Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Hayden Pike, cliff marleau

Additional Tags:

pre-episode 4, Idiots in Love, shane's skill at self-deception, Angst with a Happy Ending

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2025-12-16 Updated: 2026-01-11 Words: 11,295 Chapters: 4/5

late to my own self

Summary

When Ilya has a horrific accident on the ice, Shane snaps into action before his heart has even begin to piece together why.

__

The video JJ sent was just captioned oh shit. It jumped straight to a corner battle—Boston’d had a home game against the Nomads last night. Shane had only caught the score, exhausted after his own game, but now dread pooled in his stomach. What did oh shit mean? He could see Rozanov racing after a loose puck and then a Nomad defender came in from the side with a shoulder check. Rozanov caught an edge and pitched forward just as the defender caught Rozanov at the wrong angle, sending him head first into the boards.

Shane made a high, frightened noise he’d never heard from himself before.

Notes

Summary, cover, and beta by my babe IDoNotBiteMyThumbAtYou

Chapter 1

Shane didn’t see it live.

The video JJ sent was just captioned oh shit. It jumped straight to a corner battle—Boston’d had a home game against the Nomads last night. Shane had only caught the score, exhausted after his own game, but now dread pooled in his stomach. What did oh shit mean? He could see Rozanov racing after a loose puck and then a Nomad defender came in from the side with a shoulder check. Rozanov caught an edge and pitched forward just as the defender caught Rozanov at the wrong angle, sending him head first into the boards.

Shane made a high, frightened noise he’d never heard from himself before.

There was a spray of blood, very bright against the ice, then Rozanov went down hard.

Rozanov went in hard there, the commentator intoned. That was an awkward hit.

Laine skated up and instantly raised his hand for a trainer. A replay of the hit showed the horror of Rozanov’s neck snapping back on impact, and when it stopped the camera had panned away. They only did that if the player wasn’t moving, which meant Rozanov wasn't moving.

Shane fumbled for his phone, bypassing all the notifications from the group chat and went straight to Lily. His hands were shaking as he pressed call.

He’d never called Rozanov before. Never.

“But skate isn’t optional this morning,” Hayden said, confusion colouring his voice.

“I know,” Shane replied as calmly as he could. He could barely hear what he was saying over the thud of his racing heart. “Just cover for me. Please.”

“Sure, buddy. You got it. Hey—”

“Thanks.”

Shane cut the call, his hand up for a cab. Context was everything: as long as no-one was expecting to see Shane Hollander in Boston, maybe no-one would. That was as close as he’d got to justifying himself—he just needed to make sure that Rozanov was… God, what if he was dead? He’d had nothing from Rozanov since a text from last week that Shane hadn’t even replied to. Fuck. Fuck.

He shoved fifty bucks and a hefty tip at the driver and got out, walking quickly towards the front entrance of Boston General. He had no plan other than checking the most obvious wards and hoping. The morgue was listed on the floor plan in the elevator and Shane had to blink away hot tears. Orthopedics was a bust, but the second the door opened in Neurosciences he nearly walked into Marleau who did a double take that would have been funny in any other circumstances.

“Hollander?” he hissed.

“Is he okay?” Shane asked, his voice breaking.

Marleau dragged him out of the elevator and to one side. “What the fuck do you care?”

“Is he awake? Can you go ask him if he’ll see me?”

A few people were starting to look over and Marleau half snarled before escorting him past the nurse’s station and into a relatively private corridor.

“Please,” Shane added, as soon as Marleau turned to him.

“Jesus fuck, okay. Stay here.”

He must be awake if Marleau was going to ask him. Awake was better than dead, but that hit and he was in Neuroscience. Shane closed his eyes and leant against the wall, his head down. He had a game tomorrow morning.

“He said yes.”

Shane startled, then took in what Marleau had said. He followed him down a corridor to where Laine and Dubek were sitting on folding chairs speaking to someone in a suit. They gave Shane long looks as Marleau showed him into a dim room, the blind half drawn.

Rozanov was hooked up to an IV, a soft collar around his neck and stitches all along his brow. Shane couldn’t parse what that meant, only that Rozanov reached for him the moment he saw him.

Shane went over and grasped his hand in his own, collapsing in a seat and pressing his cheek against where their fingers were entwined.

“Fuck,” Shane got out. “I thought you were fucking dead.”

“Sweetheart,” Rozanov said, his voice slurred. “I’m okay, don’t cry.”

He didn’t even know if Marleau was still in the room, he just put his head down against Rozanov’s shoulder, one hand snarled in the thin blanket of his bed. Rozanov ran a hand through his hair, murmuring in a mix of Russian and English.

Taking deep breaths, Shane tried to get his tears under control. If Rozanov had been dismissive or angry at his sudden appearance then Shane would've been able to hold it together, but he had no defences against this tenderness.

Eventually he sat up, leaning over to press a quick kiss to Rozanov’s dry and cracked lips, then one to his forehead, near where his stitches ended. He smelt of antiseptic.

“Do you have to go now?” Rozanov asked, his pupils blown wide by whatever pain meds they had him on.

“Soon, yes.”

“You always go.”

Shane swallowed hard. “I’ll come back. I have two days off the day after tomorrow, I’ll come help you when you’re discharged, okay?”

“Promise?”

He pressed a kiss to the back of Rozanov’s hand. “Promise.”

“Er, Hollander?”

Shane turned. Marleau was back, looking up at the ceiling, as if he’d caught them fucking instead of holding hands. The reflexive urge to let go, to move away from Rozanov was still strong, but fuck. Rozanov could have died. He could have died and Shane would have found out from the news, the same as everyone else.

“Yeah, I’m going,” he replied. “See you in two days,” he told Rozanov, whose long blinks looked like they were turning into sleep.

“You coming back?” Marleau asked as he closed the door behind him. The corridor was deserted, just a nurse in the distance, not even looking at them.

“Yeah, I have a two-day break from Friday. I’ll come down to help.”

Marleau nodded like that wasn’t an absolutely insane thing to do in the middle of the season, and Shane felt a sudden burst of affection for him. They’d never said anything to each other that wasn’t a spat-out insult before.

“Well, give me your number and I’ll keep you updated.”

“Thanks,” Shane said, passing his phone over. Marleau put himself under his full name, as if Shane might be confused as to which Marleau the phone number belonged to.

“Laine has gone down to reception, so you should be able to slip by.”

“Thanks,” Shane said again, starting to feel stupid.

Marleau slapped him lightly on the back and that seemed to be that. He was having a really strange day.

He only looked at his phone when he got home: there was no point as he’d waited for his plane to taxi out to the runway and he was careful to keep it off when they landed until the pilot turned off the no mobiles sign.

Hayden: you have food poisoning, FYI

Shane flicked through the messages as he took off his shoes one-handed and put them in the shoe cupboard. His cleaner had been in and the kitchen smelt of lemons.

Hayden: where are you??

Hayden: call me back yeah?

He absolutely planned to call Hayden, but he had two missed calls from Mike, who answered on the first ring and was more confused than angry, which was possibly worse.

“You sure you’re okay? I can send a doctor over?”

“No, honestly I’m just going to drink a shake and go to bed.”

