Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Additional Tags:

Identity Porn, Sexting, Orgasm Edging, Dom/sub, Mildly Dubious Consent, because of the identity thing, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Internalized Homophobia, Anal Fingering, Dirty Talk, Orgasm Denial, Sexual Overstimulation, Light Dom/sub, Teasing, Idiots in Love, Epistolary, Texting Fic, shane hollander frosting his own belly like a cake, Grindr, Falling In Love, Bottom Shane Hollander, POV Shane Hollander, Good Boy Shane Hollander, Sub Shane Hollander, Dom Ilya Rozanov, Top Ilya Rozanov

Language:

English

Collections:

The Best of the Best According to Tabitha (HR), 🏒Heated on Ice🏒

Stats:

Published: 2025-12-09 Completed: 2026-09-20 Words: 43,837 Chapters: 9/9

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Summary

The ritual is simple: morning skate, home for a protein shake, then Shane strips to his briefs, lies in bed, and starts scrolling.

Or, a Grindr AU

Notes

In this universe, Shane and Ilya never did the commercial together, so never started hooking up. (Also, for you book people, this is a universe where Ilya never got his bear tattoo for my own convenience.)

Thank you so much to greattemptation and Chiquita_3 for their amazing beta work!

I recommend leaving the workskin on for the best reading experience.

Chapter 1: Terms and Conditions

Every player has their thing. Anyone who says differently is lying.

Shane’s isn’t even that weird, as far as pre-game superstitions go. In juniors, he knew a guy who had to drop his mouthguard in the toilet before every game. He washed it out after, but still—weird. Compared to that, sexting guys on Grindr is practically normal.

And the results speak for themselves. The Metro’s winning streak is eight games long now, and Shane isn’t about to fuck it up.

The ritual is simple: morning skate, home for a protein shake, then Shane strips to his briefs, lies in bed, and starts scrolling. There are rules, of course, Shane isn’t an idiot—no face pics, always use a spoofed GPS, and never message anyone in Montreal or Ottawa. Not that he’s overly worried about running into someone who can identify him by the torso pic he posted, but better safe than sorry.

He’s browsing through the profiles in Boston when the message comes in.

Tendrils of excitement wriggle their way out from the heat blooming in Shane’s gut. He clicks over to the guy’s profile and—fuck. He’s built. Big. There’s no face picture, only the ubiquitous mirror pec shot, and Shane can already feel his cock fattening up against his thigh as he takes in those muscles, that light-brown hair across his chest and down his stomach, a narrow trail that darkens right before it disappears beneath the guy’s waistband.

Letting out a slow, steadying breath, Shane swipes back over to the chat.

Shane snorts, the corner of his mouth twitching against the urge to grin. Alright, built and a bit of a dork. Shane could work with that.

Slowly, Shane spreads his legs and slouches down against the headboard, getting comfortable. Warmth prickles his cheeks—and how stupid is that, blushing over a little light flirting with a stranger? He sucks his bottom lip between his teeth, holds it there as he considers what to say next.

The thump of Shane’s heart climbs up his throat as he tries and fails to swallow it back down. He shifts his phone to one hand and slides the other down his stomach until he can touch the edge of his briefs with the tips of his fingers.

That—Jesus Christ. Shane has been through this song and dance at least a dozen times now, and that is not how this is supposed to go. He frowns down at the phone, willing the dick pic to ping onto his screen. When it doesn’t, he taps out a reply in a frustrated, one-handed chicken peck.

Fuck. Shane’s cock goes hard so quickly, he’s surprised he doesn’t pop a seam in his briefs. That should be enough; he should chuck the phone, fuck his fist, and call it good. But even if that would be enough to check off this little ritual, it’s not enough for Shane. He curls his empty hand into a fist, resisting the urge to squeeze his cock, and taps out a one-word answer.

Shane digs a heel into the mattress, the wet spot he's leaking onto his briefs cool against the hot head of his cock.

God, what a fucking asshole. Shane’s tempted to tell him to fuck off, but other, stronger temptations beat it out. Stomach squirming in a queasy, giddy mess, like the first drop of a rollercoaster, he types.

Shane is all heartbeat, every inch of his body pounding in rhythm as he waits for an answer. The little circle is still lit up green, so Shane knows he hasn’t logged out, at least, but the silence stretches so long he worries that maybe he’s already moved on to another chat. The ping, when it finally comes, is almost as shocking as the words that come with it.

And then, before the delicious thrum of denial even settles—

Eagerness vibrates so loudly in his skull that Shane can’t hear whatever whimpering protest his dignity makes as he slides off the bed to kneel on the carpet. He should feel ridiculous, but there’s no room for shame, not with the entirety of his focus consumed by the hot ache of want building inside of him. Hands a bit shaky, Shane lifts the phone and types his reply.

Shane swipes open the camera and, careful of the angle, snaps a shot from the chest down and sends it before his sanity can catch up to his dick. The phone pings back at him almost instantly.

A hundred responses—all different versions of fuck yes—flood Shane’s head, but his fingers hover over the keys as he considers.

A second later, he’s pulling the waistband of his briefs down, low enough to tuck beneath his balls. He’s so fucking hard; the fat, red head of his cock smeared slick and sticky. He snaps and sends another picture because, well—isn’t showing always better than telling anyway?

The guy he’s chatting with seems to think so, considering the rapid fire flurry of texts he gets back.

A groan slips out of Shane as he imagines that—down on his knees for some faceless stranger, mouth open, lips wet as a cock slides over his tongue. It’s the sort of fantasy he can usually only look at sidelong, but in this moment, it’s like Shane has a free pass. Right here, right now, nothing Shane does means anything at all.

Shane’s hips stutter, thrusting against the empty air. Fuck. He’s suddenly so close, Shane thinks he’d shoot if he so much as brushed the back of his hand against his cock. He doesn’t understand the shape of the want he’s carving from the shame it’s bedrocked within; but the weight is crushing all the same.

Desperately, Shane grips the base of his cock, squeezes hard to yank himself back from the edge.

Did it matter? Shane was well past the point of caring that the most he’s ever had up his ass is two fingers (and, on one particularly embarrassing evening of exploration, a toothbrush handle). This stranger doesn’t need to know that, probably wouldn’t care if he did. And it’s not like there are fact checkers on Grindr.

The nightstand looms in Shane’s periphery. There’s a bottle of lube inside, squirreled away at the bottom, hidden beneath a couple old issues of THN. It wouldn’t be hard to get to. Wouldn’t be hard at all.

The moment that follows can’t be as long as it feels, but it’s still agonizing. Shane can’t look away from the screen, his pulse a frantic call and response, shouting down every vein in his body, then snapping silent as the reply pops onto his screen:

Shane drops the phone on the carpet and nearly rips the drawer of the nightstand off its rails in his hurry to get the lube. He stays on his knees as he slicks his fingers, shifting until his legs are splayed as wide as they’ll go without risking his balance.

He slows down, then, despite how badly he wants it. One finger at first, the wet tip just circling the tight curl of his hole, rubbing a little harder with every pass. He feels himself relaxing, the brace of the muscle easing, and with a slow exhale, Shane slides his finger inside.

Playing with his ass has always been something that’s been more exciting mentally than physically. It’s the wrongness of it that Shane likes, even if the sensation has always been fairly mediocre. Now, though, it’s like his body and mind have finally clicked together. He strokes in and out, sinking a little deeper with each push as the clenching grip around his fingers eases into something slick and soft and easy.

Something ready. Readied.

Shane drops forward, holding himself up with one hand on the carpet, the change in angle enough to give him more room to maneuver. The next finger pushes in like it’s all Shane’s body was ever meant to do. Maybe it is. Maybe Shane was never meant for skating or hockey or anything except getting pushed to his hands and knees and fucked til he was gasping. It’s then, with that thought in his head, that Shane’s fingers crook, curving straight into his prostate.

“Oh, fuck,” Shane breathes into silence, only to yelp in shock as the phone chirps an alert. He looks down at it, blinking away the sweat catching at the corner of his eye on its path down his forehead.

The laugh is strangled and wholly unexpected. Shane has to shift his weight back enough that he can stop bracing himself and use the hand not currently up his ass to grab the phone and try to take a picture. The angle makes it challenging—the first couple of snaps are only weird, skin colored abstracts that Shane can’t make sense of. Eventually, though, he manages to send a clear, crisp, truly obscene shot of his hole, stretched open on his fingers, everything shiny and dripping with lube.

Shane’s head dips forward, and he drops heavy, panting breaths into the air while he works a third finger alongside the others. It doesn’t hurt, but, God, it’s a stretch—deep and hot, the kind he’ll feel later. The kind that brings a thick, heavy bead of precome dribbling out of his cock.

Fuck—it’s good. It’s so fucking good. Three fingers on his prostate is even better than two, no surprise there, and Shane kneads at the spot like a charley horse. He’s shaking, his body wracked with confused tremors of too much, too good, too fast, not enough, and suddenly, for a heartskip second, Shane realizes he could come like this. Come with only his fingers up his ass and the thought of getting broken in rough in his head.

And then he hears the ping.

Shane almost throws the phone at the wall. He bites down hard on his bottom lip instead. He’s so fucking mad and it’s so fucking hot and that makes Shane even angrier.

But—God, Shane loves a challenge.

Still trembling, Shane grits his teeth and doubles down, fucking his hips back hard as he rides his own hand. Every glide across his prostate sends a hot throb of need ricocheting right into his cock. It doesn’t take Shane long to reach his limit, but even still, he’s almost insensate by the time he does.

At the last moment, Shane yanks his fingers out of his body, his ass clenching down around nothing in the sudden absence. He drops forward onto both hands, sweat dripping off his face and onto the carpet below. Hands gone clumsy and mind gone stupid, it takes Shane a second to pull together to send off the text.

“Fuck you,” Shane snaps as he reaches back between his legs. He knows he could walk away or pretend or just come anyway and lie about it. But he doesn’t want any of those. Shane wants to prove he can do this, that he can take anything this asshole dishes out, no cheating necessary.

This time, he bends all the way forward, laying his arm along the floor and pillowing his head on top. Getting his fingers back inside is easy enough, but it takes some work to get the right angle again. His body is primed for it, though, and once he starts fucking himself, sweeping his fingers over his prostate again and again as his nerves crackle and spark with every pass, it’s like he never stopped.

Later, Shane might feel embarrassed with how easy it is to bring himself to the edge with only his fingers in his ass; right now, he’s too busy trying not to drool into the carpet. Blearily, he peers between his legs at his bobbing dick as he works. It’s a mess—the head purple and shining and sticky from all the precome, so hard he can see the twitch of his fucking pulse in the vein along the top. He wants to come so badly, he’s so close. The pressure builds and builds deep in his center, and Shane groans as he feels the tightening flutter of his muscles, his balls drawing up tight—

It hurts to pull himself back from the edge this time, and Shane practically snarls, gritting his teeth against his body’s screaming protests. His poor dick might never forgive him, after this.

He flops onto his side and curls his legs up, keeping his eyes closed until the urgency has ebbed. As soon as he’s past the risk of spontaneously combusting, Shane drags his phone over and types.

Shane looks up at the ceiling, strung like a wire between need and curiosity. Again, he considers how easy it would be to get both. Nobody would know if he jerked off real quick and then lied about it. He could have his cake and eat it, too—but, God. How fucking boring would that be?

Giving his cock an apologetic squeeze, Shane chooses.

A minute or so later, the guy replies with a link. Shane clicks it, half expecting to be rick-rolled, but, thankfully, an altogether different video fills his screen.

The guy is just as built as he looks in his profile picture, his muscles bunching and flexing—fuck, Shane wants to bite them—as he strokes his cock for the camera. Shane watches, rapt, hungrily drinking in every grainy detail of the video. The guy’s cock is big; not sideshow big or anything, but large enough that Shane’s ass clenches at the thought of it pushing inside him. There’s sound, too, Shane realizes, and he maxes out the volume to catch every little grunt and muffled groan.

“God,” a deep, accented voice groans, and Shane ignores the itch of recognition at the back of his mind, the entirety of his focus caught up in watching the man on his screen come. He paints those impressive abs in thick, white stripes, making an absolute mess of himself until he finally sags back in his chair and slowly coaxes out the last two spurts to dribble weakly down his cock.

Then, the man leans forward, and the video ends,

Shane takes a second to download the video—only a little guilty about it—then swipes back over to the chat,

That’s…not how Shane does things. Normally, he just blocks the guy he’s been chatting with once they’ve both come and pretends to forget about the app until his next game. He doesn’t do repeats.

And yet.

Shane drops the phone, using his hand to rub away the stupid grin on his face instead. Fuck. This is a mistake. He knows he should block the guy and delete the video. And he will. Later. After he’s watched it just a few more times.

In fact, he should probably watch it again right now. The sooner he starts the process of getting it out of his system, the sooner he can put it behind him.

He has his phone back in his hand and the video open before the thought has fully landed. His cock gives a petulant twitch as he watches, and Shane ignores it. He’ll take a cold shower soon.

Except it turns out Shane doesn’t need a cold shower—ice floods his body for an entirely different reason.

Shane missed it the first time, too caught up in the haze of excitement, but his head’s clear enough now to clock the glint of gold on the man’s chest. It’s a necklace. A cross—

An Orthodox cross, Shane thinks, at the exact same time the man on the screen groans that single word and—

Holy. Shit.

The voice. The accent. The cross that Shane remembers from that strange interaction in the gym on draft day. That chest.

Eighty-one.

Shane stares at the screen in wide-eyed horror and watches Ilya fucking Rozanov come for the second time.

Chapter 2: Firewall

Chapter Notes

Thank you so much to greattemptation and Chiquita_3 and Allure for their amazing beta work!

Please leave the workskin on for the best reading experience.

“Jesus Christ, Hollander!” Hayden says, practically tackling Shane from behind as the team barrels into the locker room, riding high on a swell of victory. “What the fuck was that out there?”

Shane laughs, trying to shrug him off, but Hayden is heavy and insistent, tapping their helmets together before finally letting him go and stepping back to start stripping down. “Shit, man, did you find a genie? Sell your soul? That was insane!”

“Shut up,” Shane says, rolling his eyes, unable to tamp down his grin. He’s trying to be humble, but it’s hard because Hayden is right. Shane had expected to win, but he hadn’t expected to score four goals in a single game—and that wasn’t even counting the assists. Shane couldn’t describe what had happened when his skates had hit the ice—it was almost like an out-of-body experience. The rink had been like a chessboard laid out in front of him, Shane ten moves ahead while the offense struggled to figure out where he was on the ice, let alone where he was going. It’d been transcendent.

“Well, whatever you did—Keep. On. Doing. It.” Hayden punctuates each word by jabbing his finger into Shane’s chest, and each one sends Shane’s heart plummeting just a little bit deeper into his stomach.

“It—maybe it was just a fluke,” Shane says. Hayden’s eyes widen before he vehemently shakes his head.

“No, man. The hockey gods don’t mess around. If you find the secret sauce, you keep dipping into it until it’s gone.”

Shane’s face heats, remembering the way Rozanov’s "secret sauce" shot all over his own stomach earlier. He’s watched the video four or five—okay, six—times since this morning, so the image was basically burned into his retinas by this point.

“I—” he starts, but Hayden cuts him off with another jab into his chest.

“No buts. Get it done, Cap.”

Hayden turns and starts shucking off his pads, and Shane silently follows suit, pulling off his gear with the thoughtless muscle memory that comes from almost two decades of weekly repetition. It’s not like Shane hasn’t been thinking about doing it again—it’s practically all he thought about until stepping on the ice tonight—but it’s crazy. It would be fucking crazy to message Rozanov again.

Then again…four goals in a single game.

Shane’s eyes drift up to the shelf above him, his burner phone tucked safely away under a sweatshirt. He’d been too nervous to leave it behind at home, worst-case scenarios of burglars breaking in and finding it, or his mom dropping by to borrow something and somehow stumbling upon it, or the house burning down and the firefighters sifting through the rubble, only to find the phone, completely intact and functional. Shane knows it’s paranoid and illogical, but that didn’t stop him from tucking the phone in his pocket. Just in case.

The rest of the team is too busy hitting the showers or celebrating to pay any attention to him, so Shane fishes it out and hunches over the screen to make sure nobody can catch a glimpse walking by and opens the app.

There’s a notification waiting for him.

Shane’s heartbeat spikes, blood drumming a heavy, driving rhythm in his ears, like it’s summoning something dangerous from deep inside him. His thumb lunges to tap the icon before his brain fully processes the decision, and his messages with trouble81 pop onto the screen, including the latest, there at the very bottom:

It takes a hard, stinging bite to his inner cheek to keep Shane’s cock from plumping up right there in the locker room. He hurls the phone back under the sweater and gets undressed for his shower.

It’s going to need to be a cold one.

The phone is a brick in Shane’s pocket for the rest of the night. It’s almost impossible to get anything done without feeling it tug at him, a constant pull at his attention as he chats with his mom, reheats some salmon, checks the highlights from the Hammerhead’s game, until the weight finally gets to be too much.

“Fuck this,” Shane mutters, throwing the phone down on the coffee table and dropping to the couch behind him. He stares at the innocuous hunk of plastic, knee juddering up and down. He’s going to block Rozanov and delete the video. He’s going to forget this ever happened. Scoring four goals is nothing compared to keeping his dignity.

It’s a great plan—the right plan—and Shane fully intends to follow it, right until the moment he opens the video to delete it and falls straight back into insanity.

Rozanov is so fucking hot.

It’s such a wrong, dangerous thing to think that Shane braces for something awful to follow. Lightning or a flood or some other sort of divine retribution that befalls people who want to get the living daylights railed out of them by their rival. But the video continues to play and Shane continues to watch.

Well. More than watch.

By the time he gives in and starts unbuttoning his jeans, he’s already hard. Shane palms himself through his briefs, then squeezes a line down his cock, starting at the head, firm little pulses of pleasure as he works his way to the base. He knows from experience that if he doesn’t start slow, it’ll be over before it’s even really begun. He always comes so fast watching guys—way faster than with straight porn, or even actual sex with women.

He assumes it’s the novelty.

The video ends, and Shane hits replay, pushing the waistband of his briefs down enough to free his cock. He tries to keep his touch light, but between the edging this morning and the hours of tension and adrenaline-fueled anxiety, Shane’s body is desperate for release. He grips himself tighter, a sharp, shocked gasp punching out of him at the same time Rozanov moans ‘God’ in that lust-deep voice, the word blurred and rounded by his accent.

What would Rozanov do if he were here? If he knew it was Shane kneeling for him on the other side of his screen? Shane’s hand moves faster, twisting up around the drooling red head as he pictures that look of easy, confident superiority Rozanov wears whenever he gets one over on Shane. And this—God, Rozanov would look down at him, smirk as his eyes followed his eager, frantic stroking. He’d be a complete fucking asshole about it.

Better this way, yes? Rozanov’s voice says in Shane’s head, smug and mocking. On your knees. In your place.

Shane drops the phone, head tilting back against the couch and eyes slamming shut. He’s so close. He can feel his balls drawing up tight and ready, poised at the edge—

Under me.

Orgasm rips through him like an electric current zinging through his nerves, trying to find a place to ground. Shane digs his heels into the ground and arches, shooting so hard the first streak lands just shy of his chin. He moans in gut-deep relief, his cock jerking in his fist as waves of release pump through him, his come hot against his skin even through his shirt.

After the last few aftershocks shake through him, Shane goes boneless against the back of the couch. He’s not sure if it’s the delayed gratification or the added edge of fear, but he doesn’t think he’s ever felt this satisfied after coming—God, he’s almost tipsy from it. Slowly, he rolls his head up so he can peer down at himself.

His cock is shiny and sticky in the low light, smeared with the come that didn’t make it onto his spattered shirt. Shane’s hand drops from his stomach to the couch cushion next to him, feeling around until his fingers close around his phone. Still caught up in the languid stupidity of the afterglow, Shane’s voice of reason is too muffled to hear as he opens up the camera, snaps a pic, and drops it into his chat with Rozanov.

The reply comes so fast, there’s no way Rozanov wasn’t waiting around for it.

Shane glances down again, his cheeks heating. It’s been at least three days since the last time he jerked off, but even still, it’s a lot.

That’s an understatement. Every nerve feels rubbed raw and open, the beat of his still settling heart pulsing in the tip of his dick.

Shane blinks, wondering for a second if something got lost in translation. He rereads their last few texts and—no, Rozanov definitely means that. Which—no. Not happening. Even if the thought kicks off a small simmer of excitement deep in the pit of his stomach.

It’s Rozanov, Shane reminds himself as he scowls at the phone. The same guy who’s been an asshole to him for years. He’s never liked it before—why the fuck is it so hot, now?

