other figure on the sidewalk, who was also lurking outside the gay bar, also with a collar pulled up.

Ilya crashed into him, and something about it was familiar, like a hit on the ice, except, Ilya reminded himself, that he couldn’t haul off and punch someone on the street the way that he could on the ice. And then he looked up, really looked at who he’d run into, and he almost punched him anyway. Scott Hunter’s worried eyes stared down at him, and Ilya’s head spun. There was no reason for Hunter to be here. He’d humiliated Ilya enough already on the ice, he didn’t need to see this. Ilya pushed at him, ineffectually, the alcohol making his head swim. Maybe he could just keep walking. Maybe Scott Hunter wouldn’t know it was him.

“Rosanov? What are you doing here?” Scott’s eyes flickered from Ilya to the gay bar behind him, looking hideously guilty and worried. Ilya swayed in place.

“I…” he paused, searching for the words. When he was first learning English, it was a little easier when he was drunk. He was looser, more relaxed, didn’t stress over the words. But now that his English was better, drinking just made everything harder. Another reason not to drink like he had. Also, he did not feel like explaining himself to Scott Hunter. “I am here for hockey. You know, hockey? The sport we both play? The one with the sticks where we smash each other on ice? Or you forget already, old man, that you crushed me two hours ago?” Shit. Ilya really hadn’t meant to say most of that.

He thought that Hunter might get mad, might laugh at him, but instead his eyes just flickered even more guiltily, and his hand hovered towards Ilya, as if he wanted to grab him and shake him, but he didn’t quite dare. Ilya eyed him with interest. Maybe Scott Hunter would fight him off the ice. It wasn’t what Ilya preferred, but maybe if he lost himself in it he could stop thinking about Shane, who even now was still hovering in his thoughts, a ghost that he couldn’t quit.

“Shhhh,” said Scott Hunter, who was still there, taller than he had any right to be out of skates, and looking more terrified by the second. “Rosanov, just… shut up.”

“What? Is true! Or have you really gotten so old that you cannot keep up with these things?” Ilya was just running his mouth. He didn’t know what had Hunter so worked up, but his whole brain was screaming at him to keep pushing those buttons, even if he didn’t really understand what those buttons were. And then all of a sudden, he did, because it was so perfectly obvious. Scott Hunter, looking sad and lonely and hunched over in his jacket, standing outside of a brightly lit gay bar.

“Oh my god Hunter, you are—” Ilya’s drunken realization was cut off abruptly as Hunter gave in to his instincts and clapped his hand over Ilya’s mouth, but Ilya’s mind was whirring. Scott Hunter standing miserable outside of a gay bar, plus his reputation as a bachelor with no personal life to speak of—Scott Hunter was definitely gay. Or questioning. Or bisexual. Whatever. Probably not bisexual though, or he would be more like Ilya, seen as one thing while another half of him was invisible, erased.

“Not here, Rosanov,” said Hunter, and there was real fear and desperation in his eyes. Ilya looked him up and down, his curiosity getting the better of him, as he finally found something interesting. If he was thinking about Scott Hunter being gay, then he didn’t have to think about—

“Ok, fine. We go someplace else. But I need a drink.” Ilya didn’t really need a drink, but all of a sudden, he was tired. He was tired of hiding, tired of being alone, and tired of standing outside looking in. Maybe if Scott Hunter could have even the tiniest bit of understanding for what Ilya was going through, then he wouldn’t feel it quite so heavily. And besides, said a traitorous little voice in Ilya’s head, the one he always ignored when he complained to Shane about how fucking ancient the Admiral’s captain was, Scott Hunter was really quite hot.

Hunter ran his hand through his hair, making it stand up in an interesting way, and Ilya braced himself for yet another rejection. Tears stung a little at his eyes, but he turned into the wind, pretending it was just the cold night air, and not that literally no one wanted to spend time with Ilya, no one wanted to see him at his worst, only when he was the god of the ice, scoring and chirping and fighting—

“Well, my place isn’t far from here. Jesus, careful, Rosanov. Are you sure you need another drink? How much have you had tonight?”

Ilya realized he was swaying, and that Hunter had slipped an arm under his shoulder, and was practically propping him up. 

“Not—not that much,” Ilya lied. Unsuccessfully, by the expression on Hunter’s face.

“Ok, ok, fine, let’s go back to mine.” Hunter carefully steer Ilya away from the warmth of the gay bar, although not, Ilya noticed, before giving a longing look at it over his shoulder. Ilya refused to look back, keeping his head down and focusing on just putting one foot in front of the other.

Chapter 2: Chapter 2

Chapter Notes

I am a woman obsessed, I must keep writing this brainworm. Sorry if Ilya is really sad, I promise he won't stay that way forever!

Scott Hunter’s apartment was nicer than Ilya had expected, if he’d stopped to think about it. But by the time they got there, Ilya had stopped really caring. The high of finding out a secret about Scott Hunter was wearing off, and Ilya’s misery was pouring back in.

“You have vodka?” he asked, ignoring the rest of the apartment and heading for the kitchen. “Or beer?” Ilya didn’t really care, and Hunter didn’t seem like a vodka type. “Actually, first bathroom. Where is?”

Scott directed him towards the bathroom, and Ilya hurried in, focusing on nothing other than relieving the pressure in his bladder that had been building up without his knowledge over the course of the night. Then he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, and it was worse than he’d anticipated. Instead of the chiseled, handsome jaw and perfect curls that he was secretly rather vain over, the current draw of his face was the bags under his eyes, huge and purple and nearly as prominent as when he’d had a black eye. He closed his eyes and washed his hands without seeing, unable to keep looking at his own face. There was no denying it—he looked sad.

Ilya stumbled back out into Scott Hunter’s gorgeous living room, only to find the other man hastily putting away his phone, as if he didn’t want Ilya to see it. That was familiar enough that it caused the ache behind Ilya’s breastbone to reignite. He suddenly felt very small, and very alone, even though Scott Hunter was right there.

Wordlessly, Scott held out a glass full of clear liquid, and Ilya took it, drinking deep even though it was immediately apparent that it was just water, and not more vodka. Really, Ilya should have started on water a while ago, but he kept thinking he could smother every stray thought with more alcohol, and he kept chasing that elusive blankness. It hadn’t worked. And he didn’t want to give up on it, but if Scott Hunter was going to be stingy with his vodka, then Ilya would drink water, and maybe a future, more sober version of himself would thank Scott for it. Ilya kind of doubted that last part for.

Ilya put the glass down on Scott’s expensive looking end table, ignoring the coaster sitting right next to it. Scott was looking at him with an expression of unbearable sadness, one of clear pity, and Ilya couldn’t stand it. So he did the only thing he could think of. He took three powerful steps across the room, and fisted his hand into the collar of Scott Hunter’s shirt.

“So, let’s talk,” he said. “About why you are outside gay bar, all alone. Or maybe I show you?” And then he stood on his tiptoes and pressed his mouth to Scott, heedless of the potential consequences, kissing Scott Hunter for all he was worth.
For a split second, Scott was frozen underneath him. His mouth was warm and slack, and open slightly in a moue of shock. Ilya pressed his advantage, deepening the kiss, ignoring the hysterical voice in the back of his head that was screaming at him that he was trying to slip Scott Hunter tongue. He kissed on for just a moment longer, coaxing Scott to open for him, and then all of a sudden, he was.

Scott kissed like he played, methodical, intense, and rule following. His hands came up to rest on Ilya’s hips, his hands thumbing over his hip bones, and tracing the ridiculous vee of muscle that Ilya worked so hard for. His mouth was hungry and insistent against Ilya’s, and his beard, while slightly scratchy, was not unpleasant, sliding against Ilya’s clean shaven jaw in a way that had him wondering how it would feel around other parts of his anatomy.
Ilya groaned into the kiss, pressing up as high as he could and simultaneously pulling Scott down and grabbing his ass, feeling the tight, firm muscle shifting under his hands. It was so similar to Shane but different enough that he could silence the voice, and Ilya was grateful, pathetically grateful to Scott Hunter, because it was the closest he’d come to forgetting in far too long, and Rose Landry was finally out of his head—
That thought wasn’t exactly conducive to getting her out of his head, so Ilya decided he needed to escalate. He slid his hand down from Scott Hunter’s neck and palmed him through his jeans, fully intending to fall to his knees and blow Scott Hunter for all he was worth. The part of Ilya that had always thought he was maybe, a little, just a tad hot was coming out to play, because for once, it was easier to think of that than anything else.

Scott Hunter groaned, and Ilya felt the thick line of him through his jeans, and smirked. He could still do this, even if Hunter wasn’t his preferred companion. Except then he couldn’t, because Hunter was pulling away, and shaking his head.

“Rozanov, fuck, no. We can’t.” He was panting and out of breath, and his pupils were blown huge, but he looked shocked, as if he couldn’t believe what he had been doing.

Ilya was so frustrated he could scream. He needed to stop messing around with hockey players. It didn’t matter how hot they were. It absolutely wasn’t worth it.

“What, you are not gay?” he asked, following it up with a humorless laugh. “I have news for you, Scott. Straight hockey players do not kiss like that.”

“No, fuck, Rozanov, I am definitely, definitely gay. It’s not that. It’s just that—” He was cut off by the sound of keys jingling at the lock, and Ilya and Scott both turned in unison to see the door to the apartment open, and a broad-shouldered, good-looking man with dark curls opened the door, humming to himself as he let himself into the apartment.

Everything came crashing down around Ilya. Of course Scott Hunter, gorgeous hockey player, had a boyfriend. Everyone had someone, except Ilya.

Scott was staring at the new person with a mix of guilt and fondness, and Ilya realized that they were both still standing next to each other, lips kiss-swollen and hair mussed, still breathing hard from their previous activities. Hunter’s boyfriend would have had to be an idiot not to suspect, and from the way his eyes narrowed at the two of them, he was no fool.

Hunter opened his mouth, ready to jump in and defend himself, probably, but Ilya beat him to it.

“Sorry, sorry. I was just leaving. Is misunderstanding. Scott here is—is good man. You are very lucky, Scott’s boyfriend.” And then Ilya tried to rush out the door and leave the site of his humiliation behind, so he could go drink at the hotel room until he passed out, which is what he should have done in the first place. He took two decisive steps towards the door, and then tripped over something on the floor, tucked under the corner of the couch, hidden where he couldn’t see it.
Ilya Rozanov had more than his share of balance and grace, seeing as he played a sport that required him to glide around on blades on literal ice, but he was drunk, and mortified, and not paying enough attention. He had just enough reflexes left that he was able to twist so that he landed on the expensive couch instead of on the floor, his breath leaving his body as he sank deep into the cushions.
The world spun around him, and he closed his eyes, hoping it would all just go away when he woke up, and that he could wake up with his arm wrapped around Shane Hollander’s broad shoulder and muscled waist, and all of this would just be a misunderstanding. But instead, he was forced to listen to the whispered conversation going on above him.

“Who the fuck is that and why is he on our—your—couch?” hissed a voice that Ilya didn’t recognize. Must be the boyfriend.

Scott Hunter let out a deep sigh, and Ilya heard the shuffle of footsteps on the soft carpet.

“Kip, I can explain. This is… Ilya Rozanov. He plays for Boston. He saw me outside of the bar, and accused me of being gay. He was so drunk, and I just thought… I just thought he could use a friend. I wasn’t expecting him to jump on me like that, I swear. I pushed him off as soon as he knew.”

“So you were kissing him,” said Kip, and the sadness in his voice was too much for Ilya. Ilya didn’t know Kip, didn’t know him at all, but he couldn’t stand to have him think that Scott didn’t care for him. Not when this was all his fault.

“No,” said Ilya. “I was kissing him. Scott was just… there. He is very hot, but not good player, too old, too sad on the ice. And he is not even best kisser in the hockey league. I prefer men broader.”

At that, they both shut up, and Ilya opened his eyes to see them both staring at him in shock.

“So you’re gay too,” breathed Scott Hunter, and he was looking confused, but also sort of glad, like he’d just discovered that he was no longer alone in the universe. Ilya shut his eyes, not wanting to see this hopeful Scott.

“Nyet. I am… bisexual. I like both. But it doesn’t really matter, because men do not like me, it turns out.” There was an ominous silence above him, and even without looking, Ilya could tell that Scott and Kip were exchanging glances above him. He had to stop fucking talking in front of Scott Hunter. He was too drunk, and his secrets just came pouring out him.