“Sounds like a good idea. And charge your phone, okay? We were getting worried over here.”

“Yes, Coach. It won’t happen again.”

“I have no doubt,” Mike agreed, warmly. “If you feel the slightest twinge in the morning, or anytime, you call Tom or Laurine, okay? You know we won’t charge you for a house-visit, okay?”

“Yes, absolutely,” Shane agreed, attempting a chuckle at the bad joke, turning an unopened ginger beer around and around on the countertop.

Hayden also picked up on the first ring and Shane did his best to be convincing: family emergency was what he’d decided on. It had seemed convincing until Hayden started to get genuinely worried about his mom.

“No, my parents are fine. It was just a thing I had to do okay? But it’s cool now and I really owe you one.”

“You don’t owe me anything, Shane. Was Coach okay?”

“Yeah, he just told me to call the doctors if I need anything.”

“And you’re good for tomorrow?”

“Yeah, see you bright and early.”

“Ugh, don’t remind me.”

After that he texted his mom back to say he’d received the new watch that Rolex had sent him and he’d send her a picture when he got back from his games. Hockey Twitter was overflowing with videos of the hit still so Shane quickly closed the app and went to sports news on Google instead.

The main outlets were still speculating, even after the Raiders had put out a statement saying that Rozanov had a sprain and they were monitoring the situation closely. The soft collar he’d been wearing backed that up, along with the quick release. If he’d had anything more serious, he would have been wearing a Halo brace, pins buried in his forehead to keep it in place. Shane took one look at the group chat and had scrolled to the present, where they’d been talking about a cat video. He liked that message then went upstairs to pack for the road trip tomorrow.

The flight was mostly good-natured ribbing that involved way more questions about his toilet habits than he was comfortable answering. Only JJ brought up the video to ask if he’d watched it, to which Shane managed a yeah, that was a bad hit. He sent Rozanov two cat videos and two dog videos, as he wasn’t sure if he had a preference. Not that he’d have his phone back yet, maybe not for a couple of days if he had a concussion on top of the sprain.

They played Minnesota first—every pass landed; every read was sharp. He scored twice, assisted once, and broke up what should’ve been a breakaway with a move he wasn’t even sure he’d planned. It felt like his body was two steps ahead of his brain the whole night. The team rode it to a clean 4–1 win, Berkes and Wilson yelling in his ear after his second goal.

“You should spend the whole day on the toilet more often,” Taylor joked afterwards, and everyone decided that shitting out your intestines was the new fad diet. Sometimes hockey players were the worst.

He managed all of three seconds of Twitter on the plane that evening: someone had set Rozanov’s hit to Let the Bodies Hit the Floor. Shane closed his eyes and took deep breaths.

“You okay?” Hayden asked, leaning over the gap between the spacious seats.

“Yeah, all good.”

Hayden nodded and went back to whatever he was watching on his iPad, but he’d been quieter than usual. Shane didn’t have the energy to bridge that gap right now, so he replied to his mom instead, agreeing to do a hydration pic for Instagram before tomorrow’s game and to get some gym shots over the weekend in his Underarmour. He dutifully copied everything to his to-do list, a few notes away from what he hoped was a well-coded reminder to buy flights the second he heard from Marleau.

In Houston the next morning everything felt a step slow. Back-to-backs always sucked, but Houston played like they were shot out of a cannon. They were lucky it wasn’t worse and, in the end, 5–2 felt merciful.

His phone buzzed on the plane back, Hayden snoring softly beside him.

Cliff Marleau: he was released this afternoon, you got his new address?

Shane almost fumbled his phone in an effort to make sure it was tilted away from Hayden before he replied.

No, not for the new house. Can meet you there, late evening though.

Cliff Marleau: Didn’t you play today??

Yes

Cliff Marleau: Okay, give me a sec and I’ll send the address. he’s in a shitty mood btw

Shane didn’t know what to say to that so he texted Rozanov instead.

Hey, I don’t know if you’re allowed screens yet, but I’ll be at yours later this evening.

The reply was instant:

Lily: no need. I’ll be fine

Shane stared at his phone for a full five seconds, suddenly furious.

You sprained your fucking spine. What you going to do, ask Marleau to wash your hair for you??

Lily: fine

Shane was taking that as permission. All that was left was to sort out the other permission he needed. Even on a two-day break he had responsibilities: optional skates weren’t optional for him and he had an interview booked on Sunday morning with Talk Live radio. He could do the interview by phone, but this time he really did have to tell Mike where he was going.

You’re an adult, he told himself, you can do this.

He unbuckled his seatbelt and made his way though his mostly sleeping teammates. Only Wilson flashing him a tired smile as he went past. The drone of the engines was loud and, when he sat down in the empty aisle seat next to Mike’s, Mike had to lean over the beige-carpeted aisle to speak into Shane’s ear.

“Don’t worry, it’s late: we can go over everything tomorrow if you want.”

Shane shook his head, already feeling like shit. They’d lost the game: he should be reviewing tape right now, he should be going in tomorrow morning to go over what went wrong.

“I can’t,” he replied. “I’m going to see a friend over the weekend. I’ll be back Monday.”

He didn’t look up at Mike’s silence, just waited for his reply.

“Don’t you have an interview on Sunday?”

“Yeah, it’s radio though. I’ll call in. I’ve already let Jen know.”

He glanced sideways to see Mike’s nod. He had a slight frown but his expression smoothed into his usual neutral smile.

“Well, don’t do anything I wouldn’t,” he joked and Shane smiled weakly. “Go rest up,” he added, and Shane took that for the dismissal it was.

The wide door of Rozanov’s massive house opened and Marleau greeted him, looking harried. There was a wall of windows on his left, but he didn’t have much time to take in the garden, toeing off his shoes and following Marleau into a massive living space.

Rozanov was sitting on a huge black leather sofa, looking dramatic against the modern prints behind him. He also looked exhausted, the bruise on the bridge of his nose where he’d worn the cage a lurid green-yellow, and he was still wearing a soft collar.

“Here’s the info about his drugs,” Marleau explained. “He won’t take any pain meds, so don’t bother, and he’s in a shitty mood.”

“I can hear you,” Rozanov drawled.

“We’re talking loud,” Shane replied, and was rewarded with a sneer.

“Bonne courage,” Marleau told him, then left, his footsteps fading and the door shutting softly behind him.

“You want that shower?” Shane asked.

“Why? Are you planning on helping?”

Shane shrugged. “It’ll be easier in a bath, but yeah.”

Rozanov watched him for a moment before stiffly pushing himself up to standing. He took a second to find his balance and then he was off, striding through the house and up the stairs, though a ridiculous bedroom to an equally ridiculous bathroom where he sat on one of the many chairs and gestured at the bath.

“Well?”

Shane gave him a look and went over to turn on the taps, rolling up his sleeves as he did so. There were a few chairs dotted around, but they looked like they were there to fill the massive space rather than being sat on. He could kneel behind the tub, but the floor was marble. Maybe Rozanov wouldn’t mind if he stole one of the pillows from the bedroom.

When the bath was almost full he turned to go get Rozanov and nearly jumped out of his skin.

“Jesus,” he exclaimed. “Make some noise would you?”