His finger hovers over the block button for a long moment of self-delusion, then drifts down to start typing as he wraps his other hand around his cock.

The come has cooled enough to go tacky, but hasn’t started to dry, and Shane is grateful for the ease it gives his strokes. He keeps his hand loose, but even still, the sensation is almost unbearable. He curls his toes into the carpet, squirming on the couch with every ghosting upstroke.

“Fuck,” Shane says, the last half of the word almost lost in the whine that slides out as he circles his cockhead with his thumb, eyes prickling at the corner wth tears. It’s awful, overwhelming, intense in a way his brain is struggling to process beyond a desperate need to stop—even as Shane’s cock fattens up in his hand, eagerly begging for more abuse.

Stopping isn’t an option at this point and with every stroke, the pendulum swings further and further away from pain, that teeth-gritting need to writhe away, becoming simply a need to writhe. He groans and lets his hips start to move, to drive up and thrust until he’s fucking his hand more than stroking his cock, sloppy and slick from the come and how much he’s leaking. He feels lost in his body, untethered from anything else going on around him, but the second the phone chimes, his eyes automatically dart to read the message.

The only sound that makes it out of Shane as he trips face-first into his second orgasm of the night is a small, shocked, keening cry, quickly strangled as his body tenses under the onslaught of physical overload. His mind is a window in a white-out, his thoughts nothing more than vague shadows as everything is lost under the snow.

Shane floats, heaving breaths at the ceiling as his mind and body buzz together, like there’s never been a disconnect between the two. Everything is a syrupy wobble as he lets go of his dick. He doesn’t need to look down to know he’ll have to put this shirt on the heavy duty setting if he’s ever going to be able to wear it again without smelling come.

The phone is still in his hand.

Shane can’t manage to tilt his head down to look, so he brings his hand up instead. There’s already a message there. Fuck. A dopey grin tugs at Shane’s lips—he hadn’t even heard the ding.

It doesn’t even register that he should ignore Rozanov, not until the picture is already taken and sent—too few brain cells left after the mass exodus out of his dick.

Looser than he has in weeks—years—actually. Shane laughs at nothing and taps out a slow reply.

The grin that’s taken over Shane’s face slips a little as a thought rises out of the slowly thinning fog still swamped around his brain. He types out the question in slow little taps.

Horror dawns, cold and terrible, in the back of Shane’s mind. An honest-to-God whimper drops out of his shock-gaped mouth.

Rozanov is a psychopath.

Shane blames the laughter that bubbles up at that on the lingering dopamine thrumming through him. There’s a warmth settling low in his stomach, not quite arousal, but Shane’s not sure what else to call it. The uncertainty is uncomfortable, a squirming question in his chest, so Shane pushes it away and starts typing.

It takes three deep breaths for Shane to convince his body to cooperate and start dragging his fingers up and along the still-wet shaft of his cock, pins and needles blooming everywhere Shane touches.

There’s no hesitation in asking for something Shane wants this much, and the flare of embarrassment is nothing compared to the live-wire overload of trying to stroke himself hard again. Pride is distant and unimportant. What matters now is giving in to this.

Jesus Christ.

He’s—fuck—Shane is getting hard again. He’s never pushed himself like this, never been pushed like this, and the realization that he’s even capable of something like this, let alone enjoying it, sizzles through him. God. What else could Rozanov push him to do?

Shane has to grit his teeth as blood rushes into his cock, the lazy, thickening swell now a hot, hard ache. He’s seen that in porn, heard guys on the team joke about it, but part of him had never really believed it was the kind of thing people actually do. The thought of Rozanov between his legs, licking him like that—licking inside him—

He bites down hard on his lip as he starts twisting his wrist with purpose, actually chasing his orgasm instead of just teasing himself like he thought he would. He’s shivering, shuddering, squirming as he urges his body to sink into the too-much trying to swallow him down.

The orgasm that sweeps over Shane this time is a small, gasping thing, trembling through him like an afterthought of adrenaline. He spurts weakly over the back of his knuckles, his muscles barely clenching in the tight grip of pleasure before they release again, and Shane melts into the couch.

Fuck.

Even though Shane’s body is mostly goo at this point—inside and out—he still manages to lift the phone and take another picture. He opens the app back up to send it, only to find a picture already waiting for him—Rozanov’s spent cock, come smeared over the head like it’d been rubbed there for the aesthetics.

Shane saves the picture to his phone, trying not to think too hard about it, then two taps later his own picture is on its way to Rozanov.

This time, Shane turns the phone off completely and stashes it in his bedside table before doing anything. That probably should have occurred to him earlier, but with all the stress, it just hadn’t. But Shane isn’t going to cry over spilled milk. Or spilled—

Well. No crying over spilled anything is a good rule to live by.

The shower unknots about ten years' worth of tension from Shane’s shoulders and back, and by the time he’s done, teeth brushed, and pajamas on, he practically has to pour himself into bed.

It’s nice. Shane wishes he could end more nights feeling this way. A barely there smile creeps at the corners of his mouth, mind ticking to the phone in the drawer next to him.

Maybe he can. He’ll have to stop eventually, but for now, doesn’t it make sense to keep going? At least until they lose, or he breaks the games won record—whichever comes first. Or after playoffs. A few more months couldn’t hurt, in the grand scheme of things. Right?

Shane closes his eyes and starts drifting to sleep, decided. Playoffs, at the latest. Then everything could go back to normal.

Normal is what Shane wants. It is.

How could he ever want anything else?

Chapter 3: Penetration Test

Chapter Notes

Thank you, thank you, thank you greattemptation and Chiquita_3 for your fantastic beta work!

Thank you also to xenakis and galaxo for help with the Quebecois French!

Please leave the workskin on for the best reading experience.

Hover over Russian and French text for translation. The phone is not static.

Shane is still sweating, his post-game shower having done practically nothing to tamp down the heat in his skin after that mad rush of a win. The light from the camera isn’t helping either, shining straight on his face as the reporter asks her question and Shane tries not to squint.

“You must be getting tired of being congratulated, after all these wins,” she says and Shane smiles, hoping it doesn’t come off too cocky. “Can you take us through what it’s been like this past month? You’ve jumped to the top of the scoring race, and the Metro’s winning streak is still holding strong, thirteen games in. How does it feel to be on such an amazing tear?”

“Honestly, I’m just keeping my mind on the game. I’m glad I’ve been able to do right by my team, but every game is a new challenge, and when you’re on the ice, you’ve got to keep your eyes in front of you.”

“Of course, but you’re on a trajectory right now that could land your name next to the all time greats. Your team is only four games away from breaking the record for most consecutive games won. Has that added any extra motivation?”

“The only motivation I need is making the fans proud.”

“You’ll be facing off against Boston next week,” she says, a little sly, like she’s tugging on a string she knows will bring down the bars of a trap. “Ilya Rozanov recently said that he’s making it his personal mission to end your winning streak. Any comment?”

There are a million other moments that should pop into Shane’s head at the mention of Rozanov’s name. A million hip checks, stolen pucks, face-off chirps, and smirking winks from across the room; Shane doesn’t picture any of those, though. No, fully without permission, Shane remembers the way Rozanov digs his fingers into his own thigh when he comes, like the sensation hits so hard, if he doesn’t hold onto something, he’ll be swept away.

“Shane?” the reporter prompts and Shane blinks, swallows, remembers where the fuck he is and offers an apologetic smile.

“Yeah, sorry. Was just thinking about how fun it’s going to be to see him try.”

The interview wraps up shortly after that and Shane nods and makes nice until he can finally turn back toward the locker room, Rozanov’s hitching, obscene moans scoring every thought that runs across his mind on the way. Most of the guys have packed up already, eager to get out to celebrate with friends and family, or just spend some quality time with a few ice packs and the couch. Shane’s eager to get out, too, but he has a wholly different kind of celebrating in mind.

As much as he wants to check his phone right then and there, Shane makes himself wait. Now that he’s using his actual phone to talk to Rozanov instead of the burner, Shane has to be extra careful. The risk of someone noticing he’s carrying around a second phone doesn’t really go away if it’s replaced by Shane flashing the Grindr icon in the locker room. Besides, Shane can be patient; he thrives on control.

Maybe a little too much.

Shane calls some goodbyes on his way out, laughs at the chirps that come back and lugs his bag out to the parking garage. He keeps his gait relaxed, easy, resisting the urge to speed walk the whole way to the car and counting one-one-thousands as slowly as he can until his bag is in the backseat and Shane is buckled in the front.

Then, Shane finally lets himself pull out his phone.

There’s nothing waiting for him—well, that’s not true—there are a half dozen texts congratulating him on the game and an email from his mom. Shane sighs and swipes over to his inbox, his disappointment from something this small somehow crowding out the excited pride he’d carried out of the rink. Shoulders slumped, Shane starts reading.

Hot excitement and ice cold dread flood into Shane’s body at the same time, swirling in his gut until only a lukewarm nausea is left.

Fuck.

Something is wrong with Shane. Fundamentally wrong. The type of wrong where he should see a doctor. Or, better yet, a priest. Someone who could cut out or medicate or exorcise whatever is in him that changes his fuck no to well, maybe in the space of a single car ride.

Maybe isn’t yes, though. Shane still has enough sense not to step over that line, but—shouldn’t he at least hear Rozanov out? It’d be pretty rude to shut him down and Shane has a vested interest in not alienating him too much. There are still several weeks to go until playoffs, after all. Wouldn’t want to risk his streak this far out over something that could be smoothed over with a little courtesy.

Shane’s great at courtesy. Top notch. He’s got this under control. As soon as he’s through the door, Shane toes off his shoes, flops on the couch, and pulls up Grindr.

Shane frowns, fingers stilling above the keys, stuck on the possibility of that. Would that be possible? Would that be safe? Shane had clocked Ilya from a video shot solely from the chest down, but the necklace had done most of the heavy lifting there and Shane isn’t dumb enough to wear identifiable jewelry in sex chats.

Still, there are plenty of other ways to recognize someone.

Fuck.

Slowly, Shane starts to type out no thanks, then just as slowly deletes it. He tries a few more responses on for size, wondering what Rozanov thinks of the kneel4you is typing popping up over and over again while Shane climbs the bad decision ladder.

If you knew who I am, you wouldn’t want to fuck me, Shane thinks, finishing what he doesn’t have the guts to type out. It sticks with him, stirs around in his gut like embers in ash, kindling the guilt that’d been smoldering there. Ilya hates Shane, has hated him for years—if he knew he’d been talking Shane through blistering hot orgasms for weeks now, Shane knows he’d be horrified.

Wouldn’t he?

Without even meaning to, Shane goes back to the day they were drafted, to the way he kept finding Rozanov looking at him during the luncheon, to that strange night, later, in the hotel gym, the slide of Rozanov’s fingers against his own, downing gulps of water he wasn’t sure he wanted just because Rozanov whispered more.

Maybe this is what he meant. Maybe Shane’s just taking him up on his offer, a couple years late.

Shane clings to that thought, ignores the hot, sick burn in his stomach, and picks the phone back up.

By the time Friday rolls around, Shane has eliminated as much risk of discovery as he possibly can. He sets up the camera in the spare bedroom, making sure to clear out all the decorations first, even the throw pillows that aren’t in the shot. Sure, it’s paranoid, but Shane would rather remove the possibility entirely than worry about Bethany Ross of Interior You, LLC ratting him out to the paps, however unlikely that might be.

He ends up buying an external webcam, one he can mount on a tripod to avoid the risk of accidentally jostling the laptop and knocking his face into frame mid-orgasm. He sets it up next to his laptop, which he puts on a small table at the end of the bed, making sure the angle is set so even if he’s laying down, Rozanov won’t see anything above his collarbones.

It’s as foolproof as he can make it, which is good, given how much of a fucking idiot Shane is being.

They’re not due to chat until seven, but Shane is naked by six. He paces, fixes the comforter, tries out some positions on the bed, paces some more, grabs his dildo (just in case), removes the comforter completely, and generally gives in to the crash of his nerves until his phone chimes and everything stops.

With deep, slow, purposeful breaths, Shane opens the message and carefully types out the url Rozanov sent into the address bar. He double checks it three times before hitting enter—who the fuck knows where one wrong letter could take him and his quickly stiffening cock—and sits down to wait for the video to connect.

When it does, it’s clear Rozanov doesn’t give a fuck about anonymity. Most of his face is off screen, sure, but Shane can see his chin and lips and the end of his nose, can see his crucifix nestled in the valley between his pecs on top of a—of a fucking Boston Raider’s t-shirt.

It’s a good thing the camera can’t see Shane’s face, because his gobsmacked, slack-jawed shock would probably ruin the mood.

“Hello, rude boy,” Rozanov says, making no attempt at all to disguise his accent. “Is good to finally see you in person.”

Shane swallows, glad he had the presence of mind to turn off the mic so the audible gulp doesn’t make it across the call. He lifts his hand and awkwardly waves.

Rozanov laughs and—it’s not a mean laugh, exactly, but it’s not nice, either. It’s almost…predatory. “All day I have been thinking of this. Of the things you will do for me. The things I will have you do. Mm. But where to start.”

Even without seeing his eyes, Shane can feel them trailing down his body, hungry and assessing, like he’s trying to figure out the softest part to sink his teeth.

“All of you is so pretty. Pretty legs. Pretty cock,” Rozanov says, pausing as he slowly wets his lips. “Pretty tits. Touch them for me.”

Blood rushes into Shane’s face, which is surprising, given how much is currently occupied down south. He can feel the flushed embarrassment warming his skin, spreading from his cheeks outward, all the way down his neck as Shane lifts his hand and hesitantly slides it up and over the curve of his chest.

“Pretty in pink, too. What is making you blush, I wonder? Rude boy does not like rude words? Does not like being told to squeeze his lovely, firm tits and play with his sweet little nipples I wish I could taste?”

Shane shudders, squeezes, drags his thumb over the hard nub and flicks the tip with his nail in that way that always sends a zing of sensation straight to his cock. With his other hand, he flips off the camera.

“Yes, is a very nice finger, but I can think of a better way to use it,” Rozanov says, sly self-satisfaction hanging off each word. “Put it in your mouth. Make it wet.”

There’s a quiet buzz of frustration at the back of Shane’s mind as he brings his finger up and out of frame—he wants Rozanov to see this. He wants to look into Rozanov’s eyes, hold them the way he does at center ice before the puck drops, and suck his own finger the way he wants to suck Rozanov’s cock. He wants to make Rozanov want it, too.

But he can’t. It’s completely not an option. So, he’ll have to content himself with making Rozanov want something else, instead.

There’s a hitch in Rozanov’s steady breaths when Shane spreads his legs, which is a little pathetic. It’s not like Shane’s giving him some obscene, splayed display. He only parts them enough for a tease, a hint, a suggestion of what he’ll be showing off soon enough, what he’ll be fucking on screen if Rozanov tells him to.

God. What if he doesn’t?

The worry has barely registered, though, when it’s made moot. Rozanov leans forward—Shane can see up to the bridge of his nose now—his shoulder working in a way that suggests he’s palming his cock through his pants.

“Wider. You want me to watch you play with it, yes? Is why you are here. So, show me.”

Shane’s cock jerks and drools a thick drip of precome that dribbles its way down the head. The fucking gall of blaming Shane for this, like Rozanov wasn’t the one wheedling and begging for this video chat, blows right past him, insubstantial as air. It’s impossible to care about anything other than the hot aching pressure low in his gut, the way it's shifting into a hollow ache demanding to be filled. Shane might know that Rozanov was the one who pushed for this, but right now? It’s hard not to feel like the lone vector of their shared insanity.

He spreads wide, wider, scoots back on the mattress enough to get his heels planted on the edge. Shane’s so used to working his hips loose on the ice that he barely feels the stretch, can cant his hips up, give Rozanov a perfect view of Shane’s slick middle finger tracing around his hole and painting it wet with his own spit.

The spit is just enough for Shane to pet past the tensing clutch and sink inside. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to it, that shock of giving in and taking instead of pushing back. It sends his heartrate spiking, makes his breath ten pounds heavier in his chest, but it’s the long low fuck Rozanov breathes as Shane starts to fuck himself with his finger that really rakes over his nerves, lights up each one like overager hands on an elevator panel.

“I wish I could hear you,” Rozanov groans, words stretched with petulance. “All your slutty noises. Everything you beg for. Are you begging now, rude boy? Needing something better than one skinny little finger?”

“Yes,” Shane pants as he squirms back against his hand, before realizing with a lurch that Rozanov can’t hear him, can’t see his helpless nodding—but Shane knows a better answer than either of those. He pats the bed at his side until he finds it, then hesitantly holds up the dildo to the camera.

There’s a long moment of silence and when Rozanov finally breaks it, there’s an unsteadiness in his voice that wasn’t there before.

”Ya tak sil’no tebya khochu,””I want you so much,” he mutters, and Shane can only imagine the type of filth he’s being called if it’s too foul for English. Not that Rozanov has ever shied away from being a foul-mouthed fucker. Not that he does now, when he follows it up with, “You have lube, yes? Use it. Get wet for me.”

Shane’s eyes slam closed in delighted mortification. Get wet, like Shane’s a fucking girl. There must be a reason why he finds that bloom of embarrassment hot, but Shane isn’t going to search for it. Not when he has a job to do.

Rozanov doesn’t shut up for a second while Shane fingers himself. It’s like he has to make up for Shane’s silence by doubling up on the dirty talk. It’s impossible to split his attention between his own body and Rozanov’s mouth, and Shane has to weave between the two. He lets Rozanov’s words wash over him, occasionally stilling two, then three, fingers deep as they penetrate the fog, like a station breaking through the static for a moment, then fuzzing out again.

“Look at how you take it.”

and

“—loose enough to slide my tongue in—”

and

“—keep rubbing after you finish, make you spill again—”

Shane finally can’t take it anymore. If he doesn’t get something more than fingers up his ass in the next minute, he’s going to crawl through the screen like that girl in the fucking Ring and mount Rozanov instead. He picks up the dildo, fumbling some lube onto it and getting it in place, tip pressed against his entrance, and—

“Not like that,” Rozanov says and it’s only the years Shane has spent enduring chirping idiots on the ice that keeps him from throwing the dildo at the computer. “Get on your knees. I want to watch you ride it.”

Biting his bottom lip, Shane groans pathetically up at the ceiling, glad Rozanov can’t hear. The idea of refusing doesn’t even register, only a strange, eager sort of disappointment that leaves his stomach giddy-light as he shifts and maneuvers up onto his knees, only to get interrupted a second time:

“No. Face the other way.”

This time, Shane does consider ignoring him. He’s not doing this so he can fuck himself while staring at his bedroom wall—that’s just a Tuesday—he wants to see the little of Rozanov he can while he can. He hesitates, but in the end, the desire to be good wins out and Shane grudgingly shifts around until his back is to the camera.

“Always such a good boy.”

It’s the first time Shane’s heard those words instead of read them and—fuck, if he thought they hit hard over text, this nearly knocks him flat. Shane’s hand clenches where it’s braced on his thigh, nails digging in as a pulse of heat pushes him close enough that he needs the pain to yank him back from the edge.

Hands shaking a little now, Shane spreads wide in a deep, kneeling squat and brings the dildo between his legs, firmly holding the base as he nudges the tip back into position. Everything is lube slick and the silicone glances off the first two times he tries to sink down on it, making the flush on Shane’s face burn even hotter, before he finally gets the right angle. A rippling moan chases the breath from Shane’s lungs as he slowly rocks lower and lower onto the dildo, forcing himself to relax into the sensation.

The dildo isn’t huge—Shane hadn’t wanted to be too ambitious—but it’s bigger than his fingers, makes him feel the stretch. He hates not being able to see the computer, is desperate to know what Rozanov is doing, at least until Rozanov starts speaking.

“I want to fuck you just like this, rude boy. I want to watch you grind on my cock.”

“Oh fuck,” Shane whines, because suddenly that feels so real. Rozanov’s voice is behind him and Shane closes his eyes. Slowly, another sound filters in: a slick, steady slide of skin on skin. Shane knows it’s Rozanov’s hand on his cock, he knows this, but right now, fucking himself halfway to crazy listening to Rozanov’s rhythm sync up with the rise and fall of his hips, Shane loses himself in the fantasy.

He imagines Rozanov is behind him, huge and real and there in the room, working his thick, stupid cock deeper and deeper. He imagines he can feel the heat of Rozanov’s hand on his hip, the other cupping his jaw, fingers swiping over his bottom lip. Imagines he’s getting fucked raw and wet and filthy by a man who’s been his enemy since they were teenagers.