“Hey, uh, Rozanov,” said Scott. The cushions sunk down near Ilya’s head, and Ilya could tell that Scott had sat down next to him. “I’m, y’know, gay, and you’re very good at hockey, and any man would be very lucky to have you.”

“Oh my god, you are awful at this,” said Kip, and there was the sound of shuffling, and then a warm hand was on his shoulder, and Ilya opened his eyes to see Kip staring at him, kneeling next to him on the floor so he was even with Ilya’s head. “Look, I can tell you’re having a hard time right now, but what Scott is trying to say is that you’re a smokeshow, and I’m pretty sure your shirtless photos make the rounds on gay twitter and tumblr all the time, so you really have nothing to worry about in that department. Just because Scott is, uh, otherwise occupied doesn’t mean that you won’t be able to find someone of a more masculine persuasion who is into you.”

But Ilya was shaking his head. Kip was so earnest, and so sincere, but he still did not understand. And Ilya was still so tired, and far too drunk, and he just wanted someone to understand, for once in his life.

“But I do not care about these men,” he said, pressing his head back into the cushions, as if he could hide the truth of it with soft fabric and stuffing. “What do these men matter, when Shane Hollander is busy with girlfriend, and has no time for kissing?”
Kip’s eyes got wide, and from beside him on the couch, Scott Hunter murmured, “Oh my god,” and Ilya wanted to cry. He really needed to stop talking around Scott Hunter, he was saying all sorts of horrible things.

“And now I need to stop talking, because I am confessing far too much, and is not only my secret. Hollander does not want anyone to know, and he is busy dating Rose Landry, so it is not even our secret anymore. Just my secret, that I do not want him to date Rose.”

From the sharp intakes of breath that were coming from beside him, apparently he hadn’t been clear, and he’d just spilled more than he intended. Ilya closed his eyes, and took another deep breath.

“I am very tired, and very drunk. So unless you intend for me to stay the night and not ask any more question, I need to leave. Right now.” He made to get up, but Kip put a gentle hand on his shoulder, looking at him with that same sad expression that he’d seen on Scott’s face before.

“Stay here,” said Kip, and Scott nodded vigorously. “We’ll send you off in the morning. We can set an alarm. No more questions, I promise. Just. Stay.”

Ilya nodded, throat burning. He shouldn’t, he knew that. He barely knew these people. But for once, he could not bring himself to turn away from kindness, even the general sort, that they probably would have offered to any gay man in need.

“Ok, I say. But I am not gay. Bisexual,” he said, and Kip actually laughed.

“Of course. Bisexual. Got it. Well, bisexual Ilya Rosanov, can I get you some clean sheets for this couch before you pass out? Also, if you’re going to puke, there’s a wastebasket in the corner. I think we’d both prefer you use that, rather than vomiting on the floor.”

Ilya glared.

“Russians do not vomit when drunk, I will not puke on floor or wastebasket. But yes, I can move for clean sheets.” With as much dignity as he could, he heaved himself up from the couch, ignoring the wave of nausea that it did send through him. He was glad Kip was the one offering, because he thought he might never be able to look Scott Hunter in the eye ever again.

Chapter 3

Chapter Notes

Shane POV! This chapter contains sex that is consensual but not necessarily healthy, so please take care of yourself if that's something you need to skip. Also, sex between two characters while one of them fantasizes about another. Again, skip if that's not your bag! Shane is going to have sex with Rose Landry in this chapter, fair warning.

Shane knew he shouldn’t be looking at the Admirals vs Raiders game here, in Rose’s apartment, minutes before she was expecting him in her bedroom. But he couldn’t help himself. He’d been so good all day, hadn’t even opened his text chain with “Lily” more than two or three times, had barely looked at the updates to see that the Admirals had won. Instead he’d gone on dates with Rose, going shopping, getting dinner, all of that, and hoped that maybe she’d be too tired after all of that to want anything more, that they could just cuddle and go to bed, and he wouldn’t have to see the disappointment in her eyes when he couldn’t—well. It was no use thinking about it even more. He’d just drive himself into a state, pre-worrying about it. He didn’t need to worry about anything until it was time to worry about it, and he still had a few minutes left before he could begin his legitimate worries.

But he was still nervous, and as awful and terrible as it was, he knew that watching Ilya Rozanov on the ice would calm him down, even if Shane was carefully avoiding thinking about why that was. He’d always loved watching Ilya—no, Rozanov, he needed to get it right, even in his own head—even before they’d met, when he’d just seen grainy videos of the Russian player on the ice. It had given him a thrill, even if back then he hadn’t been as in tune as to what that thrill meant.

Now though, he understood the raw beauty of Il—Rozanov— on the ice, even if it was something he’d walked away from. Even though the Raiders had lost, he’d still scored, and his movements, at times graceful and deliberate, at times aggressive and sharp, had a low level heat rising in him that he knew all too well.

“What are you looking at over there?”

Rose’s voice cut through his reverie, and Shand quickly put his phone down onto his knee, screen side down.

“Uh, nothing. Just—catching up with one of the games. Highlight reels, you know. Gotta stay sharp.” Then he looked at Rose, and did a double take. The odds that she was too tired for sex—he finally acknowledged the word—dipped astronomically.

Rose Landry stood in front of him, in the tiniest black thong he’d ever seen, with a sheer lace bra. Her smooth, creamy skin peeked through the dark lace, and he could see that her nipples were hard through the thin fabric.

“You look beautiful,” he said, and it was true, she did. Shane had no problem acknowledging that. Rose was a beautiful woman, and he liked the way she looked. He liked the way she dressed, the way she smelled, the way her hair felt against his cheek when she hugged him. He even liked the way her breasts felt, pressed up against his chest, and the press of her lips against his own, gentle and careful. They were soft, and comforting, and Shane, used to manly backslaps and hard, punishing hockey hugs, didn’t mind a little softness. Liked it, even.

But what none of that did was move him to arousal in any way. Shane had been more interested in watching Ilya Rozanov skate fully clothed, his body hidden behind hockey pads, than he was seeing Rose Landry in the nude. 

But he couldn’t say that. He liked Rose, and wanted to make her happy. And sex with him would make her happy, if he could just get his head into the game. She was so beautiful, and he liked her so much, and he wanted so badly to be able to give her this one thing. He’d given her everything else he could—his time, making sure he was as available as he could be, and his money, although she’d protested. He hadn’t wanted to let her pay for anything on their shopping trip, even though she argued with him that she made more money than he did, and he was being ridiculous. But it wasn’t about that. He just wanted Rose to be cared for. 

Shane knew that most guys would kill to be in his position, with Rose Landry, or even just any of the other hot girls who liked to hang around hockey players, who wanted to be around their strength and success. But Rose hadn’t spent the whole day laughing with one of those guys. She’d spent the day with him.

He realized he’d gone suspiciously quiet, and Rose was starting to wilt a little in front of him. That was not how he wanted this evening to go! He needed to not just say she was beautiful, but show her. He knew that. Shane just didn’t know how exactly to do that, to get his sex drive on board with the rest of him, which thought Rose was wonderful.

Ilya would know what to do, if he was here, said a treacherous little voice in the back of his head. Shane usually ignored that voice, going for long runs or lifting weights until he was too exhausted to listen to it, but in this case, he thought maybe it had some merit. He just needed to do what Ilya would do.

Shane knew this was a bad idea. Thinking of himself as Ilya was just a form thinking of Ilya, something that Shane had promised himself he would not be doing. But he needed to do something, or Rose was going to leave, and then—Shane didn’t like that option.

So he stood, walking towards Rose, his hands slightly outreached, the way Ilya always did when they came together. He leaned down, pressing his forehead against hers, meeting her eyes, trying to project the sense of control and intensity that he always got from Rozanov when they—

His dick was starting to get interested in the proceedings, and Shane told himself it was just because he was finally touching Rose, his big hands on her waist, so different from Ilya’s, and not because memories of his past experiences with Ilya were now flowing through his head. It was just for research, just so he could figure out what the fuck he was supposed to be doing. Ilya always had so many girls around him, and he couldn’t be that different with them than he was with Shane.

So he kissed Rose, deepening it as soon as he could, trying to devour her mouth, and she melted underneath him, pulling him closer with her soft hands, and this was fine, it was all fine, he could just keep kissing her, and be pressed up against her, and she would be happy and Shane would be able to perform and everyone would be perfectly happy.

Except this was not what happened. Instead, Rose pulled back, shooting him a mischievous smile.

“Should we take this to the bedroom?” she asked, reaching down and cupping him lightly through his pants.

“Uh, yeah. We should,” said Shane, hoping he was coming off as aroused and not terrified.

Rose grabbed his hand and pulled him into the bedroom, and that put Shane on the backfoot a little. It was hard to pretend to be Iya—no, Rozanov—when he really liked being the one pulled places. Rozanov always pulled Shane into bed, into his arms, into his mouth.

Shane was properly hard now, and couldn’t stop thinking of all the times Ilya had pulled him into bed. He closed his eyes and kissed Rose as she led him to the bed, knowing that he had crossed the line, that he was thinking about a man while in bed with his beautiful girlfriend, but it was working, and he hadn’t let himself think this way in so long, and she was stroking him and he was actually responding, and he couldn’t bring himself to stop.

Rose pushed him back onto the bed, and Shane actually relaxed a little further. Being on his back in bed was a familiar situation, even if nothing else about the situation was. He closed his eyes, and chased his arousal, picturing Ilya Rozanov’s face above him, his curls, his smile, his intense stare—

Rose rolled a condom down onto him, and that was good, he could do this. Last time he hadn’t even gotten hard enough for them to put the condom on. He opened his eyes briefly, smiling at her.

“You want to keep going?” asked Rose. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were bright, and he could smell her in the air. It wasn’t unpleasant, but it didn’t drive him wild.

“Yeah,” said Shane, shifting his hands to pull her onto his lap a bit more firmly. “Yeah, I want to keep going.” And then she was on him, and sinking down onto him, and he closed his eyes, giving himself permission to remember.

He skittered from memory to memory, trying to find one that would stimulating enough to allow him to keep going, but that wouldn’t bring him too far out of the moment. Somehow, he didn’t think one of his memories of getting fucked would be appropriate for helping him keep his erection during having sex with Rose. So instead he settled on something he still recalled with pleasure—the very first time he’d hooked up with Ilya, when his mouth had been so warm and so soft and Shane had been gone—

Shane abruptly remembered that he was supposed to be a gentleman, and tried to move his hands to where he and Rose were joined, but he found her hands already there, busily working her clit, and he moved his hands back to her waist with something like relief. He just had to last long enough for her to come, and then he could be done. But until then, he would let himself remember Ilya.

Rose came, and Shane didn’t. She got off of him, flopping down next to him on the bed. He stripped off his condom, getting up to throw it away. He was still sort of hard, but now that she was done, he was no longer giving himself permission to think of Rozanov, not even in his own head. If he was doing it just to get himself off, that was somehow worse, than if he was doing it to get Rose off. 

He returned to the bed, where Rose was still collapsed, looking sweaty and sated but not necessarily happy. She must have noticed, then.

“Do you want me to help you out some more? I could…” Rose trailed off, gesturing at Shane’s crotch, where he was rapidly losing his erection. “I could go again, if you give me a minute. Or I could go down on you? Or—”

“It’s fine,” said Shane. “I have an early flight tomorrow. I’m probably just stressed about it. Maybe we can just… cuddle?”

Something in Rose’s expression softened. 

“Of course,” she said, and she pulled him into her, a surprising move that nevertheless made Shane happy. He had assumed she’d want to be the little spoon, but instead he could lie there, and feel her warm arms around him, and think of absolutely nothing else. He could do this.

Chapter 4

Chapter Notes

Kip's POV this time! Someday I will return to Ilya, I swear, but for now I just need to do some more jumping around.

Kip awoke to the smell of something frying. Bacon, he thought. He didn’t know they had bacon, and he certainly didn’t think Scott knew how to cook bacon. Plus—wait. There in the bed next to him, still dead to the world, was Scott. Which meant…

Right, he had two hockey players in his apartment right now. Scott’s apartment. It was getting harder and harder to keep that distinction separate, what with exactly how much time Kip spent here. Which meant that Ilya Rosanov, who even Kip knew about, if only because Scott bitched about him after every Boston game, was making breakfast in the kitchen.

Kip thought about going back to sleep, just sliding up against Scott and pulling the covers around his ears, but in the end, he couldn’t do it. Ilya had seemed so broken last night, so devastated. If Kip ever felt like that, he’d probably want some company, even if it was from someone he didn’t really know.