Rozanov shrugged from right behind him. “You getting in? Be easier.”

“Sure,” Shane agreed, and went over to one of the chairs so he had something to put his clothes on. He guessed they were useful after all.

It was a weird atmosphere. He’d never stripped with Rozanov for any reason other than sex, but when he glanced up Rozanov was already unselfconsciously naked, bruising running down from the back of his neck to fade into yellow-green along his shoulder-blades. The front would be worse and Shane kept his eyes down as he stepped into the hot water behind Rozanov, the bath big enough for him to put his legs either side of Rozanov’s thick thighs.

Rozanov instantly passed him some shampoo that he must have already had in his hands, which Shane took and then stared helplessly at the back of Rozanov's head. Rozanov sighed and slowly reached forward to snag an ornate-looking glass from the side of the bath.

“You shouldn’t be stretching like that.”

“You should think ahead.”

That was probably fair. He filled the cup with water and then used his other hand to tip Rozanov’s head back, protecting his stitches as best he could.

“Close your eyes,” he murmured, not wanting to break the quiet.

He didn’t know if Rozanov obeyed or not: he was too busy concentrating on not making this weird by getting a hard on or anything. Not that that part of his anatomy seemed to be interested in the miles of wet skin in front of him. Apparently shampooing didn’t do it for him. Who knew?

He stifled a nervous giggle and brought more water up, soaking Rozanov’s blonde curls dark.

The shampoo smelled like apples and he used way too much, suds the size of his fist falling to splash into the water. He thought Rozanov might mock him for it, but he remained silent, tilting his head wherever Shane lightly directed him.

As he tipped the water over Rozanov’s head for the last time, he made the mistake of looking over his shoulder, catching a glimpse of the purple-black bruising that rolled down his neck to half-way down his chest. Shane put the cup carefully on the side then sat, his hands placed awkwardly on the rim of the tub.

Rozanov leaned back, gradually transferring his weight until he was fully propped up against Shane’s chest, his wet hair against Shane’s cheek.

“You okay?” Rozanov asked, and Shane took an uneven breath.

“Yeah. Just. Did you watch the hit?”

“No, not yet.”

“Just, don’t okay? Don’t watch it.”

“That bad?”

Shane put one hand on Rozanov’s chest, just under where the bruising started. “Yeah, it looked pretty bad.”

“Not bad though, I go back in eight weeks, maybe faster.”

“Fuck, that still sucks, I’m sorry.”

Rozanov made the smallest of shrugs. “Better than dead.”

Shane tipped his head back and swallowed hard.

“Hollander,” Rozanov added, his voice careful.

“You know, if you’d died, I would have found out on the news?”

“Didn’t die,” Rozanov said, reaching up to put his hand over Shane’s.

“Well. Good.”

They stayed like that until the water started to cool, Shane's fingers on the edge of pruning. It really was a ridiculous bathroom. Why did Rozanov need two sinks? Well, maybe if he had people stay over. Maybe he had a guest toothbrush as well, or perhaps there was someone who stayed over often enough to have their own toothbrush. He squinted at the double sink but there were no incriminating cups of toothpaste and toothbrushes to be found.

Finally Rozanov leaned forward and Shane took that as an indication to get out. Pools of water soaked into the deep red bathmat as he looked around for a towel.

“On the shelves, behind you.” Rozanov directed, and Shane came back with a pile: handing Rozanov one before briskly drying himself off and tucking the towel around his waist.

Taking one of the smaller ones, he stepped up into Rozanov’s space and began to carefully dry his hair, making sure to dry behind his ears and pat the back of his neck dry. His upper trapezius felt hard and hot and his sternocleidomastoid was visibly swollen.

He stopped only when he noticed Rozanov staring at him, his eyes shadowed, showing only a glimmer of light.

“I can’t—” Rozanov ran a hand down Shane’s chest and settled it on his hip. “But you can stay if you want.”

Shane had kind of assumed he would be sleeping with Rozanov: how else was he supposed to keep an eye on him in another room? He'd even brought his bag up, dumping it on the end of Rozanov’s massive bed as he’d followed him into the bedroom. Maybe Rozanov hadn’t noticed.

“Yeah sure, let me get your pills first though.”

He went down the wide stairs to the living room and picked up each of the medications that were arranged haphazardly on a low table. He found the painkiller, then double checked the dosage on the discharge papers. Armed with the pill box and a glass of water, he went back upstairs to where Rozanov was propped up on navy blue pillows, his soft collar back on.

“Here,” Shane said, shaking out two, yellow and red pills and handing them over.

Rozanov took them and the water and Shane went around to the other side, unfolding the blanket at the end of the bed as he went. The bedsheets were cool but he could feel the heat emanating from Rozanov as he turned on his side to face him, the bob of Rozanov’s throat as he swallowed his meds, then only darkness as he clicked off the light.

Chapter 2

Chapter Notes

Shane woke to Rozanov struggling to get out of bed, spitting Russian.

“Hey,” Shane said, almost falling in his effort to get around to the other side of the bed.

“I'm fine!”

“Sure you are.” Shane put his hand under Rozanov’s elbow, bracing as he put most of his weight onto him as he stood.

“Gotta piss,” Rozanov told him, and Shane got an arm around his middle, his skin sleep-warm.

Rozanov got his balance after a few steps but Shane kept his arm around him until the bathroom door, where Rozanov firmly closed the door behind him, as if Shane was going to follow him in or something.

He waited with his arms crossed over the thin t-shirt he wore, a glance at the alarm clock letting him know it was just past 4am. When Rozanov came out, Shane went to piss himself, washing his hands in the black marble sink. His reflection looked tired, pillow marks on his cheek.

The bed was warm, the light from the clock just enough to see Rozanov lying on his back, pillows arranged to stop him from rolling over in the night.

He lifted his arm a little. “Come here,” he said, his voice raspy with sleep.

Shane couldn't understand what he meant at first: there was no way he could put his head on Rozanov’s shoulder, but there was a small pillow just under his arm. Shane shuffled closer, resting his head close enough to feel hot skin against his forehead and pressed a hand to his chest, careful of bruises invisible in the dark. Rozanov cradled him close and entwined his fingers with Shane's on his chest.

“Watched the hit,” Rozanov admitted.

“What? When?”

“Couldn't sleep. You snore.”

“I do not,” Shane protested. Hayden would have absolutely told the whole team if he snored. There'd be video evidence.

Rozanov’s thumb brushed gently against his ear and Shane closed his eyes. “Looked scary. Even my brother called me.”

“Yeah,” Shane agreed. “I was pretty scared.”

“Okay now?”

“Yeah, I'm okay now.”

Shane left Rozanov to sleep the next morning, helping himself to towels, a shower, and the toothpaste he found in a drawer. There were some packaged toothbrushes, but only one in use.

Normally he'd be heading to skate now, then maybe meeting with Mike and a couple of assistant coaches. Jen might have some interview requests for him to look at and he would have hung around the locker room, slowly wrapping tape in case a rookie needed to talk.

He stood in the middle of Rozanov’s kitchen, staring blankly at the carefully landscaped garden, which was most unrecognisable shapes huddled under the snow.