“I’m—oh, fuck, Rozanov, I’m gonna come, you gotta let me come,” Shane begs, fucking down on the dildo with short, sharp, bullying thrusts, right against his prostate. He’s too far gone to remember he’s not supposed to know Rozanov’s name, but that fact comes rushing back a second after it’s out, followed quickly by the memory that the mic isn’t even fucking on.

The relief of that is short lived, though, because if the mic isn’t on…fuck. Then there’s no begging his way out of this. He just has to wait and take and do his best not to come before Rozanov lets him.

Shane falls forward onto one hand, his thighs trembling with the effort of holding off his orgasm and riding the dildo. It’s a bad idea, shifts the angle so that the pressure on his prostate is even more intense. Shane thinks he might be drooling, might have tears leaking from the corners of his eyes, knows he’s leaking precome, enough to drip onto the bed below. Fuck—if Rozanov keeps this up much longer, Shane might die of dehydration.

“Oh God, yes,” Rozanov groans, voice gone rough and raspy the way it does when he’s close—oh fuck, please let him be close—and Shane bites the underside of his wrist and keeps going, using every ounce of control he has to be good, to stay good—

And finally, finally, Shane hears the deep, closed-lip moans he knows so well now, well enough that he can see Rozanov’s cock jerking and shooting ropes of come over his stomach and down his knuckles, without even needing to turn around and look. Not that he’d be able to, not when Rozanov growls out, “Fucking come for me,” and Shane shatters to pieces.

He goes still, silent, mouth open and gasping as he clenches down on the dildo, every muscle in his body tight like a fist as he pumps his release onto the duvet, then drops bonelessly on top of it the moment his cock finishes its last, pathetic twitch.

The two of them are panting in stereo, the only noise for a long while as Shane comes out of the haze and back into his body. When he can move his limbs again, Shane sits up, grimacing at both the dildo still in his ass—easily rectified with a careful pull—and the come smeared onto his stomach—less easy, he’s definitely going to need a shower. As carefully as he can, Shane turns back around, half afraid he’ll see the camera got knocked out despite his best efforts, that Shane’s face is filling the screen, but no—the setup is exactly as he left it.

Shane shouldn’t be disappointed about that.

Rozanov’s cock is still out, his come still spattered up his abdomen, and a lazy smile still plastered to his face. “See?” he says when Shane is fully back around, sitting on the edge of the bed. “It was fun, yes?”

Laughing, Shane gives the camera a shaky thumbs up. Rozanov’s grin widens.

“Maybe next time you will let me hear you,” he says, then kisses the tips of his index and middle finger, and reaches forward to tap them onto the camera. “See you soon.”

The screen goes black and Shane is left staring at his own reflection—a naked torso, sticky and flushed and fucked out. He’s relieved he can’t see his face, isn’t sure he’s ready to see what that looks like yet. He reaches forward and slams the laptop shut.

The room is pretty easy to clean up—just stripping the bed and gathering up the supplies—and Shane is almost done when his phone pings from the table. There’s no reason to think it’s Rozanov—plenty of people text Shane—but he knows it is even before he walks over and picks it up.

“What now?” he mutters, ignoring the pleased pulse of excitement. He taps the message notification, the phone swiping over to the familiar black and yellow background of their chat and—-

It’s a link. No explanation, just a simple, innocuous link. Shane taps it without thinking twice, his frown deepening as his phone opens to the app store. He stares, uncomprehending.

“What the fuck is Words With Friends?”

Chapter 4: Backdoor Attack

Chapter Notes

Please keep the workskin on for the optimal reading experience! Hover over Russian and French text for translation. This is my most experimental workskin so far. The chat windows scroll, so make sure you scroll to the bottom of each one, and I encourage you to pay attention to the background of the games for little details and fun easter eggs.

Thank you so much to ruth and lately for the beta reading and vibe checking - I appreciate you both so much!

And a huge thank you to Emily Gould - I had so much fun talking with you about fandom, fanfic, and Heated Rivalry. Thank you for being so kind about my writing and supportive of this story. Anyone who loves fantastic writing and fascinating topics, including fandom discourse, should check out Dinner Party.

Words With Friends, it turns out, is fucking Scrabble.

Shane uses his dummy email to make an account and spends about five minutes poking around in the app before closing it with confused irritation.

What the fuck is Rozanov playing at? Shane stews, thinking over the possibilities from angle after increasingly bizarre angle. Is Rozanov fucking with him? Mocking him? Is this some new weird sex thing?

Shane spends all of Saturday morning trying to piece it together, opening and closing the app over and over, as though he’ll unlock some undiscovered clue that will give Shane insight into the strange, fucked up world that is Ilya Rozanov’s mind.

He almost deletes the game request three different times, but in the end, curiosity wins out. Saturday afternoon, he sprawls on his bed and finally hits accept.

“Please,” Shane pants, even though he knows Rozanov can’t hear him. He doesn’t need to hear him to see the desperation in every uncontrolled twitch and miserable squirm of his body. One of Shane’s hands is tangled in the sheets, twisting so hard he’s surprised they don’t rip, even with their ridiculously high thread count. His other hand is between his legs, fingers slick and slippery around silicone.

The entirety of Shane’s world is narrowed down to the feedback loop between his straining, untouched cock, and the full, thick press of the dildo inside of him. He’s already fucked himself right up to the point of no return four times. He can’t take anymore—he can’t fucking take anymore.

Shane doesn’t know how long they’ve been at this. It feels like hours. Teetering here, on the knife’s edge of relief, time stretches and distorts until Shane can barely recognize it passing him by. He wouldn’t care if he could—the only thing that matters right now, the only thing that feels real, is the relief hovering just out of reach.

“Again.”

Even through Shane’s laptop speakers, Rozanov somehow sounds so fucking near. It's like he’s at the foot of the bed, watching lube drip off Shane’s ass and soak into the sheets underneath, watching the way his hole swallows every inch of the dildo so easily that they both know Shane could take more, would take more if there was a bigger cock around to fuck him.

But there isn’t. There’s just Shane’s trembling hand, angling the dildo just right to jab his prostate on every thrust, making him leak, making him that much closer to coming each time, a deliciously cruel climb higher and higher until—

“Jesus Christ!” Shane gasps, letting go of the silicone base like it’s burned him. He pants at the ceiling, a shiver running through him as the dildo starts to slide free, even as his muscles spasm and he clenches, trying to keep it in.

“Look at you, rude boy.” Rozanov sounds like he’s grinning, on the verge of laughter. “Why did you stop when your ass is still hungry?”

It’s safe to laugh. Rozanov can’t see his face, can’t hear it, and if he notices the shake in Shane’s shoulders, that’ll be easy enough to explain away as a symptom of being denied one too many times.

“Well?” Rozanov prompts a beat later. “Is feeding time. Get back to work.”

Shane’s hand trembles as he raises it into view, but the middle finger he flicks at Rozanov is perfectly steady.

Now, Rozanov lets his laugh fly. It’s rich and delighted, rooting deep into Shane and spreading, sinking, pooling, blood-hot, in Shane’s already painfully hard cock.

“Fuck you,” Shane whispers to the ceiling, though the words are meant for the fucking traitor between his legs, twitching and smearing the mess it’s been dribbling onto his belly even more when Rozanov laughs again.

“You are so hard,” Rozanov says with an edge of fascination. “Does it hurt? Needing to come so very much?”

Shane considers flipping him off again, but the small, stupid hope that maybe Rozanov will back down, will show some fucking mercy for once holds him back. Instead, he curls his hand into a fist and nods it at the camera.

“Mm. Good. Maybe next time you will think better before setting me up for triple word space, yes?”

“Oh you fucking asshole.” Shane throws an arm across his face, shakes his head in disbelief, unsure whether his mouth is stretched in a grin or a grimace. There’s a warm, increasingly familiar tug at the center of his chest, but Shane won’t—no, can’t, can’t—put a name to it. The anger and desire are both too loud, everything else is drowned out in the din.

He’s not thinking straight. It’s impossible when his body is this backed up with need.

“One more time.”

An honest to God whimper slips out of Shane, but starts to obey, slowly reaching for the dildo, but he doesn’t quite make it. He pauses, his hand hovering over his groin, close enough to touching that he can feel the heat radiating off his cockhead.

It wouldn’t take much. He’s been so good, for so long. He deserves it.

Shane lowers his hand a little more.

“You have forgotten the rules?” Rozanov asks, light and playful, but Shane knows if he pushes hard enough, he’d find an edge underneath it hard enough to cut. “The only cock you touch tonight is the one in your ass.”

Shane bites hard on the inside of his cheek as he rides out the urge to grab his cock and start stroking. It’s a petulant, half hearted thought—Rozanov may be trying to kill him, but Shane is the one who keeps baring his neck for the knife, again and again.

And again.

Breathing out a hurt whine, Shane grips the end up the dildo and pushes it back inside with slow, agonizing strokes, gasping as his body lights up like an exposed nerve with every pass. He has the volume on his laptop set as high as it will go, and he can hear the slick, skin-on-skin sounds of Rozanov stroking himself, his punched out breaths coming faster now. Shane can guess what that means, but it’s confirmed a second later when Rozanov groans, “God, yes. Like that. Show me.“

Rozanov always gets mouthy when he’s about to come. Shane loves it, writhes and arches as Rozanov tells him to go harder, to spread his legs wider, to show off his greedy little hole. There’s no hesitation, no second guessing, just eager obedience.

Until the moment before Rozanov comes, when he murmurs, “Good boy—my good boy.”

The words are familiar enough; Rozanov has said basically the same thing dozens of times. There’s no reason they should hit so hard now, no reason that throwing in that one little word should drive the air out of Shane’s lungs like he’s taken a stick to the gut.

Later he’ll try on rationalizations like they’re old clothes, desperately searching for something that fits. He’ll decide it must have been the way Rozanov said the words—the slide of his voice like cheap silk: smooth, but clinging, charged enough to raise the hair on the back of Shane’s arms.

Now, though, Shane moans messy and mindless, every thread of his fraying attention caught and held by those three little words.

The next few minutes pass in a blur of white noise. Rozanov says goodbye, they end the call, and Shane cleans up, trying to ignore the heavy weight of dissatisfaction hanging off his shoulders that has absolutely nothing to do with his still-hard cock.

“Find my fucking tape, Gagnon!” Shane shouts, putting on a quick burst of speed, only barely managing to catch the puck with the tip of his stick. He drives toward the goal, cuts around Willy and snaps it up over Miitka’s glove and into the back of the net.

“Nice, Holzy!” Hayden whoops from behind him and his pointless enthusiasm grates across Shane’s already raw nerves. The burn of frustration pulls him around, hard stopping with a spray of snow to glare down the ice at Gagnon.

“It’s a fucking drill, Hayd,” Shane snaps. “Sloppy shit like that is going to kill us in an actual game. We’ve got to do better.”

There are a couple of awkward laughs from the players waiting by the boards as Shane’s line trade surprised looks and Gagnon avoids everyone’s eyes.

“Uh. Sure thing, Cap,” Hayden says, wary, like Shane is one of his fucking toddlers about to throw a tantrum.

Shane narrows his eyes and opens his mouth, not sure what he’s about to fling off the tip of his tongue but knowing it’s bitter and sharp and sure to sting.

“You—”

“Move off, boys! Second line up!”

Coach’s voice slams into Shane, the jolt of surprise robbing his anger of momentum and sending it slamming back into neutral. Heat creeps up the back of Shane’s neck, chasing the realization that he’d been half a second away from chewing out his best friend in front of the entire team

What the hell is wrong with me?

“Shit. Fuck. Sorry.” Shane manages, and he’s not even sure if it’s an apology or just a reflexive excuse as he makes a beeline for the boards. He shakes off a glove and swipes his bottle, squeezing a jet of water into his mouth and down the back of his jersey. It may not douse the anger still simmering inside him, but it tamps it down some more.

“So. That was—new,” Hayden says, sliding to a stop next to him. “Everything okay, bud?”

Okay. Sure. By almost every metric, Shane is more than okay.

He’s winning game after game after game. He’s on track for an eighty goal season, at least. He might crack one hundred if they make it far enough in the playoffs. He’s got everything under control.

Of course, there are other metrics to consider. Namely, the four ruined orgasms itching under his skin and the one Russian asshole to blame.

Fuck, Shane needs to come.

But he can’t tell Hayden that. So instead he shrugs, and offers a sheepish half smile. “Yeah. Just had a rough night. I’ll apologize to Nonny, I just need a minute first.”

Hayden claps him on the shoulder, laughing. “Of course, man. I know that. You’re Shane Hollander. You always do the right thing.”

With a last thump, Hayden skates off, and Shane tries to unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth. Not that there’s much point—Shane can’t think of a single thing to say to that. When he tries, the only thing he can pull is an image—Rozanov, a week ago, kissing his fingers and touching them to the camera as he said goodbye.

Fuck

Shane dumps the rest of the water bottle over his head and skates back to center ice, dripping the whole way.

The crowd chants down the clock as Shane cuts through the Driller’s line, the roar so loud it distorts until any meaning it once had is gone. It doesn’t matter—Shane knows how much time he has and his path is as clear as the net ahead. He flicks his wrist, the puck leaving his blade a second before the horn blares, and the sound in the arena swells until it’s so condensed Shane can feel it press in a moment before his teammates surround him.

“Seven-Zero, baby!” J.J. shouts, smacking their helmets together. “Fucking shut-out!”

The cold, clean focus of the last two hours lifts, buoyed away by a swell of pure relief. All morning, Shane had been fighting the nagging fear that he’d fucked up the ritual too much for his luck to hold.

But, no. Apparently Rozanov can keep Shane from coming as long as he likes and Shane will still win games.

The high of victory keeps bubbling in Shane’s brain all through Mitty’s hug line and the cool down skate. It’s only when he’s back in the locker room getting his gear off that the thrill dims enough for Shane to return to feeling all the dissatisfaction built up inside him. Three whole days worth.

Figures that the game would drain him of everything else, but leave that behind.

Media requests have been out of control lately, and it takes forever to wrap up all his post-game interviews. It’s not his best showing—Shane’s antsy and distracted the whole time, mostly just throwing out trite bullshit and pretty obviously trying to hurry things along. Even still, by the time he’s done with the last reporter, the locker room is empty.

There’s no reason to feel nervous about pulling out his phone. Shane’s not doing anything wrong—even if someone was around to see, nobody would think twice about some stupid word game—but Shane’s hands go clammy on the black plastic all the same.

There’s nothing waiting for him—no sexts or game requests—but that’s fine. Better, in fact, to beat Rozanov to the punch. Shane takes his time figuring out the strongest starting move he can, and he hits submit with the same confidence he feels taking a shot.

Tonight is the night. Shane can feel it.

A day later, Shane sits at the Pike family table, ignoring the buzz of conversation around him as he stares down at his phone.

Flummox. How the fuck does Ilya Rozanov know the word flummox?

Shane shuffles his own letters around and stews. There’s no way he can pull ahead now, not with Rozanov putting down a bingo this late in the game. This is fucking bullshit.

He’s cheating. It’s the only explanation that makes any sense. He has someone helping him or he’s looking up words or—

“—Shane?”

“Uhuh,” Shane says, not looking up from trying to make something that will hit the double word space above the X.

“Hollander.”

The narrow tunnel of Shane’s focus blows open, now wide enough to take in Jackie, Hayden, and J.J. all looking at him. Shane blinks, tries to think back to what they were talking about before he’d slipped his phone out of his pocket and pulls up a blank.

“Sorry. Uhm. What were you saying?”

“Dude, what is with you?” Hayden says, a tight pinch between his eyebrows. “You’ve been staring at your phone all night.”

“I know, I’m sorry. Look—” Shane holds up the phone and then deliberately slips it into the inside pocket of his jacket. “All done.”

“Man, I don’t care. It’s just not like you. Is something going on?”

“No, nothing like that,” Shane reassures quickly. “It’s just—”

“A girl?” J.J. cuts in with an eager grin and Hayden’s face lights up with hope.

“Jesus, no,” Shane snaps. “It’s just a stupid fucking scrabble game, okay? It’s been driving me crazy.”

“Oh! Words with Friends?” Jackie asks and Hayden groans.

“Yeah,” Shane says, surprised. “You’ve heard of it?”

“Uh, yeah.” Jackie laughs. “I’ve been playing it for years. Not as much as when I first started—”

“Thank God,” Hayden mutters.

“—but I still play my sister, and some of the other WAGs. Oh, and Yuna, of course.”

“My mom?” Shane gapes at Jackie, half expecting her to clarify that she means some other Yuna. “You play this shit with my mom?”

Jackie snorts. “More like your mom plays and I do my best to survive. She racks up like 400 points every game.”

Shane purses his lips, thinking back over his last few games. He doesn’t think Rozanov ever cracked 350.

“Huh,” he says, pulling out his phone again and opening up his recent texts. “Good to know.”

“Rude boy,” Rozanov says as soon as the video connects, pleased and warm, like he’s calling Shane an endearment. “Congratulations on your win. Very impressive.” He’s already shirtless, visible from the neck down, reclined slightly against what must be the headboard of his bed.

Shane’s in a similar position, stripped down to his briefs and already half hard inside of them. He drags his eyes over Rozanov’s broad chest, slowly drinking in the details instead of trying to gulp them down as quickly as possible. He lingers on the cut of Rozanov’s collar bones, the hard peaks of his nipples, the dark hair of his treasure trail set between the vee of his hip bones. He watches Rozanov lean forward until his bottom lip comes into view and Shane can see the hint of a frown.

“Why can’t I see you?” Rozanov asks, and from the clicking and tapping that follows, Shane guesses he’s fucking with the settings, looking for the fix.

Before Rozanov gets frustrated enough to reload the video, Shane leans forward and types:

The clicking on Rozanov’s end stops and Shane catches his mouth curving into a smile before Rozanov leans back and it disappears from view.

“You win one game and suddenly you are the boss? You are Mr. Rude Boy, now?” Rozanov laughs, settling back against the headboard. Shane’s fingers hover over the keys, not sure how to respond, but Rozanov apparently doesn’t expect one.

Rozanov’s hand slides into frame and Shane watches as he casually trails the tips of his fingers down the side of his throat. His touch looks light; a teasing, feather of a caress down and up and back down again. On his third pass, Rozanov dips lower, finding the slope of his clavicle and following it down to the hollow at the base.

It’s like he knows how often Shane has fixated on that particular spot, how he’s imagined licking away the sweat that pools there. Rozanov lingers, brushing his thumb over the dip, and Shane’s mouth floods with saliva as his fingers find the right keys.

“Mr. Rude Boy still says please. That is very good,” Rozanov says, and flattens his hand against the plane of his chest, cupping and squeezing the swell of muscle. Shane can hear the hitch in Rozanov’s breath when he drags a thumb over his own nipple, circles it. When he pinches it, though, it’s Shane’s breathing that catches.

“Yes. I like it. Like a mouth on them even more,” Rozanov says, but there’s a long beat of silence, first. Shane wonders at it, fills in the reason with the parts of Rozanov he can’t see. Imagines his head tipped back, his eyes closed; Rozanov too lost in the sensation to notice the message at first. Shane startles himself with a groan, clings to that image and pushes the waistband of his briefs down.

“You’d lick and suck them for me, yes?” Rozanov pinches his nipple hard, then. Shane can tell from the gasp, from the shock in it, like Rozanov surprised himself. “Bite them, too? I think you would put your filthy mouth anywhere I wanted it. Wouldn’t you?”

There are so many places on Rozanov’s body that Shane wants to kiss, lick, taste, but there’s a clear favorite, too. An obsession, maybe, at this point, more than being touched, because more than being fucked, more than getting blown, Shane thinks about sucking Rozanov’s cock. He can’t help but drop his eyes, now, abandon the show Rozanov is putting on for him to stare at the obvious tent in Rozanov’s track pants. Shane licks his lips and rubs his palm over the wet head of his cock, until it’s slick enough Shane can give himself a full, firm stroke with one hand while he types with the other.

“Impatient.” Rozanov’s voice is short, breath gone punchy, but Shane doesn’t think he’s annoyed. Even if he is, though, Shane’s capacity to give a shit is fully depleted. All he cares about is watching the video jostle wildly as Rozanov lifts his hips, shoves his pants down, and that, when everything steadies, Shane has exactly what he wanted: a perfect view of Rozanov’s cock.

“This? This is what you want?” Rozanov asks, wrapping his huge hand around himself. He’s almost completely hard already, and Shane is surprised by his own disappointment. He’s never seen Rozanov soft, he realizes, wishes he could. Wishes he could watch Rozanov’s cock fill, could see the red, delicate head of Rozanov’s cock peek out from his foreskin.