So he stole Scott’s robe, shoved his feet into his own slippers, and slipped out of the bedroom quietly. Scott didn’t even stir. 

Ilya didn’t notice him at first, as he was bent over the stove very intently, staring at the eggs as if he could compel them to cook properly with just the power of his gaze. Kip was a little reluctant to disturb him, but he didn’t want him to think he was just creepily staring at him. Although the man was breathtakingly hot, even in his rumpled clothes that didn’t really fit him. Maybe Kip had more of a type for hockey players than he’d thought.

“Hey,” said Kip, and Ilya looked up, startled but not nervous. That was good. “What you making?”

“Breakfast. I hope is ok. I just take things from the refrigerator, whatever you have that looks good. There is enough for all of us.” Ilya flipped an egg deftly, and Kip slid onto the bar stool to watch. He had no idea what to talk about, with this random hockey player who’d accidentally outed himself the night before. Kip couldn’t exactly lead with what he wanted to ask about, which was how on earth the thing with Shane Hollander had happened. He’d googled him, the night before, and he was impressed. Shane Hollander was gorgeous, and maybe Kip should have been paying more attention to hockey all along, if all the men looked like that. Although probably contemplating how gorgeous Shane Hollander was would only make Ilya feel worse right now. Nothing like a gorgeous, unattainable ex to make you feel like shit. So since he couldn’t talk about any of that, he’d just talk about breakfast.

“Of course, of course. It’s nice to have someone make me breakfast, to be honest. Scott and I do a lot of smoothies.”

Ilya winced, and Kip realized he’d put his foot in it somehow. Smoothies were no good, ok.

“Well, uh, do you need anything from us today? Scott said he checked, and your flight wasn’t until this afternoon. But we could…” he trailed off, unable to think of a single way to finish that sentence that wasn’t ridiculous. We could cry over your ex? We could watch hockey? We could do something, anything, but we can’t leave the apartment, because my boyfriend is closeted and is terrified to be seen with me even in passing? Kip couldn’t say any of that either.

“No, no. Is good. I will leave after breakfast. All my things are at hotel, I must get them.” Ilya was politely ignoring all of Kip’s blunders, focusing instead on grinding pepper onto eggs, and then sliding them onto a plate and handing it to Kip.

Kip took a cautious bite, and then another, much less cautious one, shoveling the food into his mouth. 

“This is really good,” he said, his mouth full of eggs, and Ilya’s mouth twitched, the closest thing to a smile Kip had seen from him since he’d showed up at the apartment. But it was gone in a minute, replaced with the same serious, stoic expression that Kip had seen so much of.

“I am glad. Is good.” Ilya hesitated, like he wanted to say more, but wasn’t sure if he could.

Kip just kept chewing his eggs, trying to keep his face neutral. If Ilya wanted to talk about the giant elephant in the room, Kip certainly wasn’t going to stop him. In fact, it would probably be better for him if he did, since it didn’t seem like he had many people to talk about it.

“About last night…” said Ilya, and Kip’s heart sped up. “I did not mean… Well. I did not mean lots of thing. I did not mean to kiss Hunter. I would not have, if I had known about you.”

Kip shrugged. It wasn’t that he enjoyed knowing that his boyfriend kissed another man, but he believed Scott when he said he’d pushed him away. It wasn’t like Scott was hanging around gay bars trying to pick up random hockey players. Some people might have been more jealous, but that sort of thing didn’t really matter to Kip, especially not compared to the weight of hiding, which every day felt a little heavier. If anything, it was nice to know that one other person, one other person who was also a hockey player, knew about him and Scott.

“It’s fine. I’m not fussed,” he said. “Although maybe don’t try it again?” Once wasn’t enough to make him jealous, but if Ilya got any ideas…. Well. Scott was extremely hot. Kip needed to make sure that his relaxed attitude didn’t translate to a lack of interest, in Ilya’s eyes.

Ilya was already shaking his head. 

“No, no. It will not happen again. It should not have happened once. I was just… lonely.”

The word hung in the air between them, and Kip wasn’t sure if he was meant to acknowledge it or not. He took a deep breath, and decided to be brave.

“It must be hard,” he said, reaching across the counter and placing his hand on Ilya’s arm. “To be alone. I get that. I mean. I’m still with Scott, obviously. But it would be hard if we broke up and I saw him on TV, playing hockey, and no one knew that he used to be mine.”

Ilya closed his eyes, and Kip thought he’d gotten it right. 

“He is not… was not mine,” said Ilya, swallowing heavily. “We did not… say such things. All Hollander, Rozanov, very… what is word.”

“Fuck buddies,” said Kip, and Ilya gave him a shocked glance. “What? I’m a young gay man. I know what fuck buddies are. But it sounds like… maybe it wasn’t just fuck buddies?”

Ilya sighed, pushing his curls up out of his eyes. Kip took another bite of his eggs, which really were delicious. He wasn’t about to waste them.

“It is… complicated. We never said anything. We never made promises. We do not even use our homes. And then…when I push, just a little, to change this, he runs. He runs into arms of Rose Landry.” His voice turned venomous, and Kip recognized the seething jealousy under the words.

“Hey, it’s ok,” said Kip, still patting his arm. “That doesn’t mean anything badly about you. Some bi guys can’t handle who they are, give up on part of themselves. Sounds like maybe Shane wasn’t ready to acknowledge this part of himself yet.” This sounded like reasonable, soothing advice to Kip, but it made Ilya roll his eyes.

“No. I am bisexual, I know things about how this works. It is different. It is not that he does not know, that he wants me. Of course he wants me. But he does not want to be with me, I think. And he thinks I do not want to be with him.” 

And then Ilya muttered something under his breath, so quiet that Kip almost missed it, but still, he understood enough. It sounded like, “Even though I have chosen him again and again, for years,” but that couldn’t be right. Ilya was young, he couldn’t have been hooking up with this other hockey player for years. Kip must have misheard.

“Well…” said Kip, unsure where to go, and then Ilya threw back his head and laughed, but the sound was bitter.

“Look at me. I am not even drunk, and I am still spilling all my secrets. And secrets that are not mine, not to share. So you must promise me, Kip, Scott’s boyfriend,” he said, fixing his intense stare onto Kip, “That you will not share this with anyone.”

“Uhhh,” said Kip, thinking of Scott, still asleep in the bed, wondering how earth he was going to keep it a secret from Scott. He would try, but…

Sensing the direction of his thoughts, Ilya waved a hand in the air.

“Scott Hunter, ok yes, you can tell Scott Hunter, I do not care. I told him worse last night. But no one else. No one else can know.” His eyes were pleading, and Kip saw real fear in them.

“I won’t tell anyone,” he said gently, but he still saw fear in Ilya, even as he tried to hide it. “Hey, no, really. I won’t tell. I have experience keeping big gay hockey secrets, you know.”

Ilya laughed, startled, and Kip smiled. He was glad he could make him laugh. He liked this man, against his better judgement. He’d heard only the worst things from Scott, but he mostly just seemed… lonely. And like he wanted someone to talk to.

“Hey, who else knows about this?” asked Kip, giving in to his curiosity. “Not that I would talk to them, I promise, just, y’know, who else have you talked to about this?”

Ilya gave him a look, and some of the egotistical king of the ice look was back in his face.

“Is secret, Kip. Stops being a secret if too many people know. He would not even want me to tell you. But you already know, so. Why not have full picture?”

It took Kip a moment to process.

“Wait, Ilya, nobody else knows?? But…”

But that’s horrible, he thought. That must be so lonely for you, even worse than for me. At least my friends know. At least I can talk to my bad. But Ilya…

Ilya smiled, but it was mirthless. Kip made a decision.

“Give me your phone. I’m going to give you my number, and you’re going to text me when you need someone to talk to. And I’m giving you Scott’s number too, in case you have hockey… things… that you want to talk about with someone who gets it.”

Ilya snorts.

“I will not talk “hockey things” with player who is old man. But… thank you.” Ilya takes his phone, and stares at the screen, before sending a quick message.

“You’re welcome,” says Kip. The silence settles around them, close and terrible, and Kip doesn’t know how to break it. He still doesn’t really know Ilya, even after he poured his heart out to him. Thankfully, he’s saved by Scott, wearing only his boxers, stumbling into the room.

“Hey, Rozanov, did you just send me a dinosaur pic? What the hell?”

Chapter 5

Ilya Rozanov stepped off of the plane into Montreal, phone burning a hole in his pocket. He very carefully did not check it as he collected his bags, did not check it as he checked into his hotel room, did not check it when he lay on his bed staring at the ceiling, knowing he needed to get up and get ready to warm up, but reluctant to do so. He needed to be at the arena soon, but the sooner he arrived at the arena, the sooner he risked running into Shane Hollander. 

He had not seen or heard from Shane since he’d left him on his couch. Or rather, he’d seen his face, watched his games on the TV, but they hadn’t occupied the same space. He hadn’t even texted him, even though he’d read through their text exchanges a million times, searching for clues that he could maybe use to bring Shane back.

Ilya’s fingers itched to text Shane, to pour over the messages again, to search for hidden clues, to type out messages that he’d never send. Or maybe he would send one, maybe he’d find hidden reserves of daring now that they were in such close quarters, now that he’d be close enough to touch Shane, hell, he probably would touch him, even if it was only the sharp jostle of hockey pads against each other.

Ilya’s thumbs hovered over his screen, and then he let out a long, slow breath. He couldn’t do this. He went to his messages app, but opened up a very different message thread.

Ilya:

Game tonight. Shane will be there.

Kip:

I know sweetie :( You doing ok? Should I call?

Ilya:

No. Do not need call. Just wanted someone to know.

Kip:

<3 <3 <3 Text me after the game! Scott’s off tonight, we’re both going to be watching!

Rooting for you, of course. Scott has been soooo disappointed, he always liked Hollander. But now he’s dead to us. Now we’re team Rozanov!

Ilya smiled at his phone. It wasn’t the same as texting Shane, but texting Kip, texting someone who knew, made him feel a little better.

But better was a relative term. It didn’t really fill the void of missing Shane. Nothing did. Not that he hadn’t been trying. Ilya hadn’t had so much sex with so many random people in years. Not since he was young and reckless and destructive, and he didn’t like to think about why it was that he was revisiting those old bad habits now. Or maybe he did.

Kip would tell him it was ok to miss Shane, and ok to mourn what was gone, but Ilya didn’t feel like mourning. Mourning felt like admitting that it was gone. Maybe, for tonight, he just wanted to get onto the ice, and chirp at Shane, and pretend that afterwards he’d text him, and they’d meet up, and he could have him, in whatever limited capacity Shane wanted, for one more night.

Kip would say that this was unhealthy, but Ilya did not want to listen to Kip. So instead he pulled up a different conversation on his phone, one that was most pictures and angry emojis, and send perhaps their first line of dialogue in a year.

Ilya:

What was worst thing someone say to you on the ice?

Scott Hunter:

Faggot.

Ilya: 

Well that is no fun at all.

Scott Hunter:

No, it wasn’t, really. Why, what do you need?

Ilya:

Just thinking of ways to provoke hockey’s most boring player

Scott Hunter:

Rough day, huh? Well, you’ll probably beat them. Montreal’s been playing like crap. Good luck!

Also wait. Please don’t fight with Hollander on the ice. I know he deserves it, but there are better ways! Kip says you can call him any time!

Ilya snorted. Scott Hunter gave terrible advice. This is why they did not talk about “hockey stuff” even though Kip kept encouraging them to do so. But it still helped. 

Ilya wondered if he sent Kip and Hunter his jerseys, if they would wear them. He wondered if they’d send him a photo, if he asked nicely. He wouldn’t post it, but Scott Hunter didn’t know that, and he could hang it over his head for years if he did it right. 

He thought he probably could, if he got Kip on his side. The man was surprisingly devious. The thought bolstered him, and he thought he might be ready to get to the rink. He shoved the phone into his pocket, and left, texting one more time that he was getting there early. Best to get it over with, and if he got there early he might have less of a chance of running into Shane.

***

The problem with being an overachieving hockey captain who was mourning his relationship with another overachieving hockey captain was that they tended to have similar thoughts. Ilya was walking to the arena, thinking that the fresh air would do him good, and give him one last chance to have a cigarette where no one would judge him, when he almost ran into another person stopped at a crosswalk, waiting for it to turn.