“You making breakfast?” Rozanov asked, coming down the stairs and into the main living space. In nothing but low slung joggers his bruises looked horrific, even by hockey standards.

“Yeah, you have to eat with your meds.”

Rozanov rolled his eyes extravagantly. “Yes, Nurse Hollander.” He brushed past Shane, resting a hand on his back briefly as he did so. “You would look good in a nurse outfit.”

“Fuck off,” Shane smiled. Of course that’s where Rozanov’s mind would go.

“I have eggs, zapekanka, porridge, cheese—” Rozanov reached for the top shelf of the fridge then stopped. “Maybe Svetlana brought over some sharlotka?”

He seemed to be talking to himself. Shane came up behind him and stood on his toes to look at the top shelf. He took out a pack of pre-sliced chicken that had turned an interesting shade of green and black. “Maybe not sandwiches.”

Rozanov turned, suddenly close. “You brush your teeth?” he asked.

Shane took that as an invitation and kissed Rozanov, putting his hands flat on the cool expanse of his abs. “You should put a t-shirt on. It’s November. In Boston,” he murmured. He didn’t know what to do next. Kissing always led to sex and that was definitely not happening here. He kissed Rozanov off-centre once more then took a step back.

“What was the Russian food you said you had?” he asked, assuming anything he hadn’t understood had been Russian.

He looked around for a trash can for the mouldy chicken slices he was still holding.

“Under the counter, on the left,” Rozanov directed. “Zapekanka is breakfast cake with cheese and raisins, sharlotka is apple cake.”

“Cake for breakfast?”

“Remind me, what is Canadian breakfast?”

“Okay, fair. Zapakanka, let’s go.”

“Zapekanka,” Rozanov corrected, sitting on a bar chair. “In the fridge, second self down. Coffee as well.”

“You going to ask nicely?”

Rozanov gave him a tired half-smile. “Pretty please with sugar on top.”

“Where the fuck do you learn your English?” Shane laughed, opening three draws before he found the knives.

“Instagram.”

“Oh that makes a whole lot of sense.”

Silence fell as Shane went about making coffee, the clank of the cups loud as he put them down harder than he’d meant to. The coffee machine ground away while Shane found plates and cutlery. Serving first Rozanov and then himself, he sat down a chair away from Rozanov and took a bite of the cake. It was good: cheesy and thick, with tart raisins dotted inside.

“You speak Japanese?” Rozanov asked.

“Er, no. I think my grandparents wanted me to learn so my mom put me in Japanese school on a Saturday morning but then there was hockey practice and my grandparents died when I was young, so…”

“But French.”

“Oh yeah, school was in French but my parents mostly spoke English at home.” Shane explained. “You speak any other languages?”

“Only Russian.”

“And English.”

Rozanov snorted dismissively. “Barely.”

“Don't be ridiculous,” Shane half-laughed. “You're fluent!”

Rozanov didn't reply, eating his last bite of cake then sitting back in his bar stool. He was still supermodel beautiful, but traces of fatigue and pain were visible in the tightness of his jaw.

Shane couldn't read his expression, but he shifted in his chair, searching for another topic of conversation.

“I'll get your meds,” he said, already halfway to standing. The rattle of the bottles filled the cavernous space, and Shane took his time counting out each one.

The phone interview on Sunday morning was so by the numbers Shane could have done it in his sleep. Once he’d said his goodbyes and put the phone down, he went over his answers in his head. Maybe he should have put more effort into making his answers unique. It was just that the questions were always exactly the same and he’d found a groove where he felt confident in what he was saying, but maybe that was boring. PR probably would have mentioned it if they didn’t like his interviews though, and Jen was always unfailingly sweet to him.

“Finished?” Rozanov asked from the doorway, wearing actual clothes and even socks.

“Yeah. What were you going to do if I hadn’t been?”

“Say hi.”

Shane gave him a look that he hoped conveyed what he felt about that.

“Anyway, some of the team are here.”

“And they know I’m here?”

“Don’t know: can’t ask, can I?” Rozanov explained, slowly. “But come down and see if they look surprised, then we’ll know.”

Shane gave him another look, but Rozanov only smiled and offered his hand. Shane took it but didn’t let Rozanov take any of his weight as he stood.

“Who’s here?”

“Marly, Laine, and Sebby.”

The only thing he knew about Sebby was that he had a lousy backhand but could park himself in front of the net and make any goalie miserable.

“Maybe they won’t recognise me,” Shane said quietly as they went down the stairs.

“Yes, very likely,” Rozanov agreed. “I introduce you as friend of the family. Just say da every so often. Be fine.”

It probably wasn’t going to be fine, but at least he was smiling when he entered the living area.

“Hey man,” Laine greeted him. “What the fuck is up with Houston? That game was brutal.”

“Yeah,” Shane agreed, more grateful than he could have imagined to be talking about a game he’d lost. “I honestly don’t know how we got those two goals. Their defense was a brick wall.”

Shane sat at the opposite end of the sofa to Rozanov, who kicked up his feet and put them in Shane’s lap, as if he did it every day. Shane put one hand on Rozanov’s ankle in a way that he hoped seemed natural.

“It’s Duchane and Matts,” Rozanov informed them. “They became telepathic over summer break.”

No-one’s eyes even flickered to Roznov’s feet, resting two inches from Shane dick. Maybe he did this to everyone.

Shane joined in the conversation when he knew what they were talking about and stayed quiet when they strayed into team-joke territory. Laine seemed to be the target of most chirps, though he took them all with an even good nature that no-one who’d seen him on the ice would expect from him. They stayed only another forty-five minutes, perhaps just enough to make sure that Shane wasn’t doing anything untoward to their captain. I don’t think Rozanov is allowed to fuck with a sprained spine, he considered telling them.

He let Rozanov see them to the door, busying himself with clearing up the beers and coffee cups.

“They seemed chill,” he commented when Rozanov came back in. He’d apparently lost his socks somewhere between the front door and the kitchen.

“They are good teammates, I get them two cups.”

“What? They clearly love you because you’re you, not only because you’re a good player.”

“Best player.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Shane replied.

They'd already done the Fedorov vs Yzerman debate that Shane had absolutely won, which had devolved into a fantasy hockey game where Rozanov had kept changing the rules. No way was he getting into another debate.

“You want to watch something?” Shane offered.

“Yes, but in Russian. You can read subtitles.”

“Sure.”

Which was how he ended up watching a weird, ultra-violent 90s movie with a main character who said basically six lines and a plot that never really seemed to resolve into anything. What didn’t help was that Rozanov was rapt, his mouth slightly parted and his fingers flexing on the armrest every-so-often. He held his breath in a few places, letting it out with a soft pant after long seconds. A jaunty, upbeat song started and Shane turned back to the screen: a white snow-covered country road winding on through stark wilderness before the credits rolled.

“Hey,” Shane started, sitting down next to Rozanov who'd been scrolling through Instagram for the last forever. “Pull your calendar up.”

“Why?”

“So we can go work out when we can next see each other.”

Rozanov did nothing for a few moments and Shane busied himself opening up his Google calendar and making sure all his PR obligations were in there.

“I think I will be able to go with team in a few weeks.”

“But not skate,” Shane confirmed.

“No, no contact for a long time.”