“Fuck,” Shane gasps, snapping his wrist, catching the blurt of wetness the fantasy draws out of him and rubbing it down the length of his cock.

“Rude boy,” Rozanov calls in a teasing lilt. “I asked you a question.”

It takes longer to type, this time. It’s hard to keep the computer steady with how fast he’s stroking himself.

“Yes. I know,” Rozanov’s hand is moving with purpose now, too, a tremor in the video on every upstroke. Shane wonders if his thighs are trembling. “I want to give it to you. Make you come on it.”

Shane is torn, in that moment, between the Rozanov in front of him and the Rozanov in his head. Between watching those perfect hands touch his perfect body and play with his perfect cock, or closing his eyes and imagining how it might feel to touch. To get bent over, filled, held down. To have those perfect hands yank his hair and leave a red, warm print behind on his skin. To have that perfect cock come inside of him.

“Oh fuck yes,” Shane groans, and with one last twist under the head, goes tense, his cock jerking against his palm. He strokes himself through it with slow squeezes, each one streaking his stomach with another hot line of come. There’s so much of it, four agonizing days worth, and Shane feels fucking wrecked by the time he wrings out one last, weak dribble and finally goes boneless.

The world recenters, Shane’s attention widening out from the fading crash of sensation in his body and to the sights and sounds of Rozanov on his laptop screen.

The angle is a little askew now, Rozanov framed like some art house film as his hand flies on his cock. His camera is knocked back enough that Shane can see past Rozanov’s pursed out, ridiculous duck lips, all the way up to the mole on his cheek.

He’s fucking gorgeous.

It’s not a realization, not exactly. Shane knows—has known since first meeting him—that Rozanov is good looking. Hot. Really fucking hot. But this—

Something about the way he looks right now, in this shitty lighting and grainy resolution, slams Shane out of cold objective fact straight into the hot subjective hell that, if he could, Shane would gorge his eyes on Rozanov’s face until they burst.

“Close,” Rozanov hisses and Shane seizes onto the distraction, shoving every other uncomfortable thought out to arm’s length. He wipes his hand off on the duvet and reaches for the keyboard.

And then, before Shane can think twice, he turns on the camera. The angle is perfect—Shane’s abs and chest and sticky, softening cock, skin shining where all the quickly cooling come catches the light from the lamp next to him.

The effect on Rozanov is immediate and zings through Shane’s still too-tender cock, making it jerk painfully against his belly.

Rozanov’s jaw goes slack and his mouth drops open so fast it’s like the moan inside had to knock its own way out. “Fucking look at you.” The rough, raw rasp of Rozanov’s voice floods through Shane like adrenaline, leaving him dizzy, lightheaded, like his brain is gasping for more.

More is the only thing on Shane’s mind when he lifts his hand, drags it slowly through the come on his stomach, then holds it up to the camera, lets it drip off the ends of his fingers—and watches Rozanov lose his fucking mind.

“ГосподиGod—” Rozanov bites out the words and Shane can’t look away from his red, wet mouth. Doesn’t even care about looking at his cock or watching Rozanov paint his chest in the messy, visceral proof of this sick, twisted thing between them. All Shane can focus on is the lower half of Rozanov’s face and how much he wishes he could see the rest. Wishes he knew if, when Rozanov comes, he keeps his eyes open or shut.

When Rozanov finishes, he slumps, loose and languid, against his headboard. Shane only gets a moment to take in his self-satisfied grin before Rozanov rights his laptop and everything above his neck is cut back out of the frame.

“Woo!” Rozanov whoops, too-loud, like he’s celebrating a goal on the ice. “Now this is good comeback story, yes?”

Even with the mic off, Shane can’t hide his laughter. The camera captures the steady shake in his stomach as it rolls through him, making hunting and pecking out his reply with his clean hand that much harder.

I hate you.

“Mm, no. I don’t think you do,” Rozanov says, with all the care of a child dropping pennies off a ledge, blind to the damage they’ll do when they land.

Shane swallows, his spit suddenly tacky and metallic. He doesn’t bother with a goodbye, or any response at all, just snaps the laptop shut with a finality he knows won’t last and slides off the bed to go shower before the guilt can catch up.

Plane rides home from away games are pretty quiet, win or lose. The team is too beat from the game, or jet lag, or a combination of the two to do much more than zone out with whatever movies or books they’ve brought along. Shane usually just sleeps. Usually. There’s no chance of that today, not with the weird, manic energy that’s seized everyone in the wake of their win in Toronto.

Nobody’s drunk—not with a two beer limit keeping them in check—but you wouldn’t know it from the way everyone is acting. The plane is loud with conversation and bursts of laughter, and about every fifteen minutes someone starts up the chant again, the plane almost shaking with the force of twenty-three men, Shane included, shouting one more game, one more game!

And, sometimes, get fucked Boston!

Shane keeps his mouth shut whenever that one starts up, though.

The energy is infectious and while Shane would normally try to keep his head above it, for once he doesn’t fight the pull under. He’s been in a weird headspace since his last chat with Rozanov. The doubt and confusion aren’t new, but they’ve gone from a prickling discomfort, like a splinter in his skin, only twinging when he brushes against it the wrong way, to a constant pinch of discomfort he can’t shake off, except when he’s on the ice.

And now. Surrounded by the joy of his teammates, his friends, his brothers, the tangled snarl of the last few weeks unwinds, straightens itself back into the straight path between what he wants and what he has to do to get it.

One more game. One more game, and then Shane can stop this. They’ll have the record and Rozanov will never be the wiser. And maybe he’ll be a little hurt, when Shane disappears without warning, but Shane knows he’ll shake it off. Besides, a little hurt is better than—

Well. It’s better than a lot of things.

Shane pulls out his phone the minute the plane lands. It’ll be easier to do it now, Shane tells himself, while his head is still clear. It’s a practical choice that has nothing at all to do with the giddy flip in his stomach when he finds a notification already waiting for him: another game invite.

He taps the icon, lets the game load, the smile that’d been teasing the edge of his mouth freezing and turning over when he sees the word waiting for him.

Shane closes the app and shoves the phone in his pocket. It sits there, somehow heavier than it’d been in his palm, drawing his attention even above the still-loud chatter of his team around him. He’s bracing, body held as tight as his breath, dreading the buzz of an incoming notification even though Shane knows his phone is on silent. He still can’t shake the looming menace of Rozanov’s message waiting for him, not even when he pulls his phone back out and turns it fully off, until the only thing left on the screen is the reflection of his own dumbstruck face.

Chapter 5: Peer-to-Peer

Chapter Notes

Please keep the workskin on for the optimal reading experience! Hover over Russian and French text for translation.

Thank you so much to ruth and lately for the beta reading and vibe checking - I appreciate you both so much!

And a huge thank you to Emily Gould - I had so much fun talking with you about fandom, fanfic, and Heated Rivalry. Thank you for being so kind about my writing and supportive of this story. Anyone who loves fantastic writing and fascinating topics, including fandom discourse, should check out Dinner Party.

It’s simple: if Rozanov won’t play ball, then Shane will just need to find someone who will. It should be easy enough—there are plenty of dicks in the Grindr, after all. All Shane needs is one.

Which is why he doesn’t worry about rushing right to it, either. It’s been a full-on ball kick of a day and when Shane gets home from the airport the last thing he wants to do is talk to strangers. Instead, Shane takes a long shower, throws on his favorite worn hoodie and sweats, and hunkers down in front of the first dumb movie he finds.

He leaves his phone upstairs on the bedside table. Taking tech breaks is supposed to be healthy, at least according to Jackie, but she’s pretty dialed in. She must be, because even just having it out of his hands for two hours leaves Shane feeling miles better than he’s been for weeks.

Of course, as soon as he slides under his covers and picks the phone back up, that clench in his chest returns, like the ends of his ribs have suddenly turned magnetic and keep trying to snap together.

Slowly, Shane navigates to the hidden folder where the Grindr app lives, puts in the code, and opens it up.

Rozanov isn’t online. Shane doesn’t mean to check—means to ignore the existence of Rozanov as completely as possible—but Shane forgot he had added Rozanov to his favorites. So when the front page loads, Rozanov’s icon is at the top of the list, no active green dot to be seen.

Why would it be? Rozanov is probably already off fucking some guy in person. Probably has some Boston townie bent over right now. Good for him. Many happy returns.

Shane flicks through three profiles before giving up and tossing his phone onto the nightstand.. He’s too tired for this bullshit tonight.

Shane doesn’t feel any less tired in the morning, but he gives it another shot anyway.

The first thing he does is delete Rozanov from his favorites—he doesn’t fit the category anymore. As soon as he’s done, Shane starts swiping. He doesn’t bother being picky; he messages the first currently online, decently hot guy he comes across.

"What the fuck?" Shane all but mouths, the words barely audible. That—well, it's just bad luck. A rough start. Not every shot lands in the net, Shane just has to try again. He swipes through a few profiles, looking for a good candidate, and finally settles on

Okay, this is more like it. Shane takes a second to shimmy out of his briefs. He isn't hard yet, not even chubbed up a little, but that's easy enough to fix. He just needs a little inspiration.

Shane frowns, trying to fight down the wave of irritation itching its way through him. He wraps a hand around his still soft cock and starts slowly rubbing, teasing his thumb up against the slit, then tracing circles around the head. It’s not doing much, but Shane keeps going.

Shane is, somehow, softer than he was when he first started. That seems impossible, and yet, it feels like his dick might melt off his body if he keeps going. Sighing, Shane lets go.

The mood is pretty well ruined and Shane is tempted to call it there for the morning. He has appointments to get to and maybe he’ll have better luck a little later. But—third time’s the charm, right? One more shot couldn’t hurt.

Except, when Shane swipes to the next profile, his screen fills with Rozanov’s all-too-familiar abs. And now, there is a green dot next to his name.

Shane throws his phone to the other side of the room and gets up to go shower.

They play Boston in three days.

Three and a half if you count the first part of Sunday. Eighty-four hours to find someone, anyone, to sub in for Rozanov. That’s plenty of time. Shane’s not worried in the slightest, and that's an objective fact. If he was worried, his mom would smell it on him in an instant, and when Shane slides into the chair opposite her at the restaurant there’s no raised-eyebrow once over or slow searching stare. She simply opens her dayplanner and launches immediately into business.

“So, next week is going to be pretty packed. Obviously League media is going to be the priority, but I’ve blocked off some time blocks in the later half of the week for shoots with Reebok and Rolex and interviews with other outlets—”

Shane ignores slowly growing pressure on his chest. It’s just heartburn and heartburn is normal, expected, even. Shane hasn’t been able to eat anything since last night, of course he's paying for it now.

“Don’t you think that’s a little premature?” Shane cuts in, rubbing his thumb in short strokes through the sweat beading around the outside of his glass.

“It’s proactive, honey. You know, it’s easier to break a plan—”

“Than make one. I know, mom. Jesus.” Shane’s tone is sharper than he means it to be, than it would be, normally, because normally, this wouldn’t be a problem. Normally, Shane would appreciate the practicality. But the worry and frustration he’s been stockpiling over the last few weeks has reached critical mass, spilling from containment and bleeding out into every part of him.

At the edge of his vision, Shane sees his mom lean back, take off her glasses and slowly fold them. “Shane. Is everything okay?”

The question instantly sends every one of the muscles in Shane’s neck snapping tight. He can feel his mom’s eyes on him, pretends he doesn’t know she wants him to look up, to look back. He opens his menu and stares at dishes he knows he’ll never order and shrugs.

“A little tired, I guess.”

His mom pauses, clearly weighing that answer against whatever she’s seeing on his face. “You sure?”

“Yes,” Shane sighs, shifting in his chair until he can’t feel the edge of his phone digging into him. “It’s been a long month. Can’t I just be tired?”

Something in his tone is enough to push his mom out of manager mode, her entire face softening like a flexed muscle she was allowing to rest. “Honey, of course you can. It’s completely normal,” she says, reaching across the table to pat his arm. “How about we save the business talk until after lunch, hm? Handle all this bullshit once we have some food in our stomachs.”

The warmth from his hand sinks into his skin and for a moment Shane imagines what it would be like to just open his mouth and tell her what’s going on. Tries to picture how the love and understanding on her face right now would shift, first to shock, then confusion, then—what? What would settle there in the aftermath of Shane’s confession?

He hopes he never has to find out.

“Sounds good, mom, ” Shane says, dredging up a smile to offer her. It must look convincing enough because she gives his arm one last squeeze, sits back, and picks up her menu.

Shane pretends to keep reading his and pulls his phone out of his jacket pocket and into his lap.

There are no new messages.

That night, curled up in bed, surrounded by the pitch black of the room, Shane tries again. He messages the first guy he sees, barely even glancing at the pictures and skipping over his profile completely. It’s not like any of that matters; Shane’s not here for a fucking boyfriend.

Three more messages follow before Shane can hit the block button. He closes the app and rubs at the low aching throb building between his eyebrows.

Everything is fine. There are still eighty hours left until Boston. Plenty of time.

Shane dashes forward, keeping the blur of Hayden in his periphery and listening for J.J. coming up between them. J.J. passes through, slides over to Shane’s side just enough to block Mitty’s view, and Shane signals Hayden to pass with two sharp raps of his stick on the ice.

It’s a beautiful pass, lands right where Shane wants it. “Right!” Shane yells, and pirouettes as J.J. drops back to the left, leaving Shane open for the shot. He hits it hard and—fuck

The puck goes just wide enough to clang off the post and ricochet clear. Shane hits a hard stop and strongly considers breaking his stick against the boards. He doesn’t, of course. Shane doesn’t pull bullshit tantrum crap like that, but in that brief moment, Shane understands the impulse.

It’s their last practice before heading to Boston, and Shane is five for five in fucking up this drill. Shane had written it off as a little bad luck the first couple of times, but now, he can feel a different explanation forming on his tongue—two little words nobody is allowed to say within a mile of the ice. Seven letters Shane has seen fuck up whole careers. The worst kind of superstition—one that tastes like fear.

“Hollander!” Coach calls and Shane’s stomach drops. He skates over and, if Shane had ever been sent to the principal’s office back in school, he imagines it would’ve felt like this.

“Yes, Coach?” Shane asks when he reaches the boards. It should be a relief that Coach doesn’t look mad, but it’s not. Coaches have been mad at Shane before, he knows what to do with that. Has the script memorized. This? Shane doesn’t have the first clue what to expect from the tightly held neutrality stretched onto Coach’s face.

“Go gear down. I’m sending you home for the day.”

Well, certainly not fucking that.

“But we’re not even halfway through,” Shane says, blinking against the burn of sweat dripping into his eyes. “I can stay. I’m good.”

“I know,” Coach says—lies—without the slightest stumble. “That’s why I’m sending you home. Last thing you need is more drills and I want you rested.”

“Rested.” Shane turns his head to spit on the ice, wanting the taste of that word out of his mouth. “I don’t need—”

Coach slaps the plastic clipboard in his hand onto the shelf of the boards and Shane’s mouth clamps shut.

“This isn’t up for fucking debate. Get your ass off the ice now.”

Shane's skin burns hot, even under the layer of cold sweat drenching him. There’s an intense prickling on the back of his neck, and Shane doesn’t need to turn to know he’s being watched. He counts himself lucky that it’s just his team seeing this go down—Shane is pretty sure he’d have choked to death on the humiliation if it’d happened during an open practice.

Arguments crowd against the back of Shane’s teeth, only held at bay by the tight clench of his jaw. He doesn’t trust himself to speak, just gives Coach a jerky nod and gets his ass off the ice as directed.

Shane needs to go back to basics. Back to before this whole mess with Rozanov spiraled out of control. He needs to start over, clear out all the complications that've been gumming up the works. It’s not like he’s forgotten how—it’s only been a handful of weeks since things went off the rails. It’ll be easy to get back on track, Shane just needs to focus and start from the beginning. He can do this. The ritual is simple:

Morning skate. (Get kicked out and sent home early.) Home for a protein shake. (Stomach too tight to swallow, dump it down the drain.) Then Shane strips to his briefs (goes to Rozanov's profile), lies in bed (checks if he’s online), and starts scrolling (and starts typing message after message).

Simple.

It’s clear what the problem is: Shane’s conditioned himself—accidentally, of course—to need Rozanov to come. He found something that worked and became overly reliant on it. It’s not uncommon, at least according to some threads he read on Reddit. Plenty of guys talked about it happening to them. Granted, most of them were talking about a more general type of stimulation, like needing to look at porn to get hard, but Shane’s pretty sure the core concept is the same.

And the solution is obvious. All Shane needs to do is find someone who’s not Rozanov, but close enough that his dick doesn’t know the difference.

Rozanov isn’t the only blond, built Russian with curly hair and a big dick out there. Shane just has to be discerning, really look around and find the right fit.

It takes longer than he expects. Shane scrolls and reads and pores over the Grindr profiles of what seems like every dick loving man in Boston. It’s tedious, but Shane reminds himself that the time is an investment in the quality of his results, but it’s still hard to ignore the impatience gnawing at him a little harder with each profile he passes on.

But Shane’s not a quitter. And Ilya Rozanov isn’t a fucking unicorn.

An hour and a half after he starts, Shane finally hits paydirt. RusskiBusiness smiles up at Shane, shirtless and flexing, his handsome face framed by golden curls. He’s not Rozanov’s twin by any stretch of the imagination—hair too blond, no moles, smile way too sweet—but he checks all the important boxes. Shane even reads through his profile three times and double checks every picture just to be sure there’s nothing he missed that might disqualify him. But no, he’s perfect.

Well. Good enough, at any rate.

Shane gets up, grabs a glass of water from the kitchen, and makes sure the front door is locked. He checks the score on the Admirals’ game, sits and watches for a little while, then finally drags himself back upstairs, settles on the bed and starts typing.

Shane’s thumb hovers over the Y key. It’s an easy question with an easy answer. Shane wants this, has been looking for exactly this. Time is running out and there’s no better option waiting for him. This is it.

So what the fuck is the problem?

The phone buzzes twice and Shane shoves it under the pile of pillows behind him so he doesn’t throw it out the window.

Fifty-eight hours left.

Wallowing, much like simple carbs and cheat days, is an indulgence Shane has no room for in his life. He’s headed for failure and disappointment, that much is undeniable, but skipping conditioning so he can sprawl on the couch and whine about whatever gay Russian curse Rozanov put on Shane’s fucking dick isn’t going to help him any.

So, when his alarm goes off at six the next morning, Shane gets up and gets to work—and if, maybe, he goes a little harder and a lot longer than normal, that’s nobody’s business but his own.

It helps. Kind of. Normally, Shane’s body and mind balance on a teeter-totter of activity. The more Shane moves his body, the less spinning his mind does, and vice versa. Except today, it’s like the fulcrum’s busted, or there’s a rock jammed under one of the boards. The exercise slows Shane’s mind, but the spinning doesn’t stop no matter how hard he pushes himself.

Questions keep slithering up to the front of Shane’s mind—about his team and the record and all the deals his mom has riding on this—but Shane doesn’t have much trouble batting those down. It’s the questions about Rozanov that are the problem.

What will it be like, seeing him again? Has he already found someone else? Why the fuck did he have to go and ruin a good thing? Does he miss it? Does he miss it as much as—

The upbeat ping of a notification jars Shane from his thoughts hard enough that he almost trips on the treadmill. His phone is face down on the media tray, and for a second his heart rate spikes, the monitor on the treadmill beeping with each tick up, before he flips the phone over and sees it’s just a text.

Shane knows, immediately, whose face he’s going to see when he clicks that link. There’s only one ‘he’ that J.J. ever talks about with that level of vehemence.

Just delete it, Shane yells at himself, even as he swipes the phone open and opens the video, like he’s sitting in the audience at a horror flick. It’s a bad idea, an awful fucking idea, but the logical part of Shane’s brain has been kicked out of the driver’s seat.

It’s Rozanov’s post game interview from last night. He’s flushed and triumphant, hair wet with sweat. He’s not shirtless this time, at least, but the tight cling of his Under Armor against his pecs is somehow more obscene than nothing at all. Shane can see the hard little nubs of his nipples—Rozanov must be excited.

“Can you talk a little about how you’re feeling ahead of your game against the Metros on Sunday?” One of the interviewers asks and Rozanov sniffs, rubs at his nose and shrugs.

“Will be good to have up close view of Hollander when they lose. Better than watching at home, I think.”

The interviewers laugh and Rozanov grins, looking pleased with himself.

“You seem pretty confident.”

“Easy to be confident about sure thing.” This gets another laugh and Rozanov’s smile is quickly entering shit-eating territory. He shouldn’t look so good when he’s being such a fucking asshole.