Ilya was all apologies. He’d been focused on the burn of smoke and the feel of air against his skin, and trying to press down the weighty feeling of dread in his stomach. But then the broad shoulders in a leather jacket turned towards him, and beautiful brown eyes with a smattering of freckles stared back at him.

Ilya’s world stopped. Shane was there, his hand on Ilya’s arm, steadying him after he’d knocked into him, looking at him with wide, shocked eyes.

“Rozanov. You’re here early,” said Shane, and it was cautious, like he didn’t know what to make of Ilya. He realized that his hand was still on Ilya’s arm, and pulled it back quickly, stuffing it into his pocket. 

Ilya wanted to scream. He wanted to cry, he wanted to put his hands into Shane’s stupid hair and kiss him on his perfect lips and devour him. And then when he was done he wanted to suck Shane’s cock until he cried, or maybe let him fuck Ilya’s throat until he cried, it didn’t really matter. But instead they were standing, stuck, at this crosswalk, with a light that was taking an eternity.

“Da. Am here for early practice.” Ilya couldn’t look away from Shane, even though he knew he was staring.

Shane bit his lip, and his eyes drifted away first, looking down at his feet. Ilya couldn’t handle this, really. He was going to expire, right there on the side walk, because Shane Hollander had the audacity to bite his lip while not wanting Ilya Rozanov. The world was deeply unfair.

“Oh, holy shit, it’s Rozanov and Hollander!”

Someone had recognized them. A fan, also there early. He was wearing Ilya’s jersey, actually, the 81 bright and bold, his name splashed across the back. The fan was looking between the two of them like he couldn’t believe his luck.

“Oh my god, I’m the biggest fan! I mean, of course of you, Mr. Rozanov, but Hollander, my god, even though you play for Montreal and I’m contractually obligated to hate you—my girlfriend would kill me if I let this opportunity pass by, is there any way I could get a selfie with you? I mean, not together, of course, not if you don’t want to! But maybe I could do one of you, and then other? I mean, if that’s ok?” The fan, a sweet, slightly plump man in his thirties, looked as if asking them for a selfie was the most terrifying thing he’d ever done. Ilya felt so, so tired. He just wanted to play hockey, but right now, all of the things that came along with it were just too much. But he dredged up a pleasant expression for the man, who was, after all, a fan, even if he had the poor taste to admire Shane. Ilya couldn’t fault someone for that.

“Of course. We take selfie first, since you wear my jersey, and then Hollander can have turn.”

The man was nodding eagerly, fumbling with the camera app on his phone, when Shane broke in.

“No, no. It’s fine. We can take a selfie together. We save the animosity for the ice, right, Rozanov?”

Ilya’s smile froze in place as the man squawked his thanks, positioning himself between the two of them. Ilya put his arm around his shoulder, leaning in, moving mostly on autopilot. And then Shane put his arm over Ilya’s, and all the breath flew out of his lungs, and he thought his smile must have looked so pained, but the fan between them was smiling, and then taking the photo.

“Hey, thanks guys! My girlfriend is going to flip, oh my god, thank you so much!”

Ilya couldn’t take it anymore. The light was finally, finally green in the right direction, and so he gave the fan a tight lipped smile, and started walking, quickly, just needing to be gone from the conversation, from Shane. 

And yet even as he walked away, he was listening over his shoulder, listening for his name, or footsteps, something, anything, any sign that Shane Hollander was hurrying after him. But it never came.

Chapter 6

Chapter Notes

Hiii sorry for the slightly longer delay between updates! I am so close to getting to the reason I started writing this fic in the first place, but it has slightly spiraled away from me. Anyway, enjoy!

Ilya lost. Hollander won. Not even on the ice could Ilya shake that feeling of not being good enough, not when it came to Hollander. But he grit his teeth and shook his hand and didn’t make eye contact. He couldn’t stand to see what Shane was feeling or not feeling when they met. Ilya felt enough both of them, he though, and he didn’t need to see hate, or regret, or worse, pity, in Hollander’s eyes. He’d rather do anything else.

So Ilya went out. He could escape this, he ccould find someone to make him forget, just for a little while. Even if whoever it was won’t be as good as Hollander, as good as Shane, it would be something.

Except then Hollander was there, with Rose, and Ilya couldn't do this. The club was too loud, the lights too weird, too strange, and he realized that he didn’t want to be there, didn't want to have someone pressed up against him who he didn't know. Even if something dark and dangerous curled inside him when Shane saw him dancing with a woman, her hands all over him, Shane’s expression shocked and confused. It was almost like pleasure, except in the way that it tore him up, scratching at his throat and chest until he felt like he couldn’t breathe with how miserable he was.

So he left the club, went back to his hotel. His roommate was out, at the same club that Ilya just left. Ilya didn’t even have time to get drunk properly, but the hotel had a mini bar, he could fix that now, even if he knew that getting drunk alone in his room was the height of pathetic. No wonder Shane didn’t want him anymore. But he downed alcohol anyway, waiting for the buzz to kick in, and then a huge wave of tiredness drifted over him. He was alone in Montreal, the place where he’d never really had to be alone. It was terrible, and he couldn't do it. 

His phone was in his hand before he really even thought about it, his fingers clumsy on the screen. The alcohol was starting to hit, but it wasn't doing its job properly, because he still felt terrible, not numb like he craved.

The phone rang, and rang, and Ilya closed his eyes, thinking maybe he’d made a mistake. He was not going to pick up, and then Ilya would feel even worse. But at the last second, someone answered. Not the person he was expecting.

“Rozanov?” 

Scott Hunter was cautious on the phone, sounding unsure of his welcome. Ilya closed his eyes, leaned back on his bed. This wasn’t what he wanted.

“Was hoping for Kip. Do you answer his phone now? Like dinosaur answering service?” Ilya might text Scott Hunter sometimes, but they didn’t really talk, despite Kip’s best efforts. Talking to Scott Hunter felt too dangerous, somehow. Kip got it. Kip knew what it was like to be in love with a hockey player, to hide that, to have part of yourself buried so deeply. Ilya sensed it, and they responded to each other, their friendship blossoming forth from this shared understanding. And maybe Scott Hunter got it too, in the other way, but Ilya had never tried to connect with him the same way he tried with Kip. It wasn’t easy, so he just didn’t push. 

“He left his phone behind. I wouldn’t have answered, but then I saw it was your name, so I figured… you know. No harm.” Even in the privacy of their phone call, Scott Hunter was nervous to admit that he and Kip were more. And maybe this was the real reason Ilya did not talk to Scott Hunter about serious things, because he knew that Hunter was still hiding, was terrified of anything close to being out, while Ilya was becoming more and more certain that he would do anything for Shane, even tear down the walls of secrecy that he himself had so carefully built around them. But Shane didn’t want that, and so Ilya pretended that he didn't either. Shane didn’t want him at all, and without Shane, there was no reason for Ilya to do anything. He could not give up Russia, give up his home, give up his reputation, his respect, all for nothing. It didn’t matter if he would maybe have done it for Shane, possibly. If Shane had asked. Shane was not his. Tonight made that very clear.

But Hunter still had something that could make it worth it, and he clung to the shadows anyway, hiding his light. Ilya knew it was hypocritical of him, knew that he shouldn’t judge Hunter for something he had spent his entire career doing himself, but. It hurt Kip, and Ilya knew that, and saw that, and it tore him apart. Kip was his friend, now. A friend that didn’t want to have sex with him, didn’t care how he did on the ice, didn’t really expect anything from him. Except for normal friendship things, like texting him back and hanging out when they have time. Ilya didn’t have many people like that. He thought maybe he didn’t have anyone like that, except Kip. 

But Ilya didn’t want to fight with Scott Hunter, especially over something like this, where Ilya knew he had no room to judge. So he breathed deep, and figured what the hell. He’d spilled his guts to Scott Hunter once before, maybe he could do it again.

“I saw Shane tonight.”

“Yeah, I saw. Rough game. You know, have you tried massage between matches? The New York masseuse is amazing, the techniques to get my muscles to loosen are just—”

Ilya cut him off. Of course Hunter would try to make it about hockey. And he knew he played like shit, he didn't need Hunter to point it out to him. That was not why he called.

“Hunter. No. And yes, of course I try massage. But I do not mean at game. I saw him after. At club. He was with…” And then his eyes were filling with tears, and maybe he was drunker than he thought, because he was crying into the phone while a slightly stunned silence emanated from the other side.

“He was with Rose, like it was nothing, like we were nothing, and I was nothing to him. He beats me on the ice, and he is so beautiful, and so close, and it is like he doesn’t even care, doesn’t even know that I am there on ice with him. I could have touched him, that is how close we were. But instead he does not even look at me. After our game, I am miserable, but he gets to have beautiful girlfriend, and I have nothing, and no one, and I am all alone.” He did not mean to be quite so honest, but once again, Scott Hunter saw the worst of him, the small, secret part of his feelings that he showed to no one, usually not even himself. Except apparently he was more than willing to trot them out for Scott Hunter to laugh at.

But Scott didn't laugh. He was quiet for a minute, until Ilya got his breathing back under control, and was not so much crying as he was sniffing pathetically. 

“You’re not nothing,” said Scott, quietly. “And I know it doesn’t help much, right now, but you’re not alone either. You have Kip. And… and you have me.”

Ilya sniffled again, pressing the phone against his ear, not caring that he was getting his snot and tears all over the screen. He could clean it later.

Scott continued, his voice gaining confidence.

“Rozanov, this thing, with Hollander. You haven’t talked a lot about it with me, I know that’s more your and Kip’s thing, but I just. I just want to say. He’s an idiot, for not taking you. It takes a lot of courage, to show someone how you feel, and it sounds like Hollander is being a coward right now, and can’t handle what he feels for men, or maybe even for you specifically. And there’s nothing you can do about that, and it sucks, and it’s terrible, but it’s also not your fault.”

Ilya’s tears began anew. Hunter had to be wrong, this had to be something that Ilya had done specifically to make Shane leave him, but… it made sense. It all made a horrible kind of sense that Ilya wasn’t ready to deal with. He’d blamed himself for everything for so long, he couldn’t just stop. But maybe he could… listen, to what Scott was saying.

“Thank you,” he said, hating how stuffed up and teary he still sounded. It was ridiculous, but he didn’t want Scott Hunter to know he was crying, even though he had broken down while on the phone with him.

“You’re welcome.”

They both sat in silence on the phone for a minute, and then Ilya cleared his throat, trying desperately to shift the conversation back onto more stable ground.

“Ok, now we can talk about hockey. You watch game tonight? You have opinion? You are going to tell me, Ilya Rozanov, how to be better skater?”

Ilya could practically hear Scott waffling internally over whether or not to take Ilya up on it, whether or not they needed to keep talking about their feelings. Ilya has had quite enough of his feelings for one night, so Ilya did what he does best, and needled him a little bit. 

“Is limited time offer, Hunter. I will not always seek advice of elders.”

“Rozanov, for fuck’s sake, I’m only eight years older than you.”

“Is eternity. In dog years, you are old enough to be grandfather.”

“That makes no sense because we’re not dogs, Rozanov.”

Ilya smiled. There were still tears on his cheeks, and he was sure anyone who looked at him would know he’d been crying, but for now, he did feel a little better, to have Scott Hunter grumbling in his ear. Maybe he wasn’t quite as alone as he feared, even if Shane was moving on.

Chapter 7

Chapter Notes

Another Shane chapter! Also Scott might seem slightly OOC in this chapter but I have another one coming that I'm hoping will put things in perspective! Hope you enjoy :)

Also yes, I am playing so fast and loose with timelines, I know that in the show the fight comes after the All Star Game, BUT THAT DOES NOT WORK FOR MY PURPOSES. So it doesn't now, kbye.

Shane Hollander didn’t necessarily look like shit, but he suspected that this had more to do with his extensive skin-care regimen than a true reflection of his feelings. He was in his apartment in Montreal, staring at himself in the mirror, wishing that maybe he looked a little worse, just so that his feelings would look a little realer. Somehow, when he’d gone through with his plan of “get a girlfriend,” he hadn’t really considered that his girlfriend might be able to tell that he wasn’t exactly into the proceedings. He’d never even come close to having bedroom issues with Roz—with other people, and the few times he’d had fumbling experiences with girls as a teen, he’d been nervous, but everything had worked alright. 