“Okay, I’m off December 24th to the 26th.”

When there was no immediate reply, Shane looked up.

“You don’t have Christmas with your family?” Rozanov asked, puzzled.

“Shit. Yeah, it’s Christmas.”

Shane flicked through his calendar again. “I can come down on the evening of the 25th,” he offered. “I have a late game on the 27th.”

“Look, I can fly soon,” Rozanov said, rubbing the edge of Shane’s sweatshirt between two fingers. “Maybe in a couple of weeks?”

Shane looked back at his schedule. “Yeah,” he agreed. “That would work. I’ve got a home game on December 18th and then a day off, then just another home game, so if you don’t mind staying at the cottage by yourself…” He paused and looked up. “Would you be able to get away for that long?”

“Yes.”

“Cool,” Shane murmured, making a cryptic note on his phone. “Your head coach really okay with you disappearing like that?”

Rozanov did as much of a shrug as he could manage. “Yes, he trusts his team.” He seemed to consider that. “Maybe he would not let Laine go though. He makes stupid decisions.”

“Oh yeah?” Shane asked with a smile. “And hanging out with your most hated rival is not a stupid decision?”

“Maybe not most hated,” Rozanov smiled back.

He should have a look through Rozanov’s fridge later, so he’d have an idea on what to stock up on. Maybe Rozanov would be able to skate by then—not unsupervised of course. Shane’s small rink would be perfect for that.

A thought, cold as an ice bath, occurred to him. “Fuck,” he swore. “Fuck, fuck.”

“What?” Rozanov asked, alarmed.

“I've got an all-day shoot for Champion on the 19th.”

He'd gotten the email yesterday but had forgotten to put it in his calendar in his rush to buy plane tickets.

“It's okay,” Rozanov soothed. “I can skate while you get shirtless photos or whatever.”

Shane leaned forward over the low table, his phone gripped in one hand. “It's such bullshit. It's my only day off in a fucking month and a half.”

A warm hand settled over his temple, pulling him to the side to lean against Rozanov.

“Hey,” Rozanov said, quiet against his hair.

Shane took deep, steady breaths. He was tired and stressed and overreacting. He was proud of his endorsements; of the time and effort his mom put into getting them for him; of the representation he was a part of. These things he did were important, even if standing in a wet t-shirt, holding a can of soda was kind of uncomfortable in the moment.

Rozanov’s voice was quiet in his ear. “Come here.”

Shane half turned and Rozanov caught him in a kiss. Shane always forgot how good it was to kiss him, even now when he was hyper aware of making sure Rozanov didn’t move his head. With Rozanov’s encouragement, he sat astride his thighs, already half-hard in his sweats. There was no way they could fuck, but Rozanov’s hands in his hair were insistent, so they kissed and kissed, Shane pulling back to gasp in air.

“Fuck, Roz. You know we can’t—”

“Not me, you,” Rozanov told him. “Take off your t-shirt and take out your cock.”

Shane closed his eyes, shuddering. He was probably red all the way down to his chest, but he did as he was told, the thrill of the order enough to make his cock leak.

“Good, now make yourself come. I want to watch you.”

Rozanov sat back against the cushions, hands resting lightly on Shane’s thighs.

He should absolutely say no. He was sure there was a little leaflet somewhere that said what you could and couldn’t do with a sprained spine, but he imagined ‘watch a dude fuck his fist on your lap’ probably wasn’t listed.

“Come on, Hollander. Imagine my cock, pushing into your tight ass.”

“Fuck you,” Shane ground out, already moving his hand. God, what he wouldn’t give for Rozanov to be fucking him right now. He’d push Shane’s thighs to his chest, almost folding him in half. It was difficult to breathe like that, but it was so good to feel Rozanov pounding into him, kissing him, calling his name—

Rozanov hissed something in Russian as Shane came, making a mess of both of them. Shane curled forward, bringing his forehead to softly touch Rozanov’s.

“Better?” Rozanov asked.

“Yeah. Yeah, thanks. Do you—”

“Can’t. Want to, but can’t.”

Shane knew that, but he could see Rozanov’s half-hard dick in his sweats and he wanted to put his mouth on it.

“You can fuck my mouth when you come over.”

Rozanov groaned. “Hollander, you’re killing me.”

Shane grinned and pressed a light kiss to Rozanov’s lips. “Come on, let’s shower.”

Chapter End Notes

Ilya made them watch Брат (Brother)

A short chapter this time! I'm excited about the next chapter already 😈

Chapter 3

“Yeah mom, I know.”

Shane had the phone pressed to his ear while he made himself lunch. He hated doing something else while talking to his parents: it made him feel like he wasn’t giving them his whole attention, but he’d somehow overslept his alarm and now he was running almost ten minutes behind schedule.

“Yeah, and I’ll post some photos when I get home. This week has just been brutal.”

He started eating the moment he put the phone down, scrolling through his messages one-handed. It had only been two weeks but Rozanov was skating alone already and was suitably excited about it: Shane had a message with several eyeless Russian smilies to prove it.

He’d been watching the hit again last night, trying to get used to the idea of Rozanov being on the ice. He tried to watch it five times a night, but he usually only managed three or four. In the video there was only the sound of the crowd’s roar, but he could almost feel the crunch of bone on the boards, the crack as Rozanov’s head snapped back. He’d never be able to play against him if he didn’t get over it and he’d read somewhere that exposure worked to desensitise you. He had at least five weeks until Rozanov was actually playing again: plenty of time.

The flight to Toronto was leaving in two hours, which meant he had about ninety minutes before the car came. Enough time to wash up, finish packing his carry-on, and do a quick stretch so his hips didn’t seize up on the plane. After that he showered, changed into travel clothes, checked that his phone and headphones were charged, then set his bag by the door. Pickup was from the practice facility, the same place it always was, a black team car waiting out front to take him straight to the facility with no margin for lateness.

He spent the last five minutes standing by his front door, scrolling through Instagram to look for cute things to send to Rozanov.

Cat videos or dog videos? he sent.

The reply was instant: all animal videos are good videos

He jumped out of skin at the knock at the door, picking up his bag and shoving his phone in his pocket. He'd need to like some comments on Instagram on the plane and he had a contract from New Balance he'd been promising his mom he'd look through.

In the car he sent Rozanov a video of a ferret trying to jump and another of a parrot swearing fluently in what the video claimed was Russian. He was looking forward to Rozanov’s reply to that one.

When he got out he nodded to everyone who said hi, putting his bag down in the luggage bay: second from the left with the zipper facing outwards. On the bus he sat down in the front aisle seat and took out his phone.

“Hey, how’s the phone detox going?” Hayden asked as he sat down next to him.

“What phone detox?” Shane asked, vaguely, still looking for the perfect kitten video. He looked up at Hayden’s silence, to find him staring at him with both eyebrows raised. “Oh, yeah, no. I’ve just got some brand stuff to do.”

“Oh, yeah? How’s the kitten sponsorship going?”

“Er,” Shane looked down at his phone and then back up. “Good?”

“Nah, I’m messing with you. It’s nice to see you doing something other than work.”

Shane made a hum of agreement, sliding his phone into a pocket. He instantly felt the buzz of a reply but left it where it was.