“What makes it a sure thing?” Another reporter asks, sounding positively gleeful. They must love Rozanov. Shane knows the fucker received just as much media training as the rest of them, but he sure doesn’t act like it. He treats post-game interviews like a chance to work on his tight five.

And Shane is expecting him to take this lobbed question and turn it into another winking, sly pot-shot at his expense. But instead, Rozanov’s lips pinch into a tight line.

“Because he will be playing against me. And the difference between me and Hollander is what we will do to win.”

Shane yanks the emergency stop on the treadmill, rides the belt to the end as it slows to a stop and steps off, his eyes on the screen the entire time.

“And what will you do to win, Roz?”

Rozanov looks straight at the camera, nothing light or teasing at all in his face when he says, “Whatever it takes. You think good boy Hollander can say the same?”

The interviewer thanks Rozanov for his time and then the clip stops. Shane hits the replay button and watches it again—and again.

The smug fucker.

He thinks he knows Shane?

He doesn’t know shit.

Shane watches trouble81 is typing appear and linger, surprised by how calm he feels waiting for a response. He knows what Rozanov is going to say. Knows the fucker can't back down from a challenge—not even in this.

And yet, even knowing what's coming doesn't fully prepare Shane for the reality of seeing Rozanov's response.

Okay. So they’re doing this. Shane expects to feel something like vindication, but instead all he gets is a thick swell of anxious discomfort. It reminds him of when he’d swiped a candy bar from the corner store, in the few minutes before he’d run back inside and snuck it back on the shelf.

It’s a bizarre, out of place feeling—Shane isn’t doing anything wrong. He’s doing what he needs to win.

Shane takes a deep breath, ignores the awful, churning sensation, and starts typing.

It takes hardly any convincing for Coach to sign off on Shane getting to Boston a day early. Shane spins some line about wanting time to settle in and get in the right headspace before the game, and Coach signs right off. Chartering a last minute flight is a little trickier, but like most problems, a liberal application of money is all it takes to get the gears moving. Twelve hours after Shane says yes, he’s in Boston.

He lets Rozanov pick the hotel, and he chooses exactly the sort of place Shane would expect. It’s big and gaudy and clearly meant to impress; it’s funny, how Rozanov thinks Shane—thinks kneel4you—would give a shit about the star rating of the hotel where he’s going to get fucked. Or maybe that’s just Rozanov. Maybe he has high standards for where he hosts his dirty, anonymous trysts. Either way, Shane hopes that part of the exorbitant nightly rate goes toward ensuring a certain amount of discretion.

It seems to, at least. Nobody looks twice at Shane when he walks through the lobby, though that could be the Clark Kent effect of wearing his glasses. Still, it eases the bunched up tightness in his shoulders enough that the pressure headache that’s been building at the base of his skull starts to ease.

There’s a receptionist waiting when Shane reaches the front desk, which is a relief. Needing to hit a bell for someone to help him get to his dick appointment might’ve been a bridge too far for Shane. The young woman looks up when Shane comes to a stop in front of her and gives him a warm, professional smile.

“Good evening, Sir. Checking in?”

“No,” Shane says, trying to keep his voice as casual as possible. This is normal. He is doing a very normal thing. He sounds exactly how a normal person would sound doing a very normal thing. “Someone left an envelope for me.”

“Of course, let me check. What was the name?”

“Neil,” Shane says, hoping the soft lighting of the lobby masks the flush starting to warm his cheeks. “Uh. Neil F. Yu.”

Rozanov had chosen that, too. The smug little fuck.

The receptionist either has a terrific poker face or doesn’t notice anything strange, either in the name or Shane’s general demeanor. She turns to the back counter and opens a drawer, sifting through a file folder inside before pulling a slim, white envelope out and turning back around.

“Here you are, Mr. Yu,” she says, holding the envelope out, and Shane does some box breathing as he reaches to take it, lest he snatch the thing and run.

“Thanks,” he mutters, and heads off toward the hallway of elevators he saw on his way in.

There’s only one thing in the envelope when Shane slides his finger under the flap and opens it up: a keycard, with the number 1521 written in sharpie on the back.

Alright. This is actually happening. Holy fuck.

Shane boards the elevator alone and, thankfully, it stays empty all the way up. Shane still skulks in the corner, hat pulled low and head down, hoping the security camera isn’t high definition, until the elevator slows to a gentle stop and the automated voice announces they’ve arrived.

The floor is deserted, quiet except for the low hum of voices that occasionally bleed through the rooms lining the hall as Shane passes by. He can’t make out any actual words—thick doors, that’s good to know—but it’s still a little unnerving, knowing so many people are around. That there will be someone on the other side of the wall the first time Shane gets a dick in his ass.

God, Shane really hopes the walls are as thick as the doors.

1521 is a corner room at the end of the hallway. There’s a do-not-disturb door hanger already on the knob. Shane tries to slide the keycard out of his pocket, but his sweaty fingers slip on the plastic and he can’t get a grip. He wipes them off on the front of his jeans and tries again—yahtzee.

It feels like there’s a constant tremor underneath his skin, but when Shane lifts his hand to knock, he’s surprised to see how steady it is. How steady it stays when he hears the muffled ‘come in’, swipes the card in the reader, and pushes open the door.

Shane doesn’t hear the door click closed behind him, not with the blood pounding in his ears. The room is an L-shaped number and Shane stands in the entryway, staring down the short hallway, feeling the looming presence of the bed around the corner.

“I hope that is you, rude boy,” Rozanov says and the sound of his voice, real, and close, and not filtered through a fucking speaker is a cold wash of reality. “Or sexy bellhop, maybe.”

“It’s me,” Shane says softly. He’d practiced, earlier, pitching his voice deeper than normal, keeping it soft and out of that interview cadence he can slip into when nervous. He’d considered trying to fake an accent, but that seemed like it’d draw more attention and he wanted Rozanov to pay as little attention to his voice as possible.

“Good. Come here.”

It takes nineteen steps to reach the end of the hallway, and counting them is the only thing that keeps Shane’s mind from spinning out over what he’ll see when he rounds the corner. There’s a chance that Rozanov has ignored his directions, that Shane is walking into a trap of his own making, sprung by a man who has every reason to ruin him. He’s gambling here, and all Shane can hope is that the risk will be worth the reward. But that hope doesn’t stop the fear from filling his mouth, a shapeless mass that pins his tongue down at the back of his mouth and makes it hard to swallow, chokes him when he hits the end of the hallway and, finally, steps fully into the room.

Rozanov is on the bed, stripped down to his boxers, with a heavy duty blindfold over his eyes. Shane had been surprised at how easy it’d been to get Rozanov to agree to that. He’d teased Shane a little but, when Shane had made it clear the blindfold was a non-negotiable, he’d agreed without complaint. It’d seemed too easy, and part of Shane had been sure he’d walk into the room to find Rozanov, eyes open and staring back at him. But, no—he’s followed Shane’s instructions exactly.

The breath that escapes Shane then is accidental, loud and wooshing as the dread that’d been building inside of him suddenly discharges like too much static. Rozanov turns his head toward the sound, lips lifting into a smile.

“Still so far away,” Rozanov says, patting a hand expectantly against the meat of his bare thigh, like calling over a dog. “Clothes off. Then come here and let me touch you.”

The order robs the room of gravity, makes everything feel lighter, even the dread Shane carried with him into the room. He falls into the rote work of stripping down, then stacks everything in a neat pile on a chair in the corner: keycard, then phone, and folded clothes on top.

The carpet under his feet is thick and expensive, muffling the sound of Shane’s socked feet as he approaches the bed. Rozanov is lounging against the headboard, hands folded on his stomach, just above the start of the dark trail of hair Shane wants to map with his tongue. There’s an easy envious looseness in Rozanov’s limbs but Shane wonders, if he pressed his ear against Rozanov’s chest, if he’d hear the same rapid, thundering pulse he feels against his own ribs.

Shane’s not sure what gives him away but as soon as he’s within touching distance, Rozanov reaches for him. The first brush of his hand is clumsy and searching, but the next is purposeful—a slow drag of fingers up Shane’s side. It’s the first time Rozanov has touched him skin to skin since those two handshakes outside World Juniors, years ago.

At the time, Shane had rationalized the zinging spark he’d felt as some side effect of the bitter Saskatchewan cold. But the crackle under his skin is still there. Worse, somehow, in the rising warmth of the room.

Shane’s body acts without permission, a sudden, suck of breath through his nose that’s somehow louder than the laugh Rozanov sends after it.

“Yes?” Rozanov asks and curls his hand around Shane’s hip, tugs. It’d be easy enough to resist, or slip free, but Shane lets Rozanov pull him down. The blood in Shane’s veins feels shot through with lead, hammering hard with every rapid beat of his heart as he slides his legs wide around Rozanov’s waist. He hovers, stuck in a loop of indecision without a script to follow for when and where and how to touch.

“What, you are shy now?” Rozanov teases, gripping Shane’s hips with easy familiarity, yanking him down until Shane is sitting fully in the cradle of his lap, the curve of his ass pushing down against—

Fuck.

That’s his cock. The hot, hard weight pressing up against him is Rozanov’s fucking cock. The realization is a match in ozone, a flash burning through his body, searing away everything but the urgent, gasping need to be touched. His hands fall onto Rozanov’s shoulder, fingers digging hard into the muscle.

“Good—” Rozanov starts to say, but Shane swallows the rest of the words before they can fall out of his stupid, smirking mouth. It’s not a good kiss—too hard, too fast, a desperate, teeth-clacking mash of lips—but any ability to think or plan or calculate another step of this mess is gone. All that’s left is the greedy call of his body and the answering slide of Rozanov’s wet, filthy tongue.

Shane sinks out of his head and into his body, the barrier between thought and feeling dissolved until every burst of sensation against his skin is absorbed without conscious understanding. Rozanov’s stubble is a harsh, grating rasp where his chin drags against Shane’s skin, leaving tender lines of sensation. The hard-hemmed edge of the blindfold digs into Shane’s cheek and nose, no matter how he angles his face. Rozanov fists a hand in his hair, tugs, and Shane shoves a long, shaky groan deep into Rozanov’s mouth.

“Fuck,” Rozanov says, yanking free, keeping Shane from diving back in by the hold in his hair. “Wait, fuck, wait.”

Confusion tries to smother the lust burning Shane’s rational thought to the ground, but the fire only sputters, dimming just enough for Shane to stop pulling against Rozanov’s grip, even if he can’t quite keep the rest of his body still. He rolls his hips, rubs his cock against Rozanov’s stomach and lets him feel the small, sticky wet spot already leaking through his briefs.

Rozanov’s mouth drops open a little and he leans in for another kiss, like Shane’s mouth has its own gravity, before he jerks free again. “God, you—hold still,” Rozanov says and his hand in Shane’s hair loosens, drags down the back of Shane’s neck, then across his shoulder.

It takes every scrap of control Shane has to resist the urge to move, as strong now as a reflex. Rozanov’s hands paw at him restlessly, with no clear plan or intent beyond the apparent need to map out the cartography of Shane’s body. “You have been making me crazy,” Rozanov says, low and accusatory. “Wanting to touch you. Your fucking tits—” he cups Shane’s pecs in his hands, squeezing and pushing them together, leaning in to suck one of Shane’s nipples into his fucking mouth. Shane grits his teeth, but can’t keep in the long, mortifying whine as Rozanov works him over with his lips and teeth and tongue, until it’s too much, the hard nub of his nipple so wet and tender that no amount of raw determination can stop him from squirming on Rozanov’s lap.

“Please,” Shane gasps and Rozanov’s hands clench hard, clutch him closer, grinding the hard ridge of his cock into the cleft of Shane’s ass like he can’t help himself.

“What do you want?” Rozanov says, pressing the words into the crook of Shane’s neck, then licking them back off his skin.

Shane can’t say it. He barely wrapped his mind around the reality of his want, admitting it out loud feels impossible. Instead, Shane pushes against Rozanov’s hold, shoves at his hands so he can slide down and bully his way between the spread of his thick thighs. He might not be able to tell Rozanov what he wants, but he can show him.

The outline of Rozanov’s cock is obscene in his black, clingy briefs. Even from this distance, Shane can smell him—soap and salt and the subtle musk of fresh sweat—but when he nuzzles in close and drags his cheek against the blood-hot length, the scent overwhelms him. Shane’s mouth waters, tongue wet and ready to taste.

“Oh, yes, fuck.” Rozanov’s ready, too. They work together with desperate synchronicity, Rozanov lifting his hips and Shane yanking down so smoothly it feels practiced, like they’ve been rehearsing for this for weeks. Rozanov’s hard enough that his cock slaps up against his belly, the head already a painful looking red. He wraps a hand around the base, angles it out from his body like he’s offering it to Shane. “Is this what you want?”

Shane forgets, for a moment, that Rozanov can’t see him; not his nod or the helpless, slutty lick over his lips. The yes still feels stuck at the back of his throat, but he leans up, tries to take him in his mouth without answering, Rozanov pulls back, tilts his cock back toward his belly and out of reach.

“No. Answer first. Tell me you want it.”

Shane digs his fingers in where his hands are braced on Rozanov’s thighs as a wave of shame rolls through him and settles as a hot throb low in his gut. “Yes,” Shane says, words coming easy now. “I want it.”

“Good,” Rozanov says, smirking. He brings his cock close again. “Then suck.”

There’s no hesitation or flutter of nerves, Shane moves instantly with single minded determination. It doesn’t matter that he’s never had a dick in his mouth, he wraps his lips around the head of Rozanov’s cock, drags it over the flat of his tongue with slow, shallow bobs. The taste of spit and skin fills his mouth, woven through with the sharp tang of what must be precome. The knowledge that Rozanov is leaking into his mouth leaves Shane groaning, trying to slide down farther, take his cock as deep as he can. It takes more coordination than Shane expected, moving his head and tongue and watching his teeth while trying not to drool out a mess with every downstroke.

Shane is more turned on than he’s ever been in his life, but there’s no sense of urgency for his own needs. All he wants is more of this. He wants to push Rozanov beyond control, wants him so out of his head that he'll grabs Shane by the hair, fuck up into his mouth, make him suck and slurp and—

“Stop, fuck, stop,” Rozanov hisses, and the hand in Shane’s hair is pulling him away instead of holding him down. Shane sits back, wipes at his wet mouth, tries to read Rozanov’s face but the blindfold makes it too hard to piece together what’s going on.

“I thought–” he starts to say, but Rozanov is already reaching for him, finding him blind and tugging him up the bed to kiss, to lick the taste of himself from Shane’s mouth.

“Is good. Don’t worry. But I have more plans than coming in your pretty mouth,” Rozanov says, pushing on Shane’s shoulder until he gives, lets Rozanov roll them until Shane is on his back.

“What plans?” Shane asks and Rozanov smiles, kisses the corner of his mouth, then down the line of his neck. Some land a little clumsy, and Rozanov has to adjust his aim once or twice as he explores his way down Shane's body by touch alone. It's not fucking rocket science, though, and soon enough, Rozanov settles his chest on top of Shane's legs, his forearms pressing so hard against his thighs it feels like Rozanov is trying to pin him to the bed, like he thinks Shane might run off. He doesn't look, worried, though, as he drops a kiss onto the jut of Shane’s hip bone.

“First, I find out how good my rude boy tastes,“ Rozanov says and the grin on his face is charming and self satisfied and deeply, unmistakably fond. Shane looks at him, at the pretty picture he makes down there, pressing Shane's legs into the mattress, and in his mind’s eye, another image superimposes itself over the present—Rozanov in that post-game interview, eyes hard and mouth twisted with bitter dislike around the shape of Shane's name.

Nauseated certainty blooms in Shane’s gut like scum over the top of a lake. This is wrong.

This is so fucking wrong.

Rozanov isn’t about to suck his rude boy's cock. He’s about to suck Shane Hollander’s cock. His rival's cock. And he’s the only one here who doesn’t know it.

“Wait. Get off,” Shane says, planting a hand on Rozanov's shoulder and pushing him back. He expects resistance, but there's only a brief pause before Rozanov pulls off, levering himself up onto his elbows and sliding back onto his knees. It’s hard to tell what Rozanov is thinking with his eyes hidden behind the blindfold, but his smile dips when Shane slides off the bed.

“Problem?”

“No. I just need a second.” Shane says, disgust crawling under his skin as he quickly grabs his pile of clothes off the chair.

“Okay,” Rozanov says slowly, but the last traces of his smile disappear. “If you are—”

“I just need the bathroom,” Shane snaps, and he turns down the hall without waiting for Rozanov’s response. Shane throws on his clothes as quickly as he can while making as little noise as possible. He shoves his glasses onto his face and his feet into his shoes, flattening the backs under his heels and not even stopping to tie them before he slips silently out of the room.

Shane makes a bee-line for the stairs, too afraid Rozanov will come out and catch him if he waits for the elevator. He rushes down the fifteen flights so fast he nearly trips onto his face a few times. Cracking his head open in the hotel stairwell would be exactly what he needs tonight.

No, it’d be exactly what he deserves.

When this whole thing started, it was so easy to see Rozanov as the shit talking pest who never missed a chance to fuck with Shane. It’d been easy to convince himself that lying to Rozanov was just another strategy, that Rozanov would’ve done the same to him if their roles were reversed, that there was nothing wrong with exploiting an opponent's weakness to win.

But Rozanov isn’t just his opponent. And the game Shane is playing has consequences beyond winning or losing on the ice. Consequences that could ruin Rozanov’s fucking life. He deserves to know whose dick he’s risking his career and reputation to suck.

Shane reaches the lobby, eyes hot and stinging from running down all those stairs. He wipes away the sweat gathering at the corners, guilt heavy in his chest and stomach, lodged up behind his ribs and gathered at the base of his throat, spread through him like shrapnel from a blast. There’s so much of it, he’s not sure how he’ll be able to dig it all out.

He can think of a good place to start, though.

There’s no making things right, but he can at least stop making them wrong. He’ll delete Grindr and Words With Friends and scrub every video file he saved out of his phone and computer. He’ll stop all this, once and for all and right fucking now, even if it means he loses tomorrow. Even if it costs him the record.

Resolute, Shane walks through the hotel’s revolving door out onto the street and shoves his hand in his back pocket to pull out his phone—

Shane jerks to a stop so suddenly the man behind him ends up clipping their shoulders hard in his failed attempt to dodge. The guy yells something back at him, but Shane doesn’t hear what, doesn't care what. His world is reduced to a pinprick, constricted around one single, horrifying fact:

His pocket is empty.

Chapter 6: Backslash

Chapter Notes

Please keep the workskin on for the optimal reading experience! Also, both phones scroll so make sure you're getting all the messages!

Huge thank you to CorvidCordelia for beta reading! You are fantastic!

Also thank you to everyone for hanging onto the cliff for the last couple of months. Life threw a crappy curveball in late spring and I've been trying to carve out writing time when I can. The good news is I already have the last chapter written and I'm just finishing up some of the coding pieces and refining the ending, so you won't be waiting long for the resolution.

Enjoy!

Over the years, Shane's been given a lot of career advice—good, bad, absolutely fucking insane—but there’s one piece that’s stuck with him and earned its merit. It came during his first year on the Metros, halfway through Shane's rookie dinner. Shane had been anxiously watching the vets order yet another round of some stupidly expensive whiskey, mentally tallying up the damage when his then-Captain, Brendan Foult, dropped down into the vacant seat next to him.

Shane pasted a smile onto his face, clenching his teeth to keep it in place as Foult talked and Shane did his best to ignore the unmistakable sound of crystal introducing itself to a hard, polished floor, and hundreds of dollars of whiskey they'd put on his tab getting mopped off the floor with a dishrag.

"Shit, kid," Foult snorted, winding an arm around Shane's shoulders. "You've got no fucking poker face, you know that?"

That got Shane's attention, his fake smile going even tighter as he struggled not to take the bait. It was a stupid chirp, Shane knew he should ignore it, but the urge to snap back spread over him like hives.

"I think I have a pretty good poker face, actually," Shane finally said, which was an understatement. He'd worked for years on making himself unreadable, learning how to hide every scrap of intention and leave the opposing team clueless about where he was going until Shane was already there. But it was as honest as he could get without getting called out for back talking a vet, and he didn’t need that sort of trouble tonight.

"Nah, no, listen—" Foult waved him off, the broad sweep of his hand made even more exaggerated with how drunk he was. "First thing you've gotta know about life, Hollzy: just 'cause you can do something on the ice, doesn't mean you can whip that same shit out in real life."

"I—"

"The trick," Foult went on, ignoring Shane, "is to know what you need to farm out. You got that?"