Which meant he was totally unprepared for the mortifying ordeal of not being able to perform, yet again. He’d been researching online, because of course he had, and there were all sorts of articles about stress and aging and perfectly normal and medical options like Viagra, but Shane knew, deep in his very core, that this was not his issue. Or actually, maybe the stress one was, because it was deeply stressful for Shane to try and sleep with women while he was really, truly, gay.

But he also hadn’t considered how much he liked Rose. She was funny and sweet and she wasn’t overly impressed by his hockey stardom, while still appreciative of him, and he tried so hard to make her happy. And lots of things that they did together did seem to make her happy, and they made him happy too, so it wasn’t even like he was just doing it for her. He liked going to dinner with her, and going shopping with her, and watching TV with her, alternating between movies and hockey. He liked holding her hand, and the way she was so warm but her hands would get cold, and the way her eyes sparkled when she laughed.

So Shane knew he was fucking up, with the whole sex thing. Or lack of sex thing. Or lack of good sex thing. He was not very experienced with women, but he knew what people having a good time looked like. And quite frankly, he was embarrassed, at how awful he was at sex. It made a tiny voice in his head whisper that maybe he’d always been this bad, and Rozanov had just ignored it out of politeness. Except that was too far even for his insecurities, because then he had to imagine Rozanov being polite, and being polite to Shane, which was just too far. Instead, he just tallied another point in the gay column, and tried not to pick over the idea that he could be better at all sex, and maybe this was just a sign of how rubbish he was overall.

When Rose brought up the whole gay thing, he was more embarrassed than anything else, again. He knew that he should have been the one to have this conversation, and instead, that was another thing he’d put onto Rose, made her do. Shane should have been the one to have that conversation, should have been the one to let Rose know that it wasn’t going to work not because of her, she was so, so lovely, but because of Shane. But he hadn’t. And now he had no Rose, and no Rozanov.

Shane knew he’d fucked up. He’d fucked up with Rose, and he’d fucked up with… with Ilya. Maybe he was ready to start calling it that. He’d see him at the All Stars game in just a few weeks, and then they could… talk. Maybe. Shane could grovel. He’d bribe Ilya with blow jobs, except that was a terrible bribe, because Shane would already give Ilya all the blow jobs he wanted, anything, just as long as he got to be around him.

But first, he had to get through this game with New York. He liked playing against New York. Or rather, he used to. Ilya would always text him funny things, and snip about Scott Hunter, who was really nice, and probably didn’t deserve all of the hate Ilya directed towards him. But Shane still played to win, of course.

So he pulled himself away from his mirror, which he really should have done long ago, and went to get ready to play. At least he still had hockey.

***

The game was brutal. Shane took it all back. Scott Hunter was not a nice man, and Shane really should have given Ilya credit when he’d complained about him all year. He wasn’t playing dirty, exactly, but he was playing harder and fiercer than Shane usually saw from him, and it seemed oddly… targeted. Then too, when they’d gone to shake hands, Hunter had seemed distant, and almost frowned at Shane when he wished him luck.

So by the time Scott Hunter had stolen the puck from him, again, Shane had had it. He was done. He was ready to give Ilya credit where credit was due. This man was a menace, and he needed to be put in his place. 

“Surprised an old man like you can play this hard, Hunter,” he said, trying to brazen it out. He wasn’t good at chirping, he knew it, but he just needed to pretend he was Rozanov. It helped, a little.

Scott usually just brushed off any chirps from Montreal, but this time, Shane saw his expression twist into something uglier, and angrier.

“What, you can steal his lines, but you can’t even make time to text him? Pathetic,” spat out Hunter, and Shane froze.

“What?” he asked, voice faint. His earlier frustration with Hunter was gone, and he felt only a cold, numb fear settle over him. Hunter was making it sound like… but he couldn’t. No one knew. Especially not Hunter. He must have misheard.

But Hunter just sneered, and looked down at Shane. The man was really stupidly tall, and Shane thought he saw real anger in his eyes. But that couldn’t be right. He and Scott Hunter had always gotten along.

“You heard me. You better be careful, Hollander. If you don’t take care of your things, someone else will. Who knows who's going to pick up the pieces of a beautiful Russian doll they find lying around, where anyone could find it?”

Shane’s blood ran cold. He couldn’t know, but it sure sounded like he was talking about Rozanov. But Shane hadn’t— But Hunter hadn’t—

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Shane, still flooded with that same, icy fear. Scott looked at him with such contempt.

“Oh, I rather think I do. Tell me, does he always moan like that when you kiss him, or is it just for me?”

Shane saw red. It didn’t matter that this was Scott Hunter, one of the men he most respected in hockey. It didn’t even matter that he was casually spilling both his and Rosanov’s secrets onto the ice. All that mattered was that he’d dared to touch what was Shane’s. 

Shane pulled off his gloves, and launched himself at Scott. He’d never fought before, but he figured, he might as well make his first time good.

Chapter 8

Chapter Notes

Scott POV!

Scott Hunter knew he’d fucked up. He knew it even before the words were out of his mouth. Rozanov would not have wanted him to say those things to Shane Hollander, Kip would be appalled if he knew, and honestly, Scott was not proud of himself.

But the sight of Shane Hollander trying to imitate Ilya Rozanov’s characteristic style, right after Scott had walked Ilya through yet another tearful phone call about how Shane Hollander didn’t like him anymore, was just too much for Scott. So he’d opened his mouth, knowing it was a terrible idea. 

Now, nursing a black eye and prodding gingerly at some his swollen lip, he could admit the regrets. Shane Hollander was a nice guy, usually. Never fought. Scott didn’t want to hate him, but he couldn’t really help it. Everyone always talked about what an asshole Rozanov was, but, and it galled Scott to admit this, he was now his friend. Scott didn’t have very many friends. He was always worried if he got close to someone, they’d figure it out, so it was easier just to be friendly, and not to be friends. And now he had Kip, who knew him, and god help him, he also had Rozanov. 

And Shane Hollander had thrown Rozanov away. Scott knew it was probably more complex than he knew, Rozanov wasn’t usually very into sharing his emotions (outside of several memorable occasions), but he wanted Shane Hollander to feel a fraction as miserable as Rozanov was. And so he’d gone for a shot that he knew was below the belt, because he knew it would hurt. Scott wanted it to hurt, couldn’t deny the curl of satisfaction that sliced through him, even as Hollander’s glove was hitting the ice, even as his fist was making contact with Scott’s face. It meant he was hurt, and that made Scott glad. Hollander should be hurting right now.

But they’d lost anyway, even with Shane Hollander in the penalty box. And now Scott was showered, sitting in his hotel room, waiting for a call, full of regrets. He should not have said that. Kip knew he never fought, and he wasn’t going to just accept that Scott was suddenly fighting Rozanov’s ex. He was definitely not looking forward to this. 

His phone screen lit up, just the letters “KG” bright on his screen. He took a deep breath, and picked up.

“Hi babe.”

“Ok, Mr. Fighter, what was that about? I watched this game with my dad, he said Hollander never fights like that. But… neither do you. And it kind of looked like maybe you started it? Did he say something shitty?”

Kip’s voice was full of good humor, and Scott sighed, laying down gently onto the bland white hotel room sheets. 

“I wish your dad would stop telling you hockey things,” he jokes, albeit weakly. He doesn’t really, loves that Kip is learning about the sport for him, even if his dad is still a little baffled by Kip’s newfound passion for the sport. He wants to meet him, but… but. He’s not ready. Someday, he’ll meet Kip’s dad, and then he can thank him. “You’re getting too knowledgeable. I’ll have nothing left to teach you.”

“Yeah, yeah. You can talk hockey to me later. But seriously. What was that about? Did he call you a faggot or something? Or say something about… you know.” Kip says it with genuine concern and no small amount of scorn. Scott sighs. Kip’s dad might have told him that Hollander doesn’t fight, but he still doesn’t understand that Hollander doesn’t insult people either. Even his attempt at chirping had been lame. Scott would have ignored it, probably, if he hadn’t been talking to Rozanov.

“Kip, he’s… whatever. He didn’t call me… that.” Scott couldn’t bring himself to say it. He’d heard it too many times, in the locker room, on the ice. 

“So? Self hatred is a real thing. Hollander’s got it in spades, from everything Ilya’s told me. So what did he say?”

Scott sighed. He was going to have to admit it. Not that he seriously considered keeping it from Kip anyway. Not telling him hasn’t really factored into his plans for the day. 

“No, Kip, it wasn’t him who started the fight. I mean, yeah, he said something stupid, but… I definitely made it worse. I said something I should not have, ok?”

Kip’s silence grows more pointed, and Scott begins to stress.

“...did you call him a fag?” asks Kip.

“No! No, fuck, Kip, no one called anyone else a fag, Christ.” Scott breathes deep through his nose, trying to find a way to say this. “I… implied that I was kissing Rozanov. In a way that was kind of hard to miss. Hollander lost it, and punched me.”

Kip is silent for a minute on the phone, and then Scott hears little hitching breaths, and he panics. He’s fucked it up, Kip is miserable, he know how shitty Scott can be now, but…

“Are you… laughing?” he asks, baffled. He thought Kip would be mad at him, worried that he’d crossed some boundary, but.

“Oh my god, sweetheart, I’m not mad. I mean, technically, you did kiss Rozanov, so it’s not even a lie.”

“I am still so sorry about that, it will not be happening again,” said Scott, putting his hand over his eyes and groaning. 

“Hey, he’s hot, he’s a hockey player, you two have a lot in common,” said Kip, but Scott could hear that he was teasing. He felt so, so grateful, to have this, this wonderful human being, who got him, in all the ways.

“He is hot,” he said, playing a little more than he normally would. “But I don’t know if you’ve heard, I’m kind of into someone else…”

“Oh yeah?” said Kip, and Scott could hear the grin through the phone. They should have made this a video call, so Scott could see it, too. Next time.

“Yeah, he’s gorgeous, has this amazing body. And really beautiful eyes. And his shoulders, oh my god, do not get me started on his shoulders,” said Scott, grinning himself now. 

“Mmmm, sounds like a catch,” said Kip.

“He is,” said Scott, hoping that he sounded as sincere as he felt. “He really is.”

Scott was wondering how he could suggest that they move to video call when his phone vibrated against his ear, and he looked at it, mostly out of habit. The person he most wanted to text was already here, and it wasn’t like he had anything pressing tonight. But the name on the screen stopped him.

“Uh, Kip, Rozanov’s texting me. Can I call you back?” asked Scott, not wanting to interrupt his time with Kip, but needing to check in.

“Oh, god. Yeah, go deal with that. Call him, though, Scott. Don’t just text with him.”

“Mmmm,” said Scott, keeping it vague. He preferred to text. Unless it was Kip.

Kip sighed.

“Ok, do your weird texting friendship. Call me back when you’re done though, I want to know how he’s doing. Or maybe just let me know when you’re done, and I’ll call him myself.”

“He’s got a game tonight, he might not want to call,” said Scott. “Hey, I’ll uhm, see you later, ok? I’ll definitely call again. Maybe video?” He hoped his voice didn’t betray his blush, but it probably did.

“I’m at my parents tonight, sweetie. So sure, we can video, but…” But phone sex was off the table.

“That’s fine,” said Scott, honestly. “I just…I just want to see you.”

“Of course. Call me later, with video. Bye, sweetie.”

Kip hung up first. He always hung up first, because Scott was terrible at saying goodbye, didn’t like the idea that this could end, even if “this” was just a phone conversation. So he always let Kip hang up first.

Rozanov’s text, when he finally opens it, is direct.

Ilya Rozanov:

Hunter, what the fuck? You fight Hollander?

Scott groaned. Maybe Kip was right. Maybe he should call Rozanov. But he didn’t want to, and he suspected Rozanov didn’t want to either, found navigating the phone more difficult in his second language. So Scott Hunter would have this stupid conversation over text, and even though he knew he couldn’t hide the details from Kip, maybe he could hide them from Rozanov.

Scott Hunter:

Yeah. Or really, he fought me. He started it.

Ilya Rozanov:

Shane does not fight. If he fights, is because you said something.

Scott laughed. Yeah, Rozanov had that right. 

He was still waffling over what to say next when his phone lit up again, Rozanov not waiting for a response before texting him again.

Ilya Rozanov:

Was it… was it about me?

Scott exhaled. He should have known Rozanov was too clever to ignore that. He was perfectly capable of putting the pieces together.

Scott Hunter: 

Yeah. It was about you. My fault. I shouldn’t have said anything.

Ilya Rozanov:

What the fuck you say to Hollander?

He is so boring, never fights.