“You need to check that?” Hayden asked, reaching idly over the seat to ruffle Tommy’s hair.

“Hey! Captain, Hayden is starting shit already.”

“Hayden, please stop starting shit,” Shane told Hayden, who grinned, unrepentant.

They were flying down to Pittsburgh for an evening game, then back on a plane early the next morning for a home game against Toronto. He was pretty confident against the Steelheads, but the Pittsburgh Northstars had deep first and second lines and playing them was always grueling.

He pulled up some videos as the bus ground forward, ignoring his message notifications. He watched a few faceoffs, noting who was setting the plays, who was hanging high for a quick shot, who crashed the net. By the time they were on the plane he’d gone through their defense habits and line matchups, noting who their coach usually trusted late in the period and who always stayed out for defensive draws.

Hayden was watching something with fast cars and explosions next to him and he got caught up in the silent chase for long enough that Hayden noticed, taking out an earbud and offering it to him. Shane shook his head and went back to the notes he’d taken, unbuckling his seatbelt to go talk with Mike about their zone entries.

Cliff Marleau: tell Roz to take his fucking pain meds

Shane blinked tiredly at his phone. He’d been watching the hit on repeat, earbuds on while Hayden slept in the next bed. The sound of Rozanov hitting the boards wasn’t even audible above the baying crowd, but Shane still felt it each time. He was getting better though.

Pulling up Lily on his phone, he briefly scrolled up: Rozanov hadn’t replied to his last two messages. Hey, you doing okay? You take your meds today?

Three dots popped up and Shane waited for the message to appear.

Fucking Marly

He means well

Russian grandmothers meddle less

Take them? Pretty please with sugar on top?

Send me dick pic

Shane breathed in too quickly then choked on his own spit, trying to cough quietly. Thankful Hayden didn’t even stir.

Hayden is in the room with me

So?

Take your meds and I’ll send you the pic tomorrow

Hard and leaking

Shane tilted his head back and looked at the ceiling. He wasn’t going to get a semi while in the same room as his best friend and teammate.

Fine

Promise?

Promise.

There was a pause and then he got a picture of an open mouth, two plain white pills balanced on a pink tongue.

Good.

Shane waited, but the three dots didn’t appear again. Rozanov might be travelling with the team already, maybe even skating with them a little. He hoped he was being careful about wearing his no-contact jersey if he was on the ice. He shouldn’t really be out there this early, at least not according to what he’d been reading about spine injuries. Maybe he wasn’t, maybe his team was being careful. He couldn’t ask: Rozanov stopped replying if he asked too many questions about his recovery.

His phone vibrated again while he was brushing his teeth, but it was just his mom. Not that he and Rozanov ever spoke on the phone.

“Hi Mom,” he whispered. “Everything okay?”

“Yes, sorry to call so late. Is Hayden asleep?”

“Yeah but he's a deep sleeper, don't worry.”

“That was a hard hit you took today, you sure you're okay?”

Shane lifted his t-shirt and admired the green and yellow bruising. “It was a clean hit: it wasn’t so bad.”

“Have you had a chance to read through the contract?”

“No, sorry Mom. I’m just not in the right headspace right now.”

“Of course, I understand. You keep your head in the game, okay? We love you.”

“Love you too.”

Shane leant against the sink as he brushed his teeth. The losses against Pittsburgh and Toronto had been demoralising, but they were making headway by keeping their defense strong and structured. They’d won their last four games, Shane scoring at least one goal in every game.

He pulled out his phone and scrolled back through his messages. Rozanov had liked every animal video he’d sent him, but he’d actually commented on the odd animals being friends videos. His favourite, judging by the number of smilies, was the one with the cat who was looking after some chicks alongside her own kittens, and also anything with baby bats.

Baby bats were pretty cute.

His fingers hovered over the keyboard but he couldn't think of a way to restart the conversation. December 18th was just over two weeks away: it was too far ahead to ask if they were still on. Rozanov might not have asked for permission yet, or he might not know his physio schedule. He’d wait another week. He opened his calendar and put an oblique reminder instead.

Shane had tried watching tape, playing a game on his phone, scrolling Facebook, and taking photos for Instagram, all without much success. Rozanov was in the air right now. He’d be arriving at the airport in about thirty minutes, then it would take another thirty to get out of the airport, and then it was a forty minute taxi ride.

He took out his phone, scrolled down to Lily, then put it back in his pocket. He wasn’t going to read the conversation again. He’d already jerked off in the shower that morning and he didn’t have time now anyway. God, he really needed to be fucked. He really needed Rozanov to fuck him.

Rozanov still couldn’t move his neck and shoulders so much but he’d assured Shane he was cleared for sex. Just not ‘bed breaking sex or orgies’, according to the Bear’s physio. Last night he’d been trying to act normal on the bus back while Rozanov had sent suggestions for possible sexual positions. Shane had agreed to ride him just to shut him up.

He’d be landing in fifteen minutes.

Standing, he went down to his gym. Putting a timer on, he stripped off his sweatshirt and got on the treadmill. Usually he’d listen to music, or sometimes a podcast—the one he was listening to at the moment was the history of Hollywood, which was interesting and kind of horrifying—but today he ran in silence, counting his steps under his breath.

When his alarm went off forty minutes later, he was dripping with sweat but by the time he’d taken a shower then that’d be another twenty minutes or so. He made himself stretch, his eyes on his phone. Rozanov probably wouldn’t text to say he’d landed: Shane knew his flight times, that was enough.

When the doorbell rang Shane was already opening the door, stepping back to let Rozanov take his shoes off and put his bag down before he kissed him.

“Fuck, Hollander,” Rozanov murmurred, pushing him back against the wall and taking control of the kiss.

It was clear that Rozanov couldn’t move as sharply as he normally did, but it was still good enough to make Shane moan, already getting hard in his sweats.

Rozanov pulled back, but only to say, “show me your bedroom before I fuck you on the floor.”

Shane put his head down on Rozanov’s shoulder and took a steadying breath before leading him deeper into the house, up the main stairs and to the master bedroom. He expected Rozanov to make a comment about how neatly the bed was made, but he just pushed Shane down and started to strip.

“Hurry up and get naked,” he ordered, and Shane scrambled to obey, shoving his clothes onto a nearby chair instead of folding them. He took the lube off the side table while Rozanov was still taking off his socks and rubbed it between two fingers before reaching down between his legs.

“What are you fucking doing?” he complained. “Taking off one item at a time? Get over here.”

“Hmm, I like you desperate.”

Shane was absolutely going to swear at him, but he felt too good about the way Rozanov was smiling at him right now.

Rozanov kissed him then got on his back, batting Shane’s hands away when he tried to rearrange the pillows. “Just get up here,” he complained, urging Shane up so that Rozanov could get two lubed fingers into his ass. Shane bit his lip and tensed his thighs in an attempt not to push back.

“You're loose already, did you finger yourself today?”

“Ah—yes. In the shower. Hurry up.”

“And what did you think of?”

“Cliff Marleau.”

Rozanov laughed, his eyes creasing sweetly. “Not true.” He bent his fingers slightly and Shane moaned.

“Just fuck me.”

“I told you,” Rozanov said as he slowly withdrew his fingers. “You need to fuck yourself this time.”