Shane didn't, at the time, but he nodded and agreed, and Foult was happy enough to stagger off and order himself another lobster tail or steak or whatever the hell he decided to add to the monstrosity of Shane's dinner tab.

The advice had lingered in the back of Shane's mind, though, like a sticky residue he couldn't quite wipe away—and the longer he looked, the more evidence piled up, until Shane couldn't ignore the logic any longer. Like how Hayden's iron restraint in front of the net didn't stop him from ending up with two happy accidents when he apparently couldn't pull out in time before he’d even popped the question. Shane’s glad it worked out for him in the end, but he’d be damned if he was going to risk fucking up his own life like that.

So, when his ELC finished and Shane started making real money, he'd sat down and taken a good, hard look at himself, trying to figure out who he needed on the payroll to fill in the gaps.

The first thing he'd realized was that he's shit at managing a real-life crisis. It's nothing like figuring stuff out in a game, where Shane instantly knows the right call; real-life emergencies leave him locked in a spiral of panic and indecision. Fortunately, Shane has the perfect person in his life to hand that skill off to, and over the past four years, he's never seen her come up against a problem she couldn't grind into dust under her heel in an afternoon.

Unfortunately, that person is also his mom.

When it comes down to either somehow explaining the gay catfishing scheme he’s been running on his biggest rival for months now or sucking it up and figuring out this shit on his own, the choice is easy.

But the problem, it turns out, with outsourcing all the stuff you’re bad at is that you never get any better at it. Now, Shane is stuck in a loop, considering and discarding ideas, each one more ridiculous than the last. He could flee back to Montreal. He could go full Howard Hughes recluse. He could fake his death and start a new life in Guam.

A car screeches past, blowing the red light right in front of Shane, a cascade of angry honks trailing in its wake. Shane stares after it, the adrenaline burst dulled, but still enough to scratch away some of the haze surrounding him. A memory slips across Shane’s mind’s eye, a flash from earlier in the evening: Rozanov, the blindfold across his eyes, smiling up at him.

The gnawing pit in Shane’s stomach collapses in on itself, a singularity made up of every ugly, awful thing Shane’s done.

He needs a phone.

That, at least, turns out to be easier than Shane expects. The first 7-11 he walks into has a row of prepaid burners behind the counter, neatly packaged right next to the cigarettes. Shane points to some iPhone knock-off, keeping his shoulders hunched and hiding behind his bangs. It’s wasted effort—the guy at the counter is heavy eyed and barely glances up while Shane pays.

It takes a little while to get through setup, but Shane’s got himself turned around enough that by the time he makes it back to the hotel, he’s gone through the janky tutorial and downloaded the Grindr app. He makes sure to do it over the hotel’s wifi; it seems more anonymous.

I fucked up. Can we talk about this? I never meant for it to go this far. Every opening line Shane can think of sounds stupid or fake or both, but it turns out there’s no need for one anyway. Their chat is gone, and when Shane tries to find Rozanov’s profile, it’s gone, too.

It’s impossible to tell whether Rozanov purged his entire account or if he just blocked him and Shane’s not sure which option he’d prefer. Either way, the speed at which it happened is unsettling—like one of those movies where the Feds hit some company that’s been up to no good and the employees start dumping files into the shredder.

Maybe Rozanov did something like that with Shane’s phone, too; threw it into the river or out into traffic, demolished it into pieces that nobody could ever trace back to either of them. Or maybe the phone is still back at the hotel. Maybe Rozanov never even found it and just blocked Shane because he was pissed he got ditched. Shane’s mind starts spinning out story after story, dumping possibilities into the yawning pit of dread expanding in his chest. It doesn’t help. Shane can feel himself starting to spiral again, his mind kicking into that awful overdrive, like if he just thinks hard enough, he can figure it out.

Shane flops backward onto the bed and throws his arm over his face, the soft light from the bedside tables somehow feeling too bright. He turns his head to see how much he’d need to move to shut them off, and sees his laptop sitting neatly on the end table.

Oh. Oh fuck, right.

Shane lurches, rolls, and fumbles with the laptop until he gets it open. He’s only had the iphone for a couple months, he’d completely forgotten this was even a feature. It takes him a couple tries to find the right website and the right login, but eventually he’s in, a map of Boston spread across his screen. He clicks the reload button again and again, staring at the greyed icon at the hotel, willing it to move.

And then it does, popping across the map to what looks like a house on the edge of the city. Shane clicks the spot and an address appears—2886 Beacon.

Rozanov’s house, maybe. Probably. Almost certainly.

Okay. So Rozanov hadn’t gone full Tea Party reenactment. For better or worse, he still has Shane’s phone and, for worse or worse, Shane is back at square one.

If he shows up at Rozanov’s house at three in the morning, he might call the fucking cops, and then where would Shane be? He can’t call him either; Shane doesn’t have his number and doesn’t think he knows anyone who would. Even if he did, he couldn’t call them. The only two numbers Shane knows off the top of his head are his mom’s, which—not happening—and his own, which—

Hm.

Shane stares at the phone’s generic orange wallpaper, a milky-white blob splashed across it from corner to corner. It’s probably meant to look modern or hip, but it looks more like someone came on Shane’s phone screen.

It’s worth a shot. It might be the only shot Shane has.

Slowly, he opens up a new text message and types his own number into the recipient bar. He keeps his fingers moving, typing without giving himself any chance to chicken out. Shane doesn’t even bother rereading the text the way he normally would, the minute it’s done, he taps the send button and flops back on the bed, anxiety burning its way up from his stomach so strong it feels like reflux.

It’s something, Shane tells himself. It’s the most he can do at almost two in the morning. He just has to hope it’s enough.

Ten minutes until walk out and Shane's still locked in a bathroom stall, retching up the dregs of his stomach. It’s not the first time he’s puked before a game—not even the first time in the MLH—but the last time he had it this bad had been in Juniors when some fucker had put visine in his protein shake. That’d been bad; Shane had ended up in the hospital. Somehow, this feels worse.

There’s a hesitant knock on the stall door. “Hols?” Hayden asks and Shane can hear the worry. “Coach says you need to get out here, bud. You good?”

“Yeah,” Shane croaks, grabs a wad of toilet paper to wipe his mouth off and stands up. The sound of the toilet flushing behind him as he opens the door and walks out feels fitting—a perfect soundtrack for what will probably be the last game of Shane’s career.

It’s been radio silence since the texts Shane sent out. Rozanov wasn’t even at fucking warmups, which could mean anything, but in this case, no news is definitely not good news. Whatever revenge Rozanov has planned is going to be bad. Devastating, probably. Shane’s been turning possibilities around in his mind all day, a sickening spiral of dread. At this point, he wishes Rozanov would just get it over with.

“There’s our fearless captain!” JJ shouts as Shane emerges, setting off a chorus of cheers and stick taps, everyone apparently more than happy to ignore Shane’s bone-white face, or how at least a few of them must have heard him horking up his nerves over the past fifteen minutes. Shane shoots him a half-hearted middle finger, but that only makes them louder. At the end of the hallway, Shane can see the dark of the ice beyond, occasionally lighting up with flashes from the Raiders opening sequence. The music—more vibration than sound this far back—is building and the clock on the wall over the entryway is counting down the last few seconds.

Whatever else is waiting for Shane on the other side of tonight, right now it’s time to get his head in the game. He squares his shoulders, swallows down his gorge and grabs JJ by the front of his sweater, yanking him in to smash their buckets together.

“Let’s fucking go!” Shane shouts, and for just a minute, all the bullshit gets swept away in the answering call of his team.

The clock hits zero and Shane leads them out. The moment his skates hit the ice, Shane’s surrounded by the sensory overwhelm of the rink—the wild throb of screams and fists on glass, the cutting scent of cold, a whiff of the Zamboni’s lingering fumes, the bee-bright yellow of the Raider’s colors projected all around them—the chaos dissolving into static, a white noise that drowns out his anxiety.

Until Shane skates out to his spot for the line up and looks across the rink and sees Ilya Rozanov watching him.

It’s easy to forget you’re a dead man when everyone else keeps acting like you’re alive, but that doesn’t make you any less fucked, in the end.

For the first time in the six years they’ve been playing one another, Rozanov keeps his mouth shut during the opening face-off.

Shane isn’t the only one to clock it—there’s a lull from the ref who eyes Rozanov expectantly, like he’s waiting for Rozanov to remember his line. Rozanov doesn’t even seem to see the ref, his attention is completely fixed on Shane, tracking him with the same mean intensity Shane’s always seen in the seconds before the puck drops between them.

The need to say something burbles inside Shane, expanding out of his stomach and into his chest, words crowding their way up into his mouth. He’s trying to keep himself locked in, but Rozanov is looming in his peripheral vision, a blurry reminder of every awful way Shane’s fucked up in the past few months. Of everything Shane might lose.

The puck drops; Rozanov wins the face-off.

The first period is brutal. If Shane had any doubt that Rozanov is pissed, it’s gone after the third time he tries to spear Shane in the nuts. The refs miss it, of course, but Hayden doesn’t.

“Dirty fucker.” Hayden spits, glaring at Rozanov jumping the boards back to Boston’s bench.

You don’t know the half of it, Shane thinks.

It only gets worse from there. Elbows, high sticks, cross checks anytime he can get away with it; Rozanov is a one man wrecking ball aimed at Shane, taking out anyone who happens to get in the way.

“I’m going to kill him,” JJ snarls, halfway through helping Shane up from the sprawl Rozanov’s slew foot sent him into.

“Ignore it,” Shane says. “He’s fishing for penalties. Don’t fucking bite.”

“But—”

“Leave it,” Shane snaps. JJ looks like he wants to argue, but whatever is on Shane’s face warns him off. He hopes it’s something closer to anger than the guilt roiling inside his chest.

Either way, keeping his team from going after Rozanov is the smart call. Metro’s PK can usually hold its own against Boston’s powerplay, but every penalty Rozanov draws is another chance for them to break through. And it’s not like Shane is producing enough to waste minutes on protecting him. Eighteen minutes gone and he’s done fuck all.

It’s a relief when the period ends, the double 0s of the score staring at Shane judgmentally as he trudges down the tunnel with his team. Shane snags a banana off the snack table and slumps into his stall, peeling and eating it with all the joy of putting gas in his car. He scans the room, eyeing the guys who pull out their phones, searching their faces for any flickers of shock or disgust. Timing the story to drop during intermission would be a dick move, but an effective one. They might even make Shane sit out the rest of the game. They might—

“Don’t stress, bud,” Hayden says, thumping down into the stall next to him, jolting Shane out of his spiral so hard he almost chokes on the last bite of his banana. “We’re going to get you that W.”

“Fuck the Raiders,” Anders says from across from them, and it’s echoed around the room, but it’s more muted than earlier, diluted, maybe, with the same doubt Shane can feel festering in his own heart.

Shane reaches up and grabs his burner from under his dopp kit. When he turns it on, the home screen is exactly the same as he left it—no new messages.

A hot, barbed thing pushes into the few tender, hollow places left where shame hasn’t already taken root. Shane scowls and turns the burner off, pressing down so hard on the power key it leaves a deep, red indent in his thumb.

“Yeah,” he says. “Fuck the Raiders.”

If the first period was a shit show, the second is a blood bath.

It’s like Rozanov’s antics have given his entire team—both of their teams—carte blanche to act like chippy, junior-league dipshits. They’re trading penalties more than they’re trading the puck, the two goals a piece having sent over a dozen players shuffling in and out of the box. One of the d-men on the Raiders threw an elbow that crushed Stedlund’s nose like a soda can and got him pulled by the concussion spotters. He still hasn’t come back up the tunnel.

They’re all a little bloody, to be honest. Shane’s lip is still bleeding from the high stick he caught in the melee behind the net right before their second goal. They’re going to need to disinfect the Zambonis at the end of the game, given how much blood has been spat onto the ice.

And they’re not even finished with the second fucking period.

The whistle blows on another icing call and Shane skates to the face-off circle, his blades dragging more than gliding, weighed down with every ounce of his exhaustion. He’s not normally this gassed at this point in a game, and maybe he wouldn’t be if it was just the lack of sleep, or the axe hanging over his all day, or the guilt wearing into him like a strap rubbing a slice into skin, but taken all together Shane feels diminished. It’s like he’s been chopped into little bits and every second that passes sends more of him sloughing off onto the ice.

But the only option out right now is through. No matter what, Shane has to keep going.

Rozanov is on the other side of the circle again. Fucking of course he is. Shane keeps his eyes low, already so oversaturated with adrenaline his mouth tastes like he’s been gargling nickels; he doesn’t need the spike he gets every time he meets Rozanov’s eyes. He gets his stance wide and straddles the hashmarks, braces for a moment, and drops his stick to the ice.

“Not you!” The ref shouts and Shane jerks his stick back up. Fuck. Fuck. He never messes up the face-off order. Where the fuck is his head?

He waits to be sent out, but the ref waves him back in. Even without looking, Shane can feel the smirk on Rozanov’s face, pouring off of him like radiation.

“Clean drop, boys, clean drop,” the ref says, and Shane braces for the puck to fall, doesn’t look at Rozanov, doesn’t think about where Rozanov’s looking or if he can see how tired and fucked up Shane is, how he’d feel about if he could—

“No! Twenty-four, out!”

Shane’s face is already hot from exertion, but a deeper, more prickling warmth spreads underneath his skin. He slaps his stick hard on the ice and turns, furious at his own stupidity. He’s been taking face-offs since he was six, the form should be rooted so deep inside him that he could do it in his sleep. And now he’s fucked it up twice.

“You forget how this goes, Hollander?” The ref asks as Shane leaves the circle, waving JJ in.

“Yes, Hollander is always forgetting something, isn’t he?”

It’s the first thing Rozanov has said to him all game. It’s not even to Shane, probably, and it’s definitely not the worst chirp that’s been thrown Shane’s way in his career. But all day Shane has been poised over a pit of uncertainty, the dread inside him compounding every second he holds on and finally, with this, Shane lets himself fall.

“What the fuck did you say?” Shane says, dropping his stick and skating up into Rozanov’s face. Rozanov meets him, tilting his chin up. He barely budges when Shane shoves him.

“Get back,” the ref warns but Shane presses forward, shoves Rozanov again.

“You soft piece of shit. You fucking creamsicle. Can’t just talk to me, have to do this amateur hour tantrum crap?”

“Shut up,” Rozanov snarls, so much bite in his words Shane’s sure he’s going to go for his throat. Instead he backs off, tries to leave the circle, but fuck that.

Shane snags a hand in Rozanov’s sweater and yanks him back, swings his arm around his neck. If they were off the ice, someone might mistake it for something affectionate, a little light tusseling between friends, but there’s nothing light about this. Shane squeezes hard, locking Rozanov in the crook of his arm as they wheel slowly around on the ice, the linesmen crowding around and pulling them apart.

“Get the fuck off me!” Ilya thrashes, but Shane’s got the advantage. He’s got the balance and the better center of gravity. He’s not moving unless he wants to.

“You want to run your mouth now, huh? I’ve been trying to talk to you all fucking day and you choose now?”

“Last chance or you’re going to the box,” one of the linesmen yells, forcing one of his hands up between Shane’s chest and Rozanov’s shoulder. Shane twists, tries to dislodge him, distracted enough that he doesn’t see Rozanov’s elbow at all before it lands, point first, into his jaw.

The world tips, a blur of color, and Shane’s suddenly on his ass, blinking up at an exasperated linesman.

“Get to the bench, twenty-four,” he snaps, hauling Shane up and pushing him in the right direction. Shane’s turned around, not sure which way is up, and he has no clue where Rozanov is—not until he hears him call his name.

“That’s right, Hollander,” Rozanov yells over his shoulder, not quite fighting the ref who’s urging him to his bench, “Go be good boy—is what you’re best at, yes?”

It takes almost no effort, and absolutely no thought to slip free of the linesman’s grip. Shane’s across the rink before the crowd even realizes what’s happening, the lull exploding into a roar of realization at the same moment Shane explodes into Rozanov.

The world narrows to pressure and pain. The fight can’t last as long as it feels, time seeming to slow a little more every time he drives his fist into Rozanov. Shane’s not a fighter; since joining the MLH, Shane can count his fights on one hand, and most of those had been for show.

This one isn’t.

They wrap themselves up in one another, limbs tangled as they writhe, out of sync but clinging to one shared, desperate purpose. Shane grabs the edge of Rozanov’s sweater and pulls, trying to get it up, up, off, over his head. He can hear Rozanov’s harsh, grunting breath, can feel his resistance as Shane pushes, shoves, tries to get him down—

It takes three men to pull them apart. The linesman practically drags Shane to the box, shouting at him anytime he slows down until Shane throws himself down onto the bench and slams the plexiglass shut behind him.

The crowd is going insane, so loud it’s hard to hear the ref make the announcement, but Shane already knows it’s five at least. He’s lucky it’s not a game misconduct at this point, but Shane doesn’t think he’d care if it was. He tries to catch his breath, the details pushed to the back of his awareness starting to filter back in on the ebb of adrenaline—the dull ache of bruises starting to form, the sandpaper strain of his throat from yelling, his—

His cock. Hard in his cup.

Shane snatches the water bottle from the holder and douses his face, then all the way down the back of his neck. It doesn’t help; if anything the shock of cold only draws attention to the hot, uncomfortable squash of his cock where it’s trapped. He squirms, trying to get some relief without risking a camera catching him pulling at his crotch and someone slapping it into a YouTube compilation, when there’s a sudden bang of something slamming hard into the plexiglass, loud enough to carry even over the rest of the screaming frenzy filling the arena. Shane whips his head around and sees Rozanov standing at the wall of the box bordering the partition between them, slamming his stick up against it over and over.

“Hey! You happy, Hollander? This what you want?” Rozanov yells, and though his mouth is split wide in a bloody grin, there’s not a shred of the usual good-humored rat lurking anywhere in his cold glint of his eyes.

“Fuck you,” Shane says, not sure if Rozanov can hear him and weighing whether it’s worth the five thousand fine to communicate his feelings more clearly.

“No, fuck you,” Rozanov fires back, apparently hearing him just fine. He slams his stick against the wall, like it’s an exclamation point he can stick on his words. “You want to talk and here! Here’s your fucking chance.”

That gets Shane on his feet, up against the glass, like they are two sides of the same, angry mirror. “Shut up, Rozanov.”

“Please, please,” Rozanov mocks in a high, watery voice, curling his fists and pretending to rub his eyes, like some roided out Russian baby. “Please talk to me, please.”

Shane dropped his stick when he came into the box, but he picks it up now, whacking it hard against the plexiglass. “Shut your fucking mouth before I do it for you.”

“Why? You are shy?” Rozanov laughs. “Try again, Hollander. Say please. On your knees, this time, like you like. Show everyone what you’re fucking good for.”

The words are a razor blade, a mean slice severing the last tendrils of sense Shane’s been clinging to, dropping him straight into the hungry, eager belly of his rage.

Shane turns, looks up at the penalty clock ticking away on the jumbotron, ignoring Rozanov still shouting in his box, ignoring the four on four zipping back and forth in his peripheral vision, every scrap of his attention hanging on the seconds winding down, until, finally, it hits zero. Shane shoots to his feet, shooting out of the box the moment the attendant opens the door, that stupid video game sound effect the Raiders use blaring in his ears as his skates hit ice and Shane makes a beeline for Rozanov.

He doesn’t expect it, doesn’t see it coming. Shane drops the gloves a second before reaching him, barreling into Rozanov with the full force of his momentum and sending them both crashing to the ground.

“Are you crazy?” Rozanov shouts, thrashing under Shane, trying to get his hands free. Shane doesn’t let him. He pins him down, knees pressed into Rozanov’s arms and the rest of Shane’s weight dropped hard onto Rozanov’s torso.

“I fucking laughed,” Shane snarls, grabbing at Rozanov’s helmet until he sends it flying. “Every time. It was a big fucking joke, just like you.”

The game unravels around them, bodies on bodies, gloves and helmets hitting the ice around them as Shane holds onto Rozanov, anchoring himself to him in the chaos. Shane leans in until their noses brush, until every inch of his vision is filled with the animal hurt in Ilya’s eyes, until there’s no choice left but to breathe one another’s air.

This close, Shane can smell Rozanov, can smell the two of them together, the ozonic heat of their bodies sharp in his nose. There are people swarming around them, hands grabbing and pulling, but it’s hard to focus on anything outside the hot, sweat slick cocoon the two of them are locked in. He can already feel hands on his back, can hear the shouts of the people—the refs, Rozanov’s teammates, Shane’s fucking teammates—trying to tear him away. He knows he should let go. He knows it’s a matter of time before he’s ripped off anyway.