Scott Hunter:

I just wanted to make him jealous a little bit. So I implied some things. About us.

Ilya Rozanov:

Hunter, you imply about us? There is no us, we are not an us.

Scott Hunter:

Yeah, but he doesn’t know that.

Ilya Rozanov:

So you imply gay things about us on ice to my ex to make him jealous?

Scott put his phone down, closing his eyes. Yeah, when Rozanov put it like that, it was fucking horrible. He was writing and rewriting his apology, trying to make it perfect, when his phone lit up with another text from Rozanov.

Ilya Rozanov:

You are genius. Tell cute boyfriend to watch out, next time I see you, I am going to kiss you again. Brilliant move, Scott Hunter. Whoever called you dinosaur is wrong, you are clearly very great and experience hockey player.

What? That wasn’t what Scott had been expecting at all. He was still frowning at his phone, trying to decide what to say.

He gave up. He called Kip instead, with video, as promised, just so he could look at his face.

“Hey, so uh, Rozanov says he’s going to kiss me again? Next time I see him?” said Scott, still confused. Kip laughed, his nose wrinkling.

“I know, he texted me that too. Well, at least someone’s happy about tonight’s fight. And I’m glad it’s Ilya.”

“But what does it mean?” asked Scott, still frowning. Kip sighed, giving him an expression of such fondness that Scott ached. He couldn’t wait until he was back in New York again.

“It means that Hollander is jealous. So Ilya thinks it might not be over for them, not all the way. I’m not convinced it’s a good idea, but…”

But indeed. Scott thought about that, then shrugged it off.

“He makes my head hurt. Can we be done talking about Rozanov’s drama? I want to hear about your day.”

“Of course, sweetheart.”

Scott melted. He could listen to Kip call him sweetheart all day.

Chapter 9

Chapter Notes

Hi more Shane POV! I don't usually write multi POV, idk what has gotten into me here. Just wanted to say a quick thank you to all of the people leaving kudos and comments! I love your enthusiasm :)

Shane was nervous about the All Star game, checking into his hotel room with sweaty hands. He could (and probably would) blame the Florida weather, but the truth was, he was pissing himself nervous. There were a bunch of reasons why. He was going to see Scott Hunter again, and he hadn’t spoken to him since decking him on the ice. He should apologize, he knew, his mom had already texted him about it. He had Scott’s number, and even if he didn’t, he could have messaged him on Instagram or something. But every time he brought up his number, his thumbs hovering over the keyboard, Hunter’s voice echoed through his head.

“does he always moan like that when you kiss him, or is it just for me?”

The problem was, it was all too-easy for Shane to picture. Scott Hunter was a weak point for Ilay Rozanov, and always had been. He’d admitted once that he found him hot, although he vehemently denied it at every point after. He’d even speculated to Shane before, in a moment of casual intimacy, that Hunter might be gay. Shane had scoffed at the time. Scott Hunter was not gay.

But now it didn’t seem so far-fetched. What if Rozanov had been alone, confused about something, sad, the way he sometimes got, and Hunter had found him in a moment of weakness? He’d probably kissed Rozanov, or wait, no, this was Ilya Rozanov, even in Shane’s masochistic fantasy, he was taking the lead, pulling Scott Hunter down to his lips and devouring his mouth the way he used to devour Shane’s.

Shane fumbled with his key card as he tried to banish the images from his brain. Scott Hunter was just fucking with him, he told himself firmly. He didn’t know anything. He wasn’t gay. He wasn’t dating Ilya Rozanov. And if he was, he wouldn’t have outed himself on the ice to Shane Hollander, who barely knew him.

Shane dropped his bags, trying not to freak out. The problem with this line of logic was that it was imminently clear that Hunter did know. There was no reason for him to have said that if he didn’t think it would fuck with Shane. And Rozanov was so loud when he kissed, so fucking loud, and somehow Hunter knew that, and knew that Shane would know that, and…

He had to stop. He looked around his hotel room. It was small and bland and empty. He’d originally toyed with the idea of bringing Rose along, but, well. He liked her, but he didn’t really want to share a bed with his ex girlfriend, even if she was warm and soft and willing to spoon him sometimes. 

He left, not even bothering to change. His stylist had assured him that this style would work for Florida daytime, and this was Florida daytime. And there were no games today, so he could drink something other than ginger ale, and not stress about it, while he waited for everyone else to show up. And then maybe he’d even get a chance to see Ilya, or maybe Ilya would see him, and he’d be so overcome by lust for Shane that he’d be willing to dive directly back into their ill-advised affair.

Shane snorted. That was maybe unlikely, but it was important for him to dream. He double checked that he had his keycard and wallet, carefully keeping them in separate pockets from his phone, and then headed directly to the hotel bar.

***

Shane hadn’t forgotten how good Ilya Rozanov looked, exactly, but he’d maybe allowed himself to believe that he’d exaggerated it. That his curls weren’t really so curly, his lips not so pouty, his shoulders… Shane had definitely forgotten about his shoulders. On the ice, it was easy to pretend that it was just the pads, and forget that Ilya’s body was just as powerful and gorgeous underneath as anyone that Shane had ever seen.

He was alone at the bar, drinking a Corona. Shane hated Coronas. He’d read once that Corona didn’t travel well, since it was imported from Mexico in clear glass bottles. He’d experimented, trying out a Corona on a weekend trip to Cancun, and then again when he returned to Canada, and there was no comparison. He wasn’t sure if it was true, or just his own biases sneaking in, creating a strange sort of placebo effect, but he never drank Corona. Unless he was in Mexico, of course.

Nevertheless, he strode up to the bar, trying to project confidence, stopping just next to Rozanov, who stiffened at his approach, going taut next to Shane. Shane could feel the warmth of his body radiating off of him, even through the muggy air and the ridiculous Hawaiian shirt Ilya was wearing. He was so hot, Shane couldn’t think straight. Ilya would have made some sort of joke about that, probably, but Shane couldn’t quite manage it, not even in his head. Maybe they had Pacifico. Shane liked other Mexican beer, and that was fun, he could be fun. He could overwhelm 

“I’ll take one of whatever he’s having.”

Great. Shane was ordering beer he didn’t like, because he was just so fucking nervous to be around Rozanov. Ilya gave him a look, snorting a little as he lifted his bottle up to his gorgeous lips, his throat bobbing as he swallowed another mouthful of beer. 

Shane tried to look cool and sophisticated, but it was already all falling apart. Ilya knew damn well how he felt about Corona, and had teased Shane about it more than once. Well, maybe he could still drive him mad with lust. He sat down at the bar, close enough that their elbows knocked, just once. 

Ilya gave him another look, and Shane blushed, and somehow, he found himself spilling his secrets, about his stylist, to Rozanov. It was worth it, to see him smile at Shane, for the first time in what felt like forever, but had only been a few months. His attention was on Shane, and that was good. Shane could get himself together, he could let Ilya know, somehow, that he was sorry, so fucking sorry for running off like that, that things were over with Rose, that he wanted to spend time with Ilya and eat food with him and go skating with him and work out with him and all the other stupid little things that they could do together besides just have sex.

But before he could quite get the words out, Ilya’s attention shifted, and he was no longer looking at Shane, but at someone over his shoulder. His eyes lit up, and he was out of his chair, on his feet, bear hugging a tall hockey player who had just come up to the bar.

“Rozanov! Uggh, get off! You’re like an octopus,” laughed Scott Hunter, pushing Ilya away. Ilya’s grin got even wider, and he hugged Hunter tighter, lifting the taller man off of his feet a little before setting him back down.

Shane’s heart sank. Ilya’s gorgeous, beaming smile was turned onto Scott Hunter, who was allowing Ilya to sling his arm around him. In public. They were comfortable with each other. Far more comfortable than Rozanov and Shane ever were in public. 

does he always moan like that when you kiss him, or is it just for me?

“I am best hockey octopus, yes. You are so lucky to know me. Come, have beer! You want beer? Or glass of warm milk, for old man?” Ilya pulled Scott Hunter down onto the closest bar stool, which unfortunately happened to be on the other side of Shane.

It was at this point that Scott Hunter actually noticed Shane, and his face did a complicated flattening, turning gray and guilty before just smoothing out. But Shane could tell that his own face was doing something similar.

“Uh, hi,” he said, rubbing his hand through his hair. He was probably messing it up, but he had to do something with his hands. Something that wasn’t punch Scott Hunter. The emotions of that moment had faded, but he found he was still quite willing to have another go at him, especially since Ilya’s hand was still on his shoulder, warm and fond. 

“Hi, Hollander,” said Scott Hunter, looking at him warily. Shane took some deep, calming breaths. He just needed to finish his beer, and then he could leave. Well, he supposed technically he could leave before he finished his beer, but then Scott Hunter would know he was running away from him, and Shane didn’t want that.

Ilya beamed at the two of them, and then his hand was also on Shane’s shoulder.

“Ah, that is right! Two most boring players in league, somehow fighting each other. It makes me proud. I am definitely an influence to both you.”

Shane took another drink of his beer, trying to ignore how much he wanted to lean into Ilya’s touch, or how much he wished it was lower, not high and safe on his shoulder, but lower, in the small of his back, where it was definitely weird for hockey players to touch each other. He didn’t care. He wanted that connection, that touch, with Rozanov, and he didn’t want to be on the same foot as Scott fucking Hunter. He was supposed to be the one that Ilya called boring, dammit, not Scott.

But Scott just smiled at Rozanov fondly, and took a drink of his own beer. He seemed to have decided that ignoring Shane was the best course of action. 

Shane wished he could ignore Scott Hunter, but he found himself hyper-aware of every touch between Hunter and Rozanov, every little expression, every word they exchanged.

“Rozanov, no one should take you as a role model for fighting. You spend too much time in the penalty box.” His voice was teasing, but Shane was on edge, and he snapped at Hunter.

“Oh, shut up. He can fight if he wants! He’s fucking good at it. If I was that good at fighting, I’d probably spend more time in the box too.” It was a lie, but one that came easily to Shane. He just needed to stop Scott Hunter needling Ilya.

Hunter looked at him with his brows drawn, and Ilya inserted himself between the two of them, his palms reaching out to tap them each gently on the chest.

“Calm down, calm down. You are off ice, we are all friends here, da? We do not need to fight right now. Hollander, you really still mad about stupid chirp from weeks ago? Maybe we can all shake hands, yes? Be friends again?” Rozanov looked genuinely anxious, like he wanted Shane to get along with Scott Hunter, which didn’t make any fucking sense.

Shane stared at Ilya helplessly. He didn’t know how to explain to Ilya without revealing what exactly had been said on the ice, and that wasn’t something he was willing to just forgive and forget. It was too much. He couldn’t be here. 

“I… I have to go. Sorry. Catch you later.” He pushed himself out from the bar, and tried to dash away, but he wasn’t thinking clearly, and he brushed up against Rozanov, who reached up a hand to him before letting it drop to his side.

“I have to go,” Shane repeated, and then he turned away, walking quickly away from stupid Scott Hunter and his manly beard. Shane couldn’t ever grow facial hair, not like that. It was weird and patchy.

As he was walking away, Scott said something to Rozanov, just loud enough that Shane could hear it.

“...my room later…”

Shane chanced a quick glance over his shoulder, and Ilya was laughing and nodding along at whatever Scott was saying. 

Shane stared down at his feet, eyes burning. Ilya would never have responded like that to Shane. But then again, Shane had never been quite so bold, quite so brazen as Scott Hunter was being. 

Maybe someday Shane would be able to appreciate it. Hunter clearly made Ilya happy, and Shane was aware he’d fucked up. He cared about Ilya’s happiness, but it was just… he’d known, when he’d started dating Rose, that he was giving up Ilya. He just hadn’t realized that he’d be losing him to Scott fucking Hunter.

Chapter 10

Chapter Notes

Sorry this took so long, it's been a hell week! Two more chapters after this one :)

Playing on the ice with Ilya was everything Shane had never let himself imagine. They were unstoppable. His hyper-awareness of where Ilya was at all times translated into a seemingly preternatural ability to slide the puck to his teammate, and vice versa. It also made Shane exceedingly happy that Ilya seemed to prefer passing to him as opposed to Hunter. Mostly, Shane tried to ignore that Hunter was on the ice with them at all. And when Ilya scored, his smile—Shane would do anything to see that smile again. And that realization shifted his priorities.