“Yeah, yeah. You okay?”

“Yes,” Rozanov dismissed. “Sit on my cock already.”

It took a little more shifting around to make that order a reality, Shane trying to control whatever his expression was doing as he fucked himself in short thrusts until he was fully seated, one of Rozanov’s large hands massaging his chest.

“Fuck. This is better than rehab.”

Shane huffed out a laugh, then rolled his hips: they moaned in tandem. He remained aware of Rozanov’s injury, but it was difficult to slow down or check in when he was encouraging Shane to fuck himself hard, bringing his hips up to meet Shane’s thrusts. He always forgot how good it was, how well they worked together.

“I’m going to—”

“Yes,” Rozanov gritted out, clearly fighting his own orgasm. “Come for me.”

Shane lost some time, grinding down hard, full and overloaded with pleasure.

“God, fuck,” he breathed, leaning over Rozanov to kiss him, Rozanov needlessly keeping him in place with a hand splayed across his lower jaw.

“You okay?” he asked, pulling back a little.

“Yes, yes. God, you and Marly.”

Shane pushed himself up, wincing at the never-pleasant sensation of Rozanov’s dick sliding out of him.

“I’ll get something to clean you up.”

In the bathroom he rang out a washcloth with warm water, placing it in Rozanov's outstretched hand back in the bedroom. Rozanov wiped himself down then made an impatient gesture that presumably meant come here.

Shane settled next to him, under his arm.

“You know this is dangerous for me?” Rozanov asked, quietly, punctuating the question with a kiss to Shane’s hair.

“Like, for your injury?”

“No, I mean this, us, it is dangerous for me. I would never be able to go back to Russia if people knew.”

“Yeah, I’d heard something like that, but no-one is ever going to know. We're careful.”

“Ever?”

Shane shifted, turning so he was propped up on one arm. It was those what ifs that kept him awake at night. The hospital had been the stupidest thing, but that wasn't going to happen again.

“Not if we keep being careful.”

Rozanov sighed, explosively. “So, what. We hide for our whole careers and then, what? Move in together and pretend to be buddies?”

“Who said anything about moving in together?” Shane laughed. The idea was ridiculous: what would he tell his family?

Rozanov looked at him for a long, uncomfortable moment, then rolled out of bed and went into the en suite, the bolt sounding behind him.

Shane fell back on the pillows and put a hand over his eyes. Did Rozanov really expect them to move in together one day? They were hardly even friends, let alone—

He was pretty sure his parents expected grandkids.

Rozanov came back out, fully dressed. He went through the room and out into the hall without looking at Shane.

“Hey—,” Shane started, then threw himself out the door, pushing his arms into his dressing as he thundered down the stairs. “What—?”

Rozanov had his coat on and was in the process of lacing up his boots.

“What are you doing?”

“Going.”

“What? Why? You've only just got here.”

The look Rozanov gave Shane was one of pure disgust. “Fuck off, Hollander.”

Rozanov stood and Shane put a hand on his arm. “Please, Rozanov. Please, tell me what's wrong.”

“Tell you? You tell me, Hollander. Why are you shaking? Why are you so afraid of me leaving? Do you even know?”

He was shaking: a fine tremor that made him feel terrible, like he might throw up or burst into tears. He felt like he had in that elevator, searching for the right floor, the right place to be.

“Listen, I didn't know how bad it would be for you if this got out but I understand now and I'll be more careful, I promise.”

Rozanov shook off his arm.

“Fuck, please. Rozanov. Ilya!”

The door slammed shut: he was gone.

Chapter 4

Chapter Notes

Warning: featuring Shane's disordered eating.

Shane went downstairs and ran 16 kilometers, the cold air-conditioned air burning as it whistled in and out of his throat. He’d pre-prepared his lunch but he’d worked hard enough that he’d need more protein. Rummaging around his kitchen, he found some kitchen scales and weighed an empty tupperware tub before putting in the chicken breast. The numbers wavered, unsettled. He tapped the side of the tub and the numbers spiked but still didn’t remain steady. Taking a deep breath, Shane picked up the tub with the chicken and put it on the side before throwing the scale as hard as he could against the wall. Two batteries exploded out of it and one smooth side cracked open, revealing tangled wires underneath.

Stepping over it all he left the unweighed chicken on the kitchen side. He went into the living room and opened his laptop, searching until he found a chef’s scale, accurate to the gram, with overnight delivery.

He needed to get his shit together. He’d been letting things slide, dodging his mom’s calls, neglecting his duties. Opening his emails, he scrolled down to the last forwarded email from his mom and downloaded the New Balance contract she’d sent him. Hunched over, he read it through from start to finish before signing it and sending it back to her with an apology for taking so long.

With feverish motivation he went through the rest of his inbox, sorting everything into newly created files and downloading contracts when he found them. After that was done he created a spreadsheet and noted down all his contractual responsibilities, messing around with colour coding for a while until it looked somewhat professional.

It was dark by then, winter nights coming on fast.

Dinner was chicken on quinoa with steamed vegetables. He felt bad putting the other chicken breast in the trash, but it had been out for more than four hours and was likely crawling with bacteria. The scales went into the trash too, but they didn’t work so that was fine. Tomorrow morning he’d re-weigh all his pre-made lunches and then order groceries so he could do his dinners as well. He was usually more flexible about what he ate for dinner but with his new contract he wouldn’t have time to be fucking around with making decisions about what to eat. He didn’t need to anyway: that was the point of the diet the trainers gave them—everything had already been worked out for him.

Sleep didn’t come easily. He had a text from Hayden that he replied to, and one from his dad that he liked without really reading. Nothing from Rozanov but that wasn’t surprising. It had been a stupid idea to ask him to come to the cottage. At least this way they’d both got what they needed and could go back to their responsibilities. Maybe Rozanov wouldn’t have been able to stay for the full three days anyway. Boston was flying out to play Pittsburg tomorrow and Rozanov likely had to go with them.

The sheets on his bed were cool to the touch and he shivered. He had an extra throw over the end of the couch, but it seemed far too much effort to get up again. He folded the comforter over in two instead, lying on one side of the bed under its bulk.

Outside an owl, maybe a screech owl by the wavering sound, called out again and again.

The Metros were on an eight-game winning streak and Shane was leading the way. He’d scored hat tricks in the last two games, edging his goal scoring average out to 0.92. The media were rabid about it, desperate for some singular change or routine that they could point to, something they could write headlines about.

“We thought they weren’t going to let you go,” JJ joked as Shane got on the bus, sitting down heavily next to Hayden.

“So what’s new, Shane? New stick? New tape job?” Tommy asked in an officious voice.

Shane laughed with the others, but didn't reply, closing his eyes for the short trip to the hotel. February in Cleveland was miserable, the wind coming off Lake Erie dragging the temperature down into the minus double digits. At the hotel, he dumped his bags with Hayden then went down to the dining room where Tamara pointed him to the end of the table, where the plain meat and rice was. It was annoying that he couldn’t weigh anything on the road, but he’d yet to come up with a reason to do so, at least one that wouldn’t end up with him answering a lot of follow-up questions from the nutritional team.