Shane doesn’t care. He closes his eyes, breathes deep, and holds on.

It’s been fifteen minutes since they sent Shane down the tunnel and the noise still hasn’t died down. He can hear it from the locker room, the rise and fall of the crowd keeping time with the throbbing in Shane’s cheek where he caught a punch right before getting hauled off. He’s not sure from who; maybe Marleau.

It’s hard to tell, but Shane doesn’t think the game has restarted yet. The refs are probably still working out how many penalties to hand and out and to whom. Of course, they’d figured out Shane and Rozanov’s pretty quick—ten minute misconducts and ejections for both.

Shane can’t say it’s not a fair call.

The ice pack Shane has pressed to his face is starting to sting, but Shane doesn’t remove it, pressing it harder against his skin; it’s not much, but the pain helps cut through the shame that’s getting thicker and more chokingly viscous with every passing moment.

He’s going to be suspended, there’s no doubt about that. And the record’s straight out, too. There’s a whole host of ramifications looming, ones that don’t just impact him. His team’s going to suffer because of this. And Shane cares, he does, but right now it’s not his team circling around his brain unwilling to be shaken out of his mind’s eye no matter how hard he tries. No, it’s the look on Rozanov’s face when Shane had called him a joke. When it’d come out of his mouth, Shane had wanted it to hurt—and it had. He’d seen the flinching pain on Rozanov’s face, but he’d also seen something lurking beneath it, buried and so brief it’d be easy enough to just pretend he’d imagined it. But Shane knows he hadn’t. And he knows what that tucked away look had been—he’s seen the same fear lurking in his own eyes for years now. He just never intended to pass it to someone else.

Shane sighs and drops the ice pack, staring up at the ceiling.

The noise from the rink suddenly surges; the game must be starting up again. Shane stands up and reaches above his stall, fishing his burner out and slumping back onto the bench. He taps out a number—the only other number he knows by heart—and presses call. Shane closes his eyes and listens to it ring and ring and ring but it’s not until his mom’s voicemail greeting kicks in that Shane remembers he’s calling from a new number.

He should hang up, probably. Send a text or just wait to talk in person, but when the beep hits, Shane’s mouth unlocks and words just start spilling out.

“Mom, it’s me. Shane. You probably saw the game. Or—you’re seeing it, I guess.” There’s another swell from the crowd and Shane curls forward, hunkering down into himself. “I’m sorry. I fucked up. I fucked up so much and I don’t know what to do. I think—I think I’m a bad person, mom. I think—”

The horn blares from the rink and even in the locker room, it feels like the arena is vibrating, growing impossibly, unbelievably louder when the door to the locker room opens a second later.

Shane’s hand drops and he fumbles for the call end button blinking hard to clear the blur from his eyes. One of the assistant coaches comes through the door, letting it swing shut behind him and dulling the roar once more. He comes to a stop in front of Shane.

“Jesus Christ, kid. What the hell were you thinking?”

Coach Clark isn’t a big man, especially when he’s out of his skates, but right now, it feels like he’s towering over Shane.

“I don’t know,” Shane says, shaking his head. “I don’t think I was. Thinking.”

“You’re right about that,” Coach says and Shane can tell he’s keeping a tight leash on his anger. With any other player, Shane’s pretty sure Coach would’ve chewed off enough of his ass that Calvin Klein would have to find another brand ambassador. “You’re just lucky nobody left the bench. You know how close we came? JJ had to wrestle the fucking rookie down from the boards.”

“Fuck,” Shane says. In all his red-tinged tunnel vision, Shane hadn’t even noticed. Relief bubbles up under the weight on Shane’s shoulders, a little lighter now knowing how much worse it could’ve been. Shane owes JJ a big fucking thank you. Maybe in the form of a Rolex.

“Yeah, well. Important thing now is to get through the rest of the game. Coach doesn’t want you here at intermission, so we’re getting a car ready to take you back to the hotel. Don’t worry about a shower, just change and I’ll take you down to the player entrance for pickup.”

“Right.” Shane stands and starts stripping his gear off, tossing it into the big cart in the middle of the room. He fiddles with the tape around his shin, glancing up at Coach Clark a couple times before he clear his throat.

“You, um. You said nobody was hurt. Is Rozanov…?”

“He’ll live,” Coach Clark says with a shrug. “Probably wishes you’d done more damage, honestly.”

Shane pauses, midway through peeling off his socks and frowns at Coach Clark. “What?”

“I dunno. Be a different bag of snakes if he showed up the DPS injured and you didn’t, is all.”

“Wait, but,” Shane stands up so fast he clips his head on the top of his stall. “Rozanov’s not going to get called in by the board, right?”

Coach Clark looks at Shane like he barely recognizes him. “Fuck, I don’t know. I’m not his agent.”

“But—”

“Why the fuck do you care, Hols? Get dressed, period’s almost over.”

Shane looks down, stripping down and fumbling his way into his game day suit. The slide of expensive fabric over the cold sweat going tacky on his skin makes Shane grit his teeth, like the screech of a knife missing its mark and scraping across the plate instead. He can’t get comfortable and he keeps plucking and pulling at his clothes the whole walk to the car. When he slides into the backseat of the town car, he immediately pulls out his burner, needing something to distract him from the desperate need to unlace his skin. He hits the power button, planning to download some stupid, mindless game, but when the screen comes on, it’s lit up with notifications.

The last message burns into Shane’s eyes. Even when he clicks the screen off, they stay put, phantom words standing out starkly on the black.

Coach Clark finishes talking to the driver and pats the roof of the car twice as it starts to pull away. Shane glances back, watching, until he sees him turn and disappear back through the door to the arena. Then Shane looks up and meets the driver's eyes in the rearview mirror.

“Do you know how to get to Beacon Street?”

Chapter 7: Integrity Breach

Chapter Notes

I know I said there was only one more chapter, but that chapter ballooned into 11k, so I decided to split it up. Hoping to get the final chapter up by next Sunday.

Thank you so much to gt, hoko, and CorvidCordelia for the beta reading!

For a spring night in Boston, it’s nicer out than Shane is expecting, warm enough that his suit jacket is all he needs to ward off the chill while he waits for Rozanov to get home. It’s a good thing, too, because Shane’s going on an hour-fifteen of sitting camped out on his porch, and even a month earlier, his ass would almost certainly be falling off by now. Shane checks the clock on his phone again and sighs. Rozanov’s coach must have kept him at the rink through the end of the game, instead of sending him off in disgrace like Shane. He hopes that means Rozanov is getting a lesser level of shit, but it could just as easily be that LeClaire kept him back to read him the riot act in front of the entire team. Either way, the wait gives Shane plenty of time to think, which is inconvenient—thinking is the last thing Shane wants to do right now.

Good luck trying to stop it, though. Shane learned a long time ago that once his brain gets going on a tear, it’s either climb onboard and hold on or get dragged behind anyway, bloody and exhausted.

There’s no shortage of places for his spinning mind to topple into. Shane replays the hotel room and then the fight, turning the memories over and shaking out all the ways he’d fucked up, everything he could’ve done differently, and trying to cobble together an apology that’ll hold water. The problem is, everything Shane knows about apologizing, he learned from media training, and none of the hyper-curated, PR-approved buzzwords seem to fit when he imagines saying them to Rozanov.

I am sorry for the harm my actions have caused. My recent behavior does not reflect the values and ideals I believe in and I am making a commitment to do better. I am grateful for the opportunity to grow from this experience and hope you will give me the chance to prove it.

Absolute fucking bullshit.

When headlights hit the driveway, and a sleek, ridiculously loud car pulls up, Shane’s no closer to figuring it out than when he started. Time’s up, though. He scrambles to his feet, his mouth going bone dry at the same time his palms slick up with sweat. Thank God he’s wearing a jacket; this is going to be awkward enough without welcoming Rozanov home with a pair of massive pit stains. He listens to the beep, click, slam of Rozanov getting out of his car, staying back in the shadows, out of sight of the street.

He’s expecting Rozanov to clock him from the end of the walkway, but either it’s darker than Shane realizes or Rozanov has shit night vision, because he makes it halfway to the door without noticing Shane.

It reaches a point of absurdity where there’s no other option but to speak up. Shane lifts both hands like he’s surrendering and says, “Don’t scream, okay?”

“Yeb—” Rozanov gasps, jumping in a way that looks like his body is trying to figure out whether to go forward or back and deciding to try both at the same time. He fumbles with his phone, and then Shane winces, Rozanov’s flashlight searing into his eyes. “Hollander?”

Shane nods and brings a hand up to block the light, eyes swimming like he’s halfway to blind already. “Jesus, can you point that somewhere else?”

Rozanov doesn’t. Instead, he steps forward, backlit and looming as he hisses, “Why the fuck are you here? You want round two?”

“You really think I came here to try to kick your ass?” Shane asks, wincing as Rozanov shoves the phone even closer. “I just came to talk, that’s it.”

There’s a beat of silence, and then the light drops, pale dots stubbornly sticking in the sudden dark. He blinks and rubs at his eyes trying to clear them.

“Fine,” Rozanov says, stabbing his code into the keypad by the door and yanking it open, muted light spilling out from inside. Rozanov walks in, and when he doesn’t slam the door behind him, Shane follows.

Rozanov’s house isn’t what Shane expected. He’s seen enough players with fuck you money to get a sense for the godawful McMansions they tend to buy, but this isn’t that. Shane openly admires the tall windows and clean lines as he pauses in the entryway, distractedly toeing off his sneakers.

“Don’t bother with that,” Rozanov calls back, already halfway down the hall. “You won’t be here long.”

Shane hesitates, considers doing it anyway, but shoves his heels back into his shoes and hurries after Rozanov to catch up. “Listen—”

Rozanov cuts him off, pointing to the floor next to the kitchen island. “Wait there. Don’t move,” he says, like Shane is some poorly trained dog, and walks off before Shane can even nod.

He’s tempted to follow anyway. To chase after Rozanov and force him to listen, but Rozanov doesn’t stay gone long enough for Shane to work up the nerve. He returns a minute or so later.

“Here.” Rozanov pitches something at Shane. It’s a hard throw for underhand and Shane ends up having to pin it against his chest to keep it from falling. He looks down, turning it over in his hand and—

His phone.

“Is what you came for, yes?” Rozanov flicks a hand at the front door. “There you go. Now fuck off.”

Shane stares down at the phone waiting for the other shoe to drop, but if this is some joke, Shane can’t figure out the punchline. It looks exactly the same as he’d left it, except for the dozens of notifications littering the lockscreen. The battery is full—Rozanov must have charged it. Shane hits the power button and the screen goes blank, nothing there but a few smudges. Fingerprints, Shane thinks. Rozanov’s, maybe.

He looks up at Rozanov, leaning back a little against his kitchen table, head turned to the bank of windows beside them watching their silhouettes reflected in the glass.

“Just like that?” Shane asks.

“Yes, Hollander. Just like that.”

There’s tar lining the sides of Shane’s throat, sticky and awful. He swallows, but it’s stubborn, won’t budge, makes his words come out thick and wet. “Why didn’t you tell?”

Rozanov looks at Shane, head jerking like he’s been slapped. “You think I’m some fucking monster?”

“No, I—”

“You think I would ruin someone’s life for a fucking game?”

Shane is tongue tied, everything he can think to say feels too big to wrap his mouth around. He shakes his head, the smallest, most useless no he can muster.

Rozanov straightens off the table and advances on Shane, closing the distance until he’s bumping the hard, rounded points of his dress shoes into Shane’s sneakers. The reflex to not back down is hard-coded into Shane’s brain, but he has to fight hard not to step back. He’s still wearing every second of the game on his skin, in his hair. He can smell himself and he wonders, wildly, if Rozanov can, too. He wonders if he likes it the way Shane likes it, if the sharp, body-deep tang of sweat makes him think of winning.

“You want to ruin my life for a game, Hollander?” Rozanov asks, low and hot. Shane’s eyes drop to watch Rozanov’s lips, the sudden shine of spit in the low light as he wets them. “That your big plan?”

“No,” Shane whispers and he can feel the heat of Rozanov’s breath when he leans in grazing the ridge of Shane’s cheek, still tender, just starting to bruise.

“No?” Rozanov’s voice drops deeper, his lips brushing Shane’s ear with teasing, barely there touches as he speaks. “You come in, you see it’s me. You think it is your big chance. Maybe you put your dick in my mouth, take some pictures. Maybe send to stupid team.”

“I—” That’s not what happened, that’s—Shane would never. This is getting away from him. He searches, scrambling for the apology he’d practiced, but all he can think of is the firm breadth of Rozanov’s chest, of how it’d be so easy to reach out and touch him. “I didn’t—I wouldn’t—”

“So what happened? You chicken out? Had to run away?”

“No,” Shane spits, breath coming fast as a snared rabbit. “Jesus Christ, If I wanted to fuck you over like that, I would’ve done it a long time ago.”

Something flickers in Rozanov’s eyes: a flicker of understanding. Shane watches it catch and spread, consuming any lingering trace of confusion and leaving hot, righteous anger in its place.

“The whole time?”

“Rozanov—”

“You knew the whole fucking time?” Rozanov’s hand lands in the center of Shane’s chest, clenching a fistful of his shirt and twisting.

“You wore your fucking crucifix,” Shane says, leaning into Rozanov’s grip, stealing the last bit of space left between them. “What did you expect to happen?”

Rozanov frowns, staring hard at Shane’s face. “You recognized me just from that?”

“No. Jesus.” There’s a warm, fetid curdling deep in Shane’s gut, and words pour out like his body needs to purge them. “It was all of it. Your accent and your username and the way you fucking talk. Your—” his eyes drop to Rozanov’s chest, the deep vee of his t-shirt, a few curls of hair—darker than Shane remembers—peeking up at the edge of his collar.

“What?” When Shane doesn’t answer, Rozanov grabs him by his chin, squeezing just on the other side of painful. “My what?”

“Your body.” Shane swallows, grabbing at Ilya’s shoulders, his fingers digging hard into the firm bulk of his deltoids, fitting over them like well-worn handholds. Like Ilya’s smoothed out all his angles into grooves meant just for Shane.

There’s no air in Shane’s lungs, there’s no air in the room, so Shane does the only thing he can and steals his next breath from Ilya’s mouth. There’s no coy lead in—Shane gasps into the kiss with all the desperation of a man who’s been suffocating. Rozanov tastes like salt and spit and the copper tang of old blood. He’d been bleeding, earlier, Shane remembers. Had spat a gob of red onto the ice when the linesman had dragged Shane off him.

Rozanov’s grip on his chin goes soft in surprise while Shane licks across the ridge of his teeth, then suddenly tightens, no longer just flirting with the edge of painful. The tips of Rozanov’s fingers dig in hard, five perfect hooks keeping Shane together, keeping him from shattering into shrapnel under the weight of his own need.

Shane’s ears are ringing, harmonizing with the beating pant of their breath and the sounds that slip out of Rozanov before Shane can consume them. They can’t even be called moans—they’re too animal, something meant to follow the cut of teeth into flesh.

The wall bites into Shane’s back and something clatters to the floor, half-wedging itself against Shane’s heel when it lands. The hot, wet want of Rozanov’s mouth is suddenly gone, and Shane’s head buzzes in the negative space left behind.

“This?” Rozanov’s skin is so flushed he looks feverish, spit shining on his full, snarling lips. “This why you came here? This what you fucking wanted?”

“Yes,” Shane says, trying and failing to nod, but Rozanov has him pinned like a bug to a board. “Fuck, I don’t know—I have to, please—” And he may not be able to move his head, but his hands are free. He fumbles at the placket of Rozanov’s pants, almost tearing the button off as he tugs it open.

The angle is shit. Shane twists, his shoulder twinging with the stretch, until the scald of Rozanov’s bare flesh against his drowns everything else out.

Rozanov’s cock is hard, has been for awhile, maybe, and when Shane squeezes the tight pinch of Rozanov’s mouth blows open under a shocked, sucking gasp. Shane wants to stroke him, wants to see what other noises he can get Rozanov to make, but they're too close and the most he can do is a half-assed jerk that makes his wrist cramp like crazy. Ilya grunts and tries to shove impossibly closer, thrusting frantically into the hollow of Shane’s hand.

“Tighter,” Rozanov growls, tucking his face into Shane’s neck, and Shane can barely feel Rozanov’s breath hit his skin, lost in the heat already building between their bodies. Shane’s mouth waters; he wants to taste it, to taste them, to lick down the column of Ilya’s throat and scrape his tongue raw against his stubble.

His want is metastasizing inside him and he needs to get it out.

“Please,” Shane gasps, jealous of his own fucking hand, gone sticky and slick now that Ilya’s leaking into it with every thrust. Why should it get fucked and not him?

Shane rolls his hips, whimpering at the bright, brilliant, too brief moment of friction before Ilya’s free hand shoves between them and curls around his waist, digging in hard and pressing until Shane’s pinned there, too.

“No, come on.” Shane struggles against Ilya’s grip, but he doesn’t have the leverage he needs. All he can do is take what Rozanov gives him and whine.

Rozanov doesn’t lift his head, if anything, he nuzzles in deeper and pinches Shane’s hip hard when he tries squirming free again. “Stop it,” he says, no less sharp for the way it’s muffled into Shane’s body. “Be good.”

And fuck friction, those two words are better than any thigh Shane could grind against. His eyes slip closed and he goes lax, boneless and easy, everywhere except for the tunnel of his hand. That he keeps tight for Ilya, keeps it right at the angle that has Rozanov making those shocky, shivery moans Shane can feel against his pulse point.

“Do it,” Shane says when he feels Ilya’s rhythm start to falter, stuttering in counterpoint to the way his noises are weaving together. “Do it, Ilya, I want it—“

“I don’t care what you fucking want.” Ilya digs his teeth into the meat of Shane’s shoulder, gives one more thrust, and comes in Shane’s hand with a violent shudder.

They pant together in the aftermath, the beat of their breath keeping time with the pounding in Shane’s head—and his cock. He’s still hard, and the warm spill of Ilya’s come dripping off his fingers isn’t helping.

“Hey. Come on.” Shane arches off the wall, only possible now that Ilya’s punishing grip has gone lax and loose. “I was good. Right? I was good, so you’ve gotta touch me. Come on, please. I was good. Right?”

Shane’s babble runs in a circle like that, growing a little more desperate the longer Ilya stays silent, the longer he doesn’t touch Shane’s cock. Finally, though, he stirs—except, instead of reaching to return the favor, he’s pulling away, letting go of Shane’s chin, his soft cock sliding free of the mess in Shane’s hand.

“Get out,” Ilya says and turns, disappearing into the dark hallway behind him without a backwards glance.

Shock hooks behind Shane’s teeth and flattens his tongue. It takes three dry, dragging swallows before he can shake it free.

“Rozanov,” Shane calls, then louder, “Rozanov!”

The name feels bigger the second time he says it. Misshapen. Like it’s stretched beyond capacity, crammed full of meaning it was never meant to hold.

Shane waits until the come on his hand grows cold, but Ilya doesn’t come back.

The flight home the next morning is so early that they’re barely scraping the start of normal business hours when they land in Montreal. Even still, once he turns off airplane mode, there are three missed calls and two emails from Shane’s agent waiting for him, all about his hearing. There’s a pervasive feeling in Shane’s body that grows worse the longer he reads, like his foot is falling asleep except it’s centered in his chest.

He’s never been called up in front of the DPS before, but he knows the basics of the process from watching other guys on the team go through it. Guys he’s thought, privately, were dumb fucks to get there in the first place.

Now Shane’s the dumb fuck. The dumbest fuck who’s ever lived, probably.

He’s only halfway through the second email when the phone starts buzzing in his hand, Farah’s name splashed across the screen.

At least it’s not Mom, Shane thinks, and swipes up to answer.

“Hey Shane, how’re you holding up?” Farah asks, but doesn’t wait for Shane to answer before barreling on, a move so uncharacteristic Shane can only assume she’s too sleep-deprived for her usual tact. “Have you spoken to Yuna?”

The guilt already swirling around Shane’s chest swells, expands until it fills the rest of his body, pushing against his eardrums. Shane swallows, but it doesn’t clear—if only it were that easy.

“Yeah. I mean, kind of,” he says, watching the buildings out the car window slide into vague familiarity the closer they get to his apartment. “We texted last night, a little.”

Farah makes a quiet, dismissive sound, and Shane can hear the tap of her nail against the screen of the phone. “I’ll just add her to the call. Easier than us all playing phone tag for the next two hours.”

“Wait—” Shane tries, but it’s too late.

“Hello?”

Shane shrinks down in his seat until the shoulder belt brushes his ear. “Hey, Mom.”