It was with that in mind that Shane went looking for Ilya after the game. He checked the bar first, but surprisingly, he wasn’t there. Most of the other hockey players were, drinking and chatting and laughing. But although several called out to him, once Shane realized that Ilya Rozanov wasn’t among them, the bar lost its appeal. 

He was almost ready to go roam the hotel hallways, just hoping he heard Ilya’s voice, or found him in the elevator, when he turned and ran into the person he was actively trying to avoid. Scott Hunter was right in front of him, not looking where he was going because he was goofily smiling down at his phone. 

Shane began to stammer an apology, and Hunter looked up from his phone, smile sliding off of his face.

“Hollander,” he said shortly, and tucked his phone into his pocket. Shane’s heart began to pound in his chest, and he was weirdly aware of his fingertips. Maybe he’d been texting Ilya. Shane recognized that face, as it was the exact expression he could feel himself making when he texted Ilya. He was unsurprised that Hunter would make it too, if he got to text Rozanov all the time.

“I’m sorry, I should have looked where I was going,” said Shane, although he gave a pointed glance at Hunter’s phone. Really, Hunter should be looking where he was going. And Shane didn’t know if he was sorry, if Hunter was too busy texting Ilya to pay attention to where he was going.

Hunter still frowned at him, and Shane began to sweat. They still hadn’t talked, and the fight, and Ilya, hung between them silently in the air.

“Look,” said Shane, trying to break the ice. But before he could finish, Scott was also talking.

“We need to talk. Do you—do you want to go for a walk? Somewhere more private?”

Shane stared at Scott. He’d almost think he was propositioning him, except Scott still looked like he might want to punch Shane a little. Shane did not want to go on a private walk with Scott Hunter, except Scott probably knew where Ilya was.

Anything, Shane reminded himself. He was willing to do anything to see Ilya smile like that. And maybe that meant somehow dealing with Scott Hunter. 

Shane knew that Ilya saw other people. This wasn’t any different. He’d been able to deal with all the girls that Ilya saw, if that meant that he got to have Ilya at all. It would just be the same with Hunter. It was harder, since he knew who he was, and it was so much easier, and maybe even a little distressingly hot, to picture the kinds of things that Ilya might get up to with Hunter, but he could do this. He’d been without Ilya. He’d walked away, and it wasn’t worth it. Shane was walking back.

“Yeah, ok,” he said, realizing that Hunter was still glowering at him, waiting for an answer. “Let’s just… the beach, maybe?”

Hunter shrugged, and Shane buried a sliver of annoyance. Hunter was the one who’d invited him on a walk.

They didn’t say anything, walking out past the lights and the noise and waving away well-meaning calls from a bunch of other players, until they were next to the ocean itself, breathing in the salty air, the roar of the waves and the slap of their feet against the sand the only noise.

Shane cast a nervous glance at Hunter. He still looked furious, and Shane worried that maybe he shouldn’t have gone out into the dark with a hockey player who was bigger than him. Who the last time they’d met, Shane had punched him.

Shane was just planning on saying fuck it, he’d find Ilya on his own, when Hunter took a deep, shuddering breath, and without looking at Shane, began to speak.

“I’m sorry. About what I said, on the ice. I shouldn’t have said it. It wasn’t my secret to share, and I didn’t ask. And I am pretty sure that no one else heard, but it was risky, to say something like that. So I apologize.”

Shane almost tripped on the wet sand, even though it was smooth and flat beneath his feet. That was not what he was expecting.

“Oh. Well, no. You probably shouldn’t have said it. But. I am sorry for punching you. I don’t, usually.”

“Oh, I know,” said Hunter drily. “I’ve had to hear about it extensively since then.”

Shane’s ears began to pound at the thought of Ilya and Scott, talking about the fight. Talking about him. But he was going to be cool. He was going to learn to live with this man, who he apparently had to share Ilya with now. It would be worth it. So instead of snapping, he tried to mend the rift between them. Except he knew nothing about Scott Hunter, except what was available on his Wikipedia page. Which he’d angrily stalked earlier today. So he cast his mind about for something, anything, that they could talk about. Instead, his voice cracking, he ended up spilling out the thing he definitely didn’t want to be talking about, with Ilya’s maybe-boyfriend.

“It just hurt, you know. I care about him. I don’t… I don’t really say that. And I don’t get to talk about it. And then you threw it in my face.”

The minute the words were out of his mouth Shane wanted to smack himself. He didn’t know Hunter. He didn’t care about Hunter. But Ilya did, and Shane thought maybe, actually, that might be the thing they had in common the most. They both cared for Ilya. And maybe caring for Ilya meant being vulnerable.

Shane kind of expected Scott to brush him off, or to ignore him. What he did not expect was the anger. Hunter’s voice was flat, but even so, Shane could tell he was furious.

“You care about him. Sure. You are about him so much you leave him and don’t message him and you date some girl while leaving him miserable and vulnerable and prone to making bad choices!” They were no longer even pretending to walk together, but it was still good that they had. Scott was yelling now, and Shane was sure that someone would have heard them if they hadn’t distanced themselves from the hotel. But still, Hunter’s words stung.

“Bad choices? You mean like you?” Ok, maybe Shane could start getting along with Ilya’s alternate boyfriend tomorrow. For tonight, he couldn’t just sit there and take this.

“Yes, you idiot! I mean exactly like me! Why else do you think he kissed me? He’s fucking lucky it was me, to be honest. Any other player in the league, and they’d have decked him and his career would be over.”

Shane knew that Ilya and Scott were… something. Something that he didn’t like thinking about. But hearing it so bluntly was hard, and Shane was just so, so tired. Tired of pretending that he didn’t want Ilya, tired of pretending that everything wasn’t falling all to pieces. So he just wilted, in front of Scott Hunter, and tried his best not to cry. The situation definitely warranted it, but Shane hadn’t cried in front of another hockey player, not ever, and he didn’t mean to start with Scott Fucking Hunter. But at the same time, he couldn’t just take it lying down. He was trying to accept Scott, but that didn’t mean he was going to roll over and let him win everything. He could never.

“Well, not every other player,” said Shane, trying to sound light and casual, the opposite of how he was feeling.

Scott let out a laugh, almost unwilling, and Shane relaxed a little.

“No, ok, maybe not every player. But I hope you’re not saying shit like that to him while you two are together. Or were together. It’s not exactly clear to me, and for the love of god, please do not tell me. I don’t want to hear about it. It was bad enough when he showed up, miserable and drunk, while you were off gallivanting with some movie star. I heard way more than I needed to about you that night, and I’m not looking forward to repeating the experience.” Scott looked vaguely queasy. Shane could relate, what with the thought of Scott and Ilya making him sick every time he thought about it. Which was basically always.

“Yeah, well, I don’t love the idea of hearing about your sex life either,” said Shane. 

Scott threw up his hands, but he seemed more exasperated than angry now. Shane hoped he could still coax him into revealing where Ilya was.

“I have not said a god damn word about my sex life! It’s all you and that menace. Kip and I are keeping things under wraps, thank you very much, and I don’t need to go around proving myself to junior hockey players. And I never ran out and dated a woman on him either, so I think I’ve got one up on you.”

Shane was drawing a blank. This conversation had not gone the direction he’d anticipated.

“Why do you call Rozanov Kip?” he asked, genuinely curious. It hurt, but he wanted to be privy to everything he’d missed with Ilya.

Scott stared at him, and Shane stared back. 

“I don’t,” he said slowly, something terrible dawning in Hunter’s eyes. “I call my boyfriend Kip, because that’s his name. I call Rozanov Rozanov, because that’s his name. And I try not to talk about you, because you are a thorn in my side and you hurt my boyfriend’s newest best friend, and god help me, he’s my friend too. But when I do, I call you Hollander. Are we all clear on everyone’s names now?”

Shane laughed, delighted, waves of relief washing over him. He was so fucking stupid. Of course Scott Hunter wasn’t dating Ilya Rozanov. They must have just hooked up once or twice. Shane could take that, as long as Ilya came back to him.

“Yes! Yes, we’re all good. Although uhm, you can call me Shane. If you want.”

Hunter gave him a look that said no, he very much did not want, but Shane was feeling generous.

“I’m sorry I was so mean to you. I thought—I thought you were dating Ilya. And I was jealous, and scared. But if you guys just hooked up a few times—” Shane finally clocked the expression on Hunter’s face. “I mean, it’s fine! I’m sure it was great, he’s wonderful. But you have a boyfriend, so you probably don’t need the emotional connection. He’ll be fine! You’ll be fine. And maybe, he’s, uh, available—”

“Oh my god,” muttered Scott Hunter, running his hands through his hair. “Just, please stop talking. I have no idea what he sees with you. I’m not dating that asshole. And also, I’m done dealing with you. Just—please go talk to him, and sort this out amongst yourselves. I’m not convinced this is a good idea, but Kip said you two needed a chance to sort this out yourselves.” And with that cryptic statement, he was walking away, leaving Shane alone on the dimly lit beach. Or at least, almost alone.

There, perhaps a hundred yards in front of him, sat a figure smoking next to the waves, with curly hair and a distinctive silhouette. Hunter had led him directly to Ilya Rozanov.

Shane’s heart beat in his chest, and his palms began to sweat, but he wiped them down on his shorts, and continued forward. This time, he wasn’t going to fuck things up. 

Chapter 11: Chapter 11

Chapter Notes

Heya so sorry, this chapter took waaaaay longer than I anticipated. I both didn't know what to do and, in true ao3 author fashion, ended up in the hospital since the last time I posted a chapter! I am fine now, and out and about and obsessing over these hockey boys. I'm still not 100% happy with this chapter, but I am desperate to finish this so I can give myself permission to start my next fic, which I've told myself cannot happen until this one is finished. So enjoy!

Heavy footsteps slapped along the sand, but Ilya didn’t bother to look up at them. He’d heard Hunter’s voice, just a moment before, and he wasn’t in the mood to be checked on. Hunter had invited him over to his room so they could call Kip together, something Kip had requested, wanting to see “his boys” at All-Stars together, but Ilya hadn’t been able to bring himself to do it. He wasn’t up to seeing the happy couple together. 

It wasn’t that he begrudged them the happiness. He just needed a little more time. He’d been so, so sure that Shane was happy to see him, that his jealousy was a sign that he might be amenable to starting things up again. But then he’d fled, again, and Ilya had had to watch him walk away like he couldn’t be away fast enough. And so Ilya was alone, and he’d quite like to wallow, which meant he had no need for Scott’s awkward, sometimes overbearing attempts to make him feel better.

“Go away, Hunter. I will text Kip later, he will understand. I do not feel like talking.”

“That’s ok,” said a familiar voice, and Ilya’s head whipped up so fast that he heard his neck crack. “I was kind of hoping maybe I could do some talking?”

Standing above him, giving him a shy, quiet smile, stood Shane Hollander. His shirt stretched across his shoulders and biceps, emphasizing their breadth, and from this angle, Ilya could see his powerful thighs as well, partially hidden by shorts, but thick and strong. Ilya wanted to bite them.

Wordlessly, he swallowed, and then looked back at the ocean. He nodded, not trusting himself to speak. Shane flopped down on the sand next to him, and they stared at the ocean together, the silence around them thick, but Ilya could not for the life of him tell if it was good or bad. He felt too anxious, too desperate to hear what Shane was going to say.

“What’s your room number?”

Ilya swallowed. Of course. Shane wanted what he always wanted. Ilya could give it to him. Sex, he could do. Even if Shane didn’t want anything else. So he gave his room number, and tried to ignore how Shane’s pinky brushed against his as they sat in the sand quietly, until Ilya got up.

“I’ll follow you in ten minutes,” said Shane, smiling up at him, and Ilya nodded, turning to go. He needed those ten minutes.

***

In his room, Ilya was pacing. Shane was due any minute, and he didn’t think he could handle this. Not again. He’d watched Shane walk away too many times, and another one might just be all he could handle. 

So he did what he’d promised Scott, and he texted Kip.

Ilya Rozanov:

Shane is coming over. I think he just wants sex. But he says he wants to talk first. Idk, am feeling confused.

Kip Grady:

Omg sweetie! Don’t count yourself out yet! Also maybe you could try talking to him?

Also have fun! Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do! ;)

Ilya frowned. He didn’t want to talk to Hollander. If he talked to Hollander, to Shane, then he’d have to deal with everything that he’d been feeling since the last time Shane left. He tried to think of a way to phrase this, but then a soft knock on the door stopped him, and he shoved his phone into his pants pocket. Shane was early. He was never early, not for these things. 