He sat down with his chicken, rice and broccoli, two boiled eggs on the side. Hayden sat down next to him, some kind of curry steaming fragrance over his rice.

“Hey, Shane. You doing okay?” Hayden asked, apropos of nothing as far as Shane could tell.

“Yeah,” Shane replied. Maybe he hadn’t been checking in with his teammates as much as he should. “How about you?” he added.

“Me? Yeah, I’m all good.”

“And Jackie? And the kids?”

“They’re great.”

“Good.”

He took a bite of his food, chewing it to mush before swallowing. Hayden hadn’t started yet, still fiddling with his fork. JJ sat down opposite them, his plate piled twice as high as Hayden’s.

“How’s the new diet working out for you?” Hayden asked while JJ dug in.

“Great, yeah. I mean, it’s not really new. But, yeah, I think it’s really giving me the boost I need.”

“Oh yeah, do you think I should try it?”

Shane laughed, then stopped when he realised Hayden was serious. “No! I mean, no, you don’t need to do that.”

“It’s been good for you though, right?” JJ asked, also apparently serious.

Shane looked between them, his fork still half-way to his mouth. “Yeah, but you guys should follow what the nutritionists are telling you, they know their stuff.”

“And they told you no alcohol or sugar ever? Seems kind of unfair to me.”

“They didn’t—” he stopped. “I mean, it’s a choice, you know? They know it works for me to do it like this.”

“Well, that doesn’t mean you can’t come out with us,” JJ said, pointing his fork at Shane for emphasis.

Shane chewed slowly in the hope that JJ would drop the subject. He loved his teammates, but almost all their conversations when they were out revolved around women and, more specifically, hooking up with women. How they found the time, he’d never know.

“Hayden never goes out,” he said once he’d swallowed, ignoring Hayden’s betrayed look.

“He has a whole kindergarten worth of kids.”

Hayden rolled his eyes elaborately. “If Shane goes out, I’ll come out with you.”

JJ pumped his fist, causing a few others to look over at their table. “Yes! You won’t regret it. My friend owns this fucking awesome restuarant, Mile End, you’ve got to come with us next time, okay?”

“Okay, sure,” Shane agreed, amused at JJ’s enthusiasm. Plus, it would be good to get Hayden out for a night.

Rose Landry was great. She was funny and sweet, sharp and interesting. And she was hot. Shane actually liked liked her. He’d gone home after their first date and had put his head in his hands, relieved beyond words that it had all been a phase: Rozanov had just been something he needed to grow out of.

They hadn’t had sex yet, but their schedules were crazy, even with Rose filming in Montreal. His parents were already hinting at going to dinner together and Shane was excited to introduce them to her. She was such a great girlfriend.

He looked over the order once more, comparing the flowers he’d picked to three tabs he had open with their meanings. Some of them had more than one meaning, and some of the meanings changed depending on the colour, so he’d had to double check to make sure he wasn’t buying flowers for a funeral or anything. Rose was coming over later for dinner, so he’d pick them up when he went out for groceries.

His mom had given him the recipe for a good sauce, so he could just cook his usual and Rose could add the sauce if she wanted. He’d have to give the extra garlic and onions to someone, maybe Jackie. He hadn’t seen her and the kids for a while, but she’d sent him a message with a lot of exclamation marks when she’d heard who he was dating. He prepped the sauce, ran, and took some shots for Instagram in his New Balance stuff while he was still sweating. He was cold by the time he got into the shower, staying in an extra few minutes just to warm up. His hair was damp at the ends when Rose rang the bell and he waited for her in the entranceway.

“Wow! Those sure are an eclectic mix of flowers.”

Shane looked at the bouquet he’d presented her. There were a lot of colours in there, but that seemed fine. “You don’t like them?”

“No! No, I love them. I just really need to know if you chose them.”

“Well, yeah. I chose them based on their meaning. You know? Like, what if I picked something that was bad luck?”

The look Rose gave him was similar to an expression his mom, and sometimes Hayden, gave him. Something between puzzlement and fondness.

“That’s incredibly thoughtful, thank you.”

She leaned up for a kiss, small and perfect in his arms. “I’m cooking,” he told her, leading her further into the apartment.

“Hmm, you cook, play hockey, you buy me flowers. Is there anything you don’t do, Shane Hollander?”

“No-one should ever hear me sing.”

Rose laughed. “Oh, now that’s my life’s mission: to hear you sing.”

Shane smiled, stirring the sauce that had started to simmer already. It smelled too strong to him—sickly with flavour—but his mom had assured him it was delicious, as Rose seemed to agree when she dipped her finger in for a taste. They chatted about her movie over dinner, Rose telling ridiculous stories about her coworkers while they loaded the dishwasher together. She had such tiny hands, each nail perfectly filed.

He’d had a few girlfriends, especially when he’d been younger and less busy. He hadn’t hooked up often, but often enough that he had no reason for the double beat of his heart as he led Rose to his room. She was special, of course, none of his other girlfriends had known so much about hockey.

Kissing her was normal by this point, as was the sensation of her slim arms around his neck. They hadn’t had a chance to do more than this and he tried to catalogue the sounds she was making: what caused a little breathy sigh, where she was ticklish. She put her hands under his sweatshirt, running them lightly over his abs.

He should have taken her to a guest room. Was it rude to fuck your girlfriend in the same bed as you’d let another guy fuck you in? Maybe not rude, but it did seem like something that she should know.

“Hey,” Rose said, pulling back. “You with me?”

“Yeah.”

“Hey—hey, come sit down okay? We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

Shane sat down as directed on the edge of the bed, hands clasped in his lap. Where had he fucked up? He shouldn’t have brought Rose here, not to the bed where Rozanov had fucked him. It was disrespectful and maybe she wouldn’t want to have sex with someone who’d been fucked by a guy. Maybe she’d think he was disgusting if she knew.

“Shane? I need you to talk to me. I can leave if you want me to?”

He shook his head and then leaned against her when she put an arm around him. “I—” he cleared his throat and tried again. “Would you hate me if I’d been with a guy before?” he asked, his voice low and scratchy.

“Oh! No, of course not. Shane, look at me.”

Shane glanced up at her and her expression was so tender that he had to close his eyes.

“There are lots of queer men in Hollywood, I mean it’s no secret how Miles feels about you-” she let out a little half-laugh. “God, sorry. I don’t think I’m doing a good job of this. I just mean that I’m not mad or, I don’t know, any bad emotion okay? I’m worried about you because you seemed like you were about to do something you really didn’t want to.”

“You’re so great,” Shane managed, his eyes still closed. “And you’re hot and interesting and you have really correct opinions on hockey.”

Rose kissed his shoulder, then pulled him closer. “But,” she prompted.

“I don’t know, I don’t know why I can’t just do this one thing right.”

“Who said that liking men is wrong?”

“You can’t be gay in the NHL, Rose, you just can’t. And it’s not like I’m some fourth-liner. There’s a lot of eyes on me and a lot of kids looking up to me. I have brands I have to represent just every fucking second of the day and—” he swallowed hard. “And I can’t feel how I feel about him. I just can’t.”

“Okay,” Rose gently prised his hands apart and took one of them in her own. “How about you tell me how you feel about him and we can go from there.”