“Shane.” His mom sounds like she’s exhaled all the way to the bottom of her lungs with that one word. “Baby. What the fuck is going on?”

“It’s not that big of a deal, all things considered,” Farah says, which doesn’t feel like the truth, but Shane supposes it’s close enough. Not like he hasn’t let Farah lie for him before, either. It’s kind of her job. “Shane isn’t a repeat offender, and nobody was seriously injured. It could be a lot worse.”

“It could be a lot better, too.”

“Mom,” Shane groans, but his mom keeps going.

“What the hell came over you, Shane? First I can’t get a hold of you for an entire day—no warning, no explanation—and then, what? You suddenly decide you’re an enforcer?”

“Mom!”

“I think the important thing to focus on now is the hearing,” Farah says before his mom can prod further. “We’re scheduled for nine eastern tomorrow, and we’ll want to settle on a consistent throughline before we get off the phone. Shane, can you give me an idea of what you want to say?”

“Say?” Shane asks, licking his lips nervously and immediately regretting it, the tacky, sticky spit worse than the dryness.

“Your side of the story. The context that the video doesn’t show.” There’s a long pause, presumably one that Shane is meant to fill. He roots around in his head for anything he can offer to the gnawing, hungry silence, but when he opens his mouth all that comes out is something tangled and meaningless, slipping embarrassingly high out of the back of his throat.

“For instance,” Farah says, dragging the words out like all Shane might need is a little extra time to think instead of the lobotomy he clearly deserves. “What was Rozanov saying to you, right before you went for him?”

“Nothing,” Shane blurts. “Or—I don’t know. It was loud. Why would I—did someone say he said something?”

“Shane, honey. He clearly said something,” Yuna jumps in, but not quickly enough for Shane to miss the crest of Farah’s sigh in the background. “And, given Rozanov’s history…well. I think the board would understand—we all would understand—if, you know. A line was crossed.”

“Jesus.”

Shane drops the phone in his lap and rubs his hands, hard, up and down his face until he can pretend the heat in his cheeks is from the friction. He leans over, elbows digging hard into his thighs and breaths, close enough to hear the muted, muffled sound of his mom and Farah still talking, but far away so it just sounded like nonsense. Shane takes another breath, then picks the phone back up.

“—and rumor has it they offered Rozanov an in-person hearing, so I think the board is already primed to—”

“What?” Shane says, once Farah’s words register. In-person hearings are rare, and never good. “That doesn’t make any fucking sense.”

“Well—”

“I hit him first. Both times!” Shane knows he’s being rude, but he can’t even think past his anger to care. “How the hell is that fair?”

“Fair is the board’s problem,” Yuna says. “Let’s just make sure you don’t miss the playoffs.”

The playoffs. Right. There were only two games left in the regular season, and an in-person hearing was going to mean a suspension of six, at least. The Raiders were clinging to the wildcard slot by the skin of their teeth; even if they somehow managed to keep it, they’d never make it past the first round without Ilya.

Farah was saying something else, but Shane couldn’t track anything outside the clattering, clamoring thoughts crowding into every quiet corner of his brain.

“Hey, sorry, I’m at my place. I’ll call you back in a minute,” Shane says, and hits the end button before either Farah or his mom have time to argue. He stares out the window, at raindrops starting to splatter the glass, fattening themselves on one another in their inevitable, unstoppable slide. The car isn’t far from the apartment, maybe another five minutes. Shane leans forward, bracing a hand against the passenger seat until he can gently tap on the driver’s shoulder. “Would you mind looping the block a couple times?”

The driver flips the turn signal and Shane slumps into his seat, pretending he can’t hear the buzz of his phone over the rhythmic beat of the blinker.

The rest of the day, Shane falls into the familiar simplicity of maintenance. He stretches, exercises, organizes his supplements three different ways before he lands on the right one, checks on the meals Landen left prepped for him in the fridge, sorts his mail, responds to text after text from Farah and his mom—Shane monkeybars from one task to another, all the way to bedtime. He stays so busy that, by the time his head hits the pillow, he’s exhausted enough to fall asleep.

Well. For a given value for sleep.

The night sprawls in a snarl of half-remembered, adrenaline-spiked dreams and fleeting wakeups that felt like swimming to the surface for a single gasp of air before being dragged back below. There’s one dream in particular that seems endless: Shane’s skating in a game on home ice, absolutely fucked gassed, his entire body one tender, flinching throb of meat. He needs to get off the ice. He can see his teammates ready to swap in, but every time Shane starts skating for the bench, the roar of the crowd starts to build and Shane knows someone’s going for the goal. When Shane’s alarm finally goes off at seven, he can barely open his eyes with the bags weighing them down. He gets up anyway.

Thankfully, Shane had managed to convince his mom not to make the drive down for moral support, so he only has to juggle his own anxiety while he gets ready for the hearing. It’ll be less embarrassing, too, not to come into the call with his mother velcroed to his side, the two of them squeezed together to fit onto the screen. Shane gets enough chirps about being a mama’s boy as it is.

With half an hour to go, Shane slips into his suit. As he’s straightening his tie, his thoughts flash to Ilya.

Is he doing the same thing, right now? Are his big hands cinching his tie up around his neck, smoothing down the silk as he tries to keep them steady? Is he worried? Is he thinking about Shane? Does he hate him?

Shane stands in front of the mirror and runs his eyes over his reflection, top to bottom. There’s a large piece of lint stuck to his lapel. He stares at it for a long time, until the ten minute warning alarm on his phone goes off. Shane walks to his office, leaving the lint where it is.

“Good morning everyone,” Commissioner Crowell says once all the boxes in the video chat are filled with various faces, only some of whom Shane recognizes. “I know we’ve got a lot of busy people on the line today, so we’ll do our best to make this brief.”

Shane shifts in his chair as Crowell introduces everyone and starts in on some vague legal-sounding gibberish, uncomfortably reminded of the one time he’d been called to the principal’s office in ninth grade—except this permanent record actually fucking matters.

For the next fifteen minutes, Shane listens to the board go over the fight, start to finish, dissecting it into small, ragged pieces, vivisected on Shane’s computer screen in a series of still frames. Shane barely blinks, the wet on his eyes going dry as he forces himself to look at every detail: Ilya’s elbow hitting his helmet; Shane’s arm looped around his neck, his mouth pulled into a snarl; Ilya being led away, looking over his shoulder at Shane; Shane’s gloves blurry in mid-drop, his body pitched forward in a lunge.

It’s startling, seeing it all laid out like this. In Shane’s mind, those moments have melted into a confusing, muddled melange, swirling with overly saturated flashes of color, the smell of ice and blood, and the rising screams of the fans. Now, though, each screenshot Crowell shares saps some of the technicolor from Shane’s memory until it’s as muted and withered as it looks on the screen.

There’s another click and the picture changes again—Shane is on top of Ilya red staining his bared teeth, hands fisted in Ilya’s jersey. Shane finally looks away, blinking hard into the middle distance, the clicks as Crowell continues through his slides fuzzing into the background

“Mr. Hollander?”

Shane jolts, eyes snapping to the screen. The slide deck is gone and seven sets of eyes are all pointed at him.

“Um. Sorry. What did you say?”

Farah’s expression doesn’t even flicker, but Shane can recognize the pinch in the middle of his mom’s brow, knows the frustration behind it. Crowell just chuckles, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“No problem, Shane. I imagine you haven’t had much rest the last couple of nights.”

“No, sir,” Shane says, and Crowell laughs again, so patronizing Shane can feel it in the pulp of his teeth.

“That’s alright. I was just asking you to walk us through what happened.”

“What happened,” Shane says, and the slideshow on his screen is gone, but another one has started in his head. Still moments, made sharper in his mind's eye than they ever were in real life. Ilya sitting on a bed, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, waiting patiently with a blindfold on. Ilya's leaning closer and closer to the camera until his plush lips are almost all Shane can see, urging Shane to give him more, more just a little more. Ilya sending nonsese strings of emojis, pinging again and again as he waits for Shane to finally play a word.

“Go ahead, son,” Crowell says, and in the top right corner, Shane can see Yuna nodding encouragingly. Practice is in two hours. His team will be waiting to hear how fucked their own playoff run is going to be, waiting to pat Shane on the back and tell him too bad about the record. Shane looks down and picks at his cuticle, a bead of blood welling up where he peels too deep.

The slideshow keeps going. Ilya under Shane, helmet knocked somewhere and a trail of blood dribbling down his chin. Ilya calling him something in Russian, the same word over and over as the linesman drags him to the tunnel. Ilya, back turned, refusing to look at Shane before he’s swallowed into the dark.

“I hit him,” Shane says, and the words come easy, so easy, after that. “It was my fault. I brought something off the ice into the game and I took it out on Rozanov.”

“Shane—” Farah tries, but Shane mutes her and keeps going.

“I was stupid and unprofessional and Rozanov just got caught up in my bullshit. He didn’t want to fight. I wouldn’t let him back down, and I wouldn’t let the fight end. It was all me.”

The call is silent, even after Shane remembers to turn the sound back on. His mom is leaned back in her chair, glasses off as she rubs the bridge of her nose. Farah is bent over, typing something rapid-fire into her phone and Shane realizes the distant buzzing he’s hearing isn’t in his head, it’s his phone blowing up next to him. The rest of the panel is a spectrum stretching from confusion to shock, with Crowell, the perplexed anchor, in the center.

“Well,” Crowell says, clearing his throat and shuffling some papers off screen. “I think we’re going to need a quick sidebar. Bear with us, Mr. Hollander.”

“No, for sure,” Shane says, and smiles. “Take all the time you need.”

Chapter 8: End User Agreement

Chapter Notes

And we're done!

Thank you to GT, CorvidCordelia, and emilgou for beta reading this chapter. And an extra thank you to CorvidCordelia for giving me the push I needed to write the ending I wanted.

Please keep the workskin on for the optimal reading experience! Also the interactive element at the end of the story scrolls, so don't forget to scroll!

“It’s fucking bullshit,” Hayden says with so much force Shane wouldn’t be surprised if the fumes of his seething rage started leaking through the phone. “Five games for your first offense? Are they fucking nuts?”

“Hayd—”

“You’re appealing, right?” Hayden continued. “What am I saying? Of course you’re going to appeal. You should get a fucking lawyer. I bet Jackie knows a good one, do you want me to ask?”

“I don’t think that’s how it works, bud,” Shane says through a grin. “Everything is going to be fine, alright?”

“How the hell are you so calm about this?” Hayden asks. Before Shane can answer, there’s a clatter on the other end of the line followed by what sounds like seven kids crying at once, but is probably the twins.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, fuck, hold on—” Hayden suddenly yelps, higher pitched than Shane’s ever heard him, followed by a muffled jumble of chaos Shane can’t decipher except to know that the Pike family swear jar is going to get quite the deposit at the end of the day.

“Jesus, Hayd. Just call me later, okay?” Shane doesn’t get much in the way of an answer, but when Hayden ends the call a second later, he figures that’s as good as one. He ticks the little box in his mind next to Hayden and swipes through his phone to figure out who he needs to call next.

There are so many notifications. It looks like almost everyone on his team—including the equipment guys—have texted him. There are emails from his mom about calming down the sponsors, one from his coach that Shane is not looking forward to opening, and about thirty notifications from the news app he uses to track articles about the team.

He starts in on his mom’s email, figuring if he needs to shore up brownie points anywhere, it’s with her, but halfway through typing up a reply, the door buzzer blares, yanking him out of his focus. Shane frowns. He’s not expecting anyone and all the guys know that he’s not one for surprise visits. Shane edges over to the door, turns on the video monitor, and takes a huge, reflexive step back when he sees who’s waiting downstairs.

“Fuck,” Shane mutters, fumbling to hit remote lock. “Fuck, shit.” He looks down at his shirt, wondering if he has time to change it, or at least get into to fucking jeans instead of his worn shorts, but it doesn’t take that long to climb the stairs up to his apartment. He runs a hand through his hair and grimaces; God, his palms are already sweating. He wipes them off on his thighs in time for the knock, but wipes them off again for good measure before he opens the door.

“Hey. Um. Come in,” Shane says, and steps aside to let Ilya pass.

Ilya doesn’t say anything as he slips his shoes off and walks into the room, his face unreadable. Shane stays still, fighting the sense that any sudden movement might spook him right back down the stairs, until Ilya is far enough into the apartment that it feels safe to slowly close the door with a soft click.

It’s hard not to stare. Impossible, really, with how good Ilya looks—jeans that have clearly been tailored to hug every curve of his ass and a soft, thin sweater that show off the insane definition of his shoulders. But more than anything, Shane’s struck by how much smaller Ilya looks here. Shorter out of his skates, less bulky out of his pads, and softer without all the posturing and anger Shane always thought was built in. It’s like the last few months, Ilya’s been trying to shine a light on himself and show Shane his face, only for Shane to keep staring at his shadow, looming huge and misshapen on the wall.

And now Shane sees him, finally. Every inch as vulnerable as Shane feels inside.

“Do you want a drink?” Shane asks, finally peeling himself away from the door. He heads straight to the fridge, whatever Ilya’s saying muzzing into the background. He pulls out the first two drinks he touches and sets them—a V8 and a half full bottle of Gatorade, it turns out—on the island between them.

Ilya looks at them, then Shane, frowning. “I said no.”

“Right, well. In case you change your mind,” Shane says, putting his hands on the island just to have something to do with them, “The V8 is low sodium. So.”

The silence grows thorns between them, pricking at Shane the bigger it gets. Shane’s always had a high pain tolerance, but this is a discomfort he’s never been able to fully inoculate himself against. He has to bite down on the tip of his tongue to keep hold of all the words that want to race out of his mouth to fill the awkward space. He’s tried to fix this too many times and his mouth keeps screwing him over.

“I heard what you did. At your hearing,” Ilya finally says, and Shane can tell he’s trying to keep his affect flat, but the lump of confusion sitting in the center won’t be smoothed away.

“Oh. That,” Shane says. He pushes the top of the Gatorade bottle until it’s almost tipped over and lets it go, watching it tottle back and forth instead of looking at Ilya.

“Yes. You know they only gave me one game suspension?” Ilya’s watching him and Shane shakes his head, the nape of his neck beading with sweat under the full bore heat of Ilya’s attention. “You think I should thank you for this.”

“What?” Shane’s head snaps up. “No, that’s—”

“You think you do this one thing and I should forget everything from before.”

“No, Jesus! This wasn’t some fucking quid-pro-quo, Rozanov, fuck.”

“Then why?”

“Because,” Shane says, and flounders, a spike of panic hitting when Ilya’s face goes so cold he’s surprised his cheeks aren’t dusted with frost. He scrambles, searching for a way to explain something that feels so solid in his chest, but shifts and changes whenever he tries to grab hold of it. “Because—it was the right thing to do. Because I was sick of fucking lying to everyone. And I can’t stop lying about everything but, fuck. I could at least tell the truth about this.”

The words settle between them and Ilya keeps his eyes on Shane, like Shane’s performed some amazing sleight of hand, and Ilya’s trying to figure out the trick.

“So you are Mr. Hero, now,” Ilya says eventually. “Suddenly so concerned with the right thing and the wrong thing. With truth.”

“Rozanov. Come on, man—”

“Fine. We will practice, yes? I will ask you questions, you will tell me the truth. Easy.”

Somehow, there’s a ten story drop happening in the twelve or so inches of Shane’s stomach. He nods, anyway. “Yeah, okay. If that’s what you want.”

“Give me your hand,” Ilya says, reaching to circle his fingers around Shane’s wrist and tug. Shane goes easy, the only resistance being the small moment of shock at being allowed to touch. Ilya turns Shane’s hand until it’s palm up, finds Shane’s pulse point with his index and pointer fingers and presses in. “My father’s trick, to tell when I was lying. He was police.”

Shane swallows, suddenly uncomfortably aware of his heartbeat. “I uh—don’t think that’s legal. Or. You know—real.”

Ilya’s eyebrow slowly lifts, his fingers only pressing harder against Shane’s tendon. Shane sighs and nods for Ilya to go on.

“Was it a joke?” Ilya asks.

“Aren’t you supposed to ask me my name or birthday first? Set a base—hey!” Shane cuts off as Ilya pinches him. “No, fuck. It wasn’t a joke.”

“No?” Something flicks across Ilya’s face, gone too quickly for Shane to even guess at.

“Jesus, Ilya.” Shane's voice drops to barely above a whisper. “You saw. Fuck laughing, I could barely talk after you finished with me.”

Ilya’s eyes drop to Shane’s mouth and hold there for a long moment as Shane does his best to keep his breathing steady. He licks his lips and prays Ilya can’t feel the twitch in his cock echoing up through his pulse.

“Why, then?

And though Shane knew the question was coming, he’s still blindsided by it.

I don’t know, is the easiest answer, and he’s said it to himself so many times that it’d probably almost sound like the truth if he tried it on Ilya. But it’s not. And Shane made a promise.

“It was an accident, the first time,” Shane says, words coming out slow as he peels the veneer off his own excuses. “I didn’t realize it was you until the end, when you sent that video. And then after, when I got that dick trick, I told myself I had to. That it was just another part of my routine. That I had to keep going to win.”

“Wow, Hollander,” Ilya laughs, the edge of one of his fingernails digging into the thin skin of Shane’s wrist. “So, you were taking one for the team? This is your answer?”

“No, I said that’s what I told myself.” Shane winces, the pressure from Ilya’s nail starting to sting, horrified that it’s only making his cock fill faster. He resists the urge to pull away, to turn away, and keeps going. “But I think I would’ve kept going, even if we’d lost.”

“Because…” Ilya prompts and Shane’s trying to pull the words up, but they’re dug in deep, like roots left to run wild for so long that there’s no telling how far down they go. Something like that can’t be coaxed out—it needs to be ripped. So, Shane rips.

“Because I wanted you.” Shane turns his hand in Ilya’s grip, stroking his fingers over Ilya’s knuckles. “I still—”

Before he can finish, Ilya pulls away, Shane’s palm landing flat on the marble, so much colder after the warmth of Ilya’s skin.

“Did you tell anyone?”

“Fuck, no,” Shane says on a burst of air. “How stupid do you think I am?”

Ilya doesn’t answer outside of a long, pointed look. Shane’s no expert on facial cues, but even he can read between the lines on that one.

“You still have the videos? Pictures?” Ilya asks and shit. Turns out Ilya is right—Shane is that fucking stupid after all.

“I—yes,” Shane swallows, rushing to continue when the hard line of Ilya’s mouth grows impossibly thinner. “Not on purpose! I was going to delete them after—um. After the hotel. But then I didn’t have my phone and things have been kind of crazy after that I kind of. Forgot.”

Ilya exhales sharply and shoves away from the island, standing up and rounding it, as fast on his feet as he is in his skates. He holds out his hand and snaps his fingers. “Your phone. Give it.”

“But I just got it back,” Shane says, even as he’s reaching into his pocket and pulling it out. It takes him a second to navigate to the locked folder everything is stashed in, apparently too long for Ilya who snaps his fingers a second time. Shane shoves the phone at him. “God, here.”

The screen is pointed at Ilya, so Shane can’t see much of what he’s doing, only vaguely tracking it in the flick and peck of his fingers and the ever deepening crease between Ilya’s eyebrows. It definitely doesn’t take that long to delete a folder, so something’s up, but it’s not until the silence is cut by wet, rhythmic, breath-starved moans that Shane remembers Ilya’s videos aren’t the only ones on there.

“Wait, fuck—” Shane tries to snatch the phone, but Ilya has it out of reach before he can lunge. He stammers over himself, desperate to explain, “They’re not—I wasn’t going to do anything with them, I—they’re—”

For me, Shane wants to say, but can’t, the words going limp and leaden. It wasn’t supposed to be a thing. He’d only ever intended to take one video, his phone propped up and stashed out of frame, capturing everything in all its lurid detail. But one had become two and spiraled from there.

“I remember this,” Ilya says as the moaning on screen starts to ramp up, his voice sounding flat, almost academic, but not cold, not anymore. “This was when you had the plug in all day, yes? Or when you said you did. That was a lie, too, maybe.”

“It wasn’t,” Shane says, pitched soft enough that they can both still hear the video, hear Shane start to beg. It’d been his idea, a wild hair Shane had woken up with one morning on a rare off day. He’d had an entire twenty four hours open before him; no practice, no shoots, no meetings with anyone on his team. Only a run, some emails, and a little bit of yoga to round out the day. And then the idea had popped into Shane’s head and he was shooting Ilya a message: Going to try something new today. Want to help?

Ilya’d only been too happy to pitch in.

They’d spent the whole day trading messages, Ilya spinning up some absolutely wild filth while he ordered