Ilya’s phone buzzed in his pocket, but Ilya ignored it. He had to do this first, and he couldn’t hide behind texting Kip, as tempting as the thought was. Ilya took a deep breath, and opened the door. Shane was just as beautiful as the last time he’d seen him, his smile still soft and the corners of his eyes crinkling. Ilya wanted to bury his face in his chest and breathe him in, or maybe cry, which was ridiculous. That was not what they did. Shane had made that very clear. He was clearly here because he wanted to resume the sexual aspects of their liaison, and Ilya was so broken and so needy and so desperate for everything Hollander that he’d take it, any scrap that he could get. 

“Hi,” said Shane. Ilya stared at him. 

“Hello,” he said, and Shane’s smile brightened.

“Can we sit? I want to… I want to talk.” Hollander sat on the edge of the bed, and Ilya, feeling brave, sat down next to him.

“Yes, you said that Hollander. You are here, so let’s talk.” Ilya knew he was being an asshole, but he just couldn’t help it right now. Shane didn’t need to draw this out for both of them. They sooner they could have this conversation, they sooner they could lose themselves in each other’s bodies, and the sooner Ilya could forget all those inconvenient feelings that kept rearing their heads at the most inconvenient times.

“I just… I’m sorry, first off. For running out of your house, and for running away earlier today. I was just… so fucking jealous, if I’m honest.” Shane looked at the floor as he said this, and chewed on his bottom lip. It looked like admitting that had cost him something.

Ilya blinked. That was not at all what he was expecting.

“Jealous? What are you jealous of? It is not like I had a girl there in the house. Or was dating a movie star in front of you.” Ilya couldn’t resist the little jab.

Shane shot him a glare, acknowledging what he was doing, but then he took a deep breath.

“No, not jealous at the house. I was jealous today, at the bar. With the way you talked to Hunter. I guess I had kind of known about the two of you, but it was… different, seeing you with another hockey player. I already wanted to talk to you, but just then I hadn’t realized everything that I was feeling. And I needed to figure out what it was that I wanted before I threw myself back into this.”

Ilya’s head was reeling. 

“You were jealous of Scott?” It was all he could muster up.

Shane nodded, his cheeks blushing beautifully. Ilya wanted to lick them.

“Don’t worry, he talked to me. Sort of. I think he’d kind of like to punch me still. But he made it clear that you guys weren’t still doing your thing. Or whatever arrangement you had, that it’s no longer on. Friends with benefits, or whatever. But even if it was, I decided that it didn’t matter. If the only way I can have you is to share you with Scott Hunter, then so be it.”

This was too much for Ilya. 

“You think I am fucking Scott?” he asked incredulously.

“Well, yeah. He made it pretty fucking clear on the ice!” said Shane, finally looking up to peek at Ilya’s eyes.

Ilya groaned, and tipped back onto the bed, lying flat and spreading out his arms. Shane stayed sitting up, hunched over himself. Ilya stared at the back of his head, as if that would give him strength.

“I have not fucked Scott Hunter. I kissed him once, when I was drunk and sad and I thought probably he would not punch me, since he was gay. He is gay, but then his boyfriend walked in on us. That is all that has ever happened with Scott Hunter, and it wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t been thinking of you all day.” Ilya winced with the honesty, but he thought maybe it was warranted. Shane had been honest with him, after all. He threw his arm over his face, hiding behind it. What he was about to say was so much worse, but maybe it would be better to just get it all out.

“And it was good kiss, very hot, he is handsome man. But the whole time…” Ilya groaned, and turned his head to face away from Shane, still hiding under his arm. “The whole time I was wishing he was you. So no, Scott Hunter and I are not fuck buddies. Or friends with benefits. We are just buddies. Just friends. The only benefits are his wonderful boyfriend, who somehow does not hate me for kissing his man.”

Shane’s weight on the bed shifted, and all of a sudden, Ilya found himself being pressed down into the bed, Shane Hollander pressing down onto him fully. Ilya moved up his arm, peeking out from his self-imposed cocoon, and Shane’s eyes were bright and intense right above his, and that soft smile had now spread to a grin that took over his whole face.

Ilya caressed his cheek, and Shane’s eyes fluttered closed, and he let out a gentle sigh.

“I’m sorry for punching your friend then,” said Shane, and Ilya laughed.

“Don’t be. Is good for him, builds character. You should punch more people, it was very hot.”

Shane laughed, and then his eyes locked with Ilya’s.

“Can I kiss you? I—I really like you Ilya. And I don’t want to pretend anymore.”

Ilya nodded, a lump forming in his throat. Shane pressed their lips together, and immediately, it was like they’d never stop.

Ilya surged up into the kiss, pushing to deepen it, and Shane melted onto him, pressing him down harder into the mattress, kissing him until Ilya had to pull back, gasping for air. He moved to get up, struggling up onto his elbows, but Shane pushed him back down.

“No,” he said, kissing Ilya’s throat and sending shivers up and down his body. “I want to see you. Let me, please, I’ve been dreaming of this, missed it so much.”

“Of course,” said Ilya, his voice raspy. “Anything, Shane. Anything.”

Shane helped him out of his shirt, throwing it carelessly to the floor behind him, and then shucked off his pants, leaving Ilya in only his briefs, and Shane almost fully clothed. That would not do.

“I want to see you,” he said, and Shane reached down and pulled off his own shirt, exposing the long line of his abs and his beautiful, kissable pecs. 

“Gorgeous, murmured Ilya, and he dragged Shane back down into another kiss, and this time it was so hot, with warm skin against warm skin, and Ilya moaned into Shane’s mouth when he broke it, chasing his mouth as Shane pulled back.

Shane gave him a smouldering look, and then moved his mouth to Ilya’s nippled, sucking and biting and licking until Ilya was moaning beneath him. The whole time, his thigh was pressed into Ilya’s crotch, and he knew Shane must be able to feel how hard he was underneath him, but Shane settled down, playing with Ilya’s nipples while he whimpered and begged and nearly cried, until finally, finally, he moved lower.

“Shane, please, please,” said Ilya. Shane smirked at him, his face full of satisfaction. Ilya loved this, the confidence, the closeness, all of it. He wanted to drink in every sight and sound and bury himself in it.

“Please what, Ilya?” he murmured, and it was so much hotter than it should have been, to hear his own name during sex. Plenty of people had said it before, but none of them were Shane.

“Please touch me,” he begged. 

Shane moved down his body, nuzzling into his happy trail. Ilya stroked his hands through Shane’s thick hair, not pulling, just wanting to feel and touch and keep him close.

Then Shane was pulling down his briefs, and his hot mouth descended on Ilya, taking him into his mouth. The warm, wet heat of it shocked Ilya, and he realized he hadn’t done this since the last time with Shane. Shane set up a steady rhythm with his mouth, his hands groping Ilya’s chest and plucking at his already sensitive nipples. It was too much. It was going to be over so soon, but Ilya couldn’t do anything other than hold on and enjoy the ride.

“Shane, is too much. Shane, you are so beautiful, so good, so perfect, I’m…”

And then Ilya was coming, and Shane, his beautiful Shane, pulled off and Ilya was coming over his face, painting it with white streaks of come. And then Ilya was pulling Shane up onto him again, kissing him, not caring about the mess, and both of their hands were in Shane’s pants and holding him together and then Shane was coming too, and then they were both collapsed on the bed, sticky and sated. Ilya pulled Shane onto his chest, content to snuggle in and breathe in the top of his head. It was close to perfect.

That lasted for all of about 15 seconds before Shane was squirming to go clean up. Ilya let him go with a fond smile. He was still Shane, and just because he’d let Ilya come all over his face didn’t mean that he wasn’t going to be clean afterwards. Ilya knew this about him.

While he waited for Shane to come out of the bathroom, he grabbed his phone, which he’d heard buzzing vaguely on floor, still in his pants pocket. He had a surprising number of new messages, all from Scott.

Frowning, Ilya opened the thread, and then laughed out loud.

Scott Hunter:

You’re welcome, btw. Kip says you two are going to talk.

Scott Hunter:

Rozanov, you fucker. Are you on the 10th floor? Across from the ice machine? I’m right next door, and I’m hearing some suspicious sounds coming from the room adjacent to mine.

Scott Hunter:

This better be the best sex of your fucking life. I can’t believe I try to do a good deed, and help a friend out, and this is how you repay me.

Scott Hunter:

Glad you’re having fun. I left, so fuck away to your heart’s content. I’m going out for earplugs. Tell Hollander hi for me, I guess.

Ilya Rozanov:

Is not first time hearing us, Hunter! You should be grateful that two such sexy young men put on show where you can hear. Next time, we will charge.

Scott Hunter:

What do you mean it’s not the first time?? I don’t make a habit of listening to you have sex!

Ilya Rozanov:

This is not our first All-Stars, Hunter!

Ilya was still giggling when Shane came out of the bathroom, his face clean and the edges of his hair damp and sticking up.

“What’s so funny?” asked Shane. 

Ilya smiled, tossing his phone on the nightstand, not bothering to see what Scott had texted him.

“Nothing. Inside joke. Now come here and kiss me until you are ready to go again. Then I eat you out, and then I fuck you, da?”

“Da,” said Shane, and then Ilya really did have to pull him onto the bed and kiss him soundly. He really had no other choice.

Chapter 12

Chapter Notes

Just a short chapter to wrap things up! Thank you so much to everyone who read, left kudos, and commented! I love and appreciate all of you :)

A loud moan drifted through the wall, and Scott pushed his pillow over his ears, groaning. But quietly. He didn’t know what he did to deserve rooming next to Hollander and Rozanov again, but they needed to learn that hotel walls were not as soundproof as they seemed to think.

It had been hours, and every time he thought they were done, and started to drift off to sleep, some new variety of noise, or banging, or worst of all, giggling, would start coming through the hotel room.

The soft thumping of the headboard showed no signs of stopping any time soon, so Scott resigned himself to being awake for a little while longer. He pulled out his phone, debating on whether or not he should text Kip. It was late, and Scott didn’t want to wake him, but he probably had his phone on silent.

Scott:

They’re still going. It’s 1am. Do they ever sleep?

I’m never going to be able to look Shane Hollander in the eye again.

Scott saw the little dots dancing at the bottom of his phone, and smiled despite himself. He should have known that Kip would be awake for some good gossip.

The dots faded, and Scott felt a slight pang of disappointment. But then his phone lit up, and the letter K filled his screen, and Scott hit answer extremely fast.

“Hey,” he said, whispering.

“Hey yourself,” said Kip, voice fond and amused. “Why are you whispering?”

“I don’t want them to know that I can hear them,” hissed Scott, still keeping his voice low. “I think Hollander might actually spontaneously combust if he realizes that I overheard them.”

“So do we like Hollander now? I have to admit, I’m still kind of inclined to hate him. But I guess if Ilya is happy…”

Just as Kip finished speaking, a loud groan permeated through the wall, and then “Oh, god…” in Russian-accented English.

Blushing but also giggling, Scott whispered back. “Uh, yeah, I’m pretty sure Rozanov is happy.”

“Oh god, even I heard that one. My god, how loud are they?” Kip laughed, and Scott curled around his phone, his heart beating too fast, just glad that he had someone to share this with. Even if this was awkwardness that probably meant he’d never be able to look at either of them again.

“But yeah, I think we can like Hollander now. Whether or not he’s willing to forgive us or not… we can see. Or maybe we can withhold forgiveness until Rozanov gives the ok?” 

“Scott, please stop calling our friend by his last name. It’s weird! You know his name, use it!”

“I’m pretty sure Hollander still calls Rozanov–Ilya– by his last name.”

“Those two are not an example of how anyone should be conducting their personal relationships.”

Scott had to concede that Kip had a point. He wanted to stay on the phone, but he yawned before he could get out his next sentence.

“Hey, it’s super late. We can talk tomorrow. Don’t you fly out early? Try to get some sleep, and don’t let the sex gremlins keep you up.”

Scott sputtered, suddenly feeling slightly more awake. “Why would you call them that? Now I won’t be able to think of anything else when I refer to the two of them.”

Kip’s teasing laughter was the last thing he heard as he drifted off to sleep. The noises next door had finally gone quiet, and as awkward as it was to hear them, in the privacy of his own head, Scott could admit that he was relieved. Ilya deserved to be happy, and if Hollander was what it took, then Scott was glad he had him. And maybe someday he’d work up to be happy that they had each other. He had a feeling he’d been seeing a lot more of Hollander in the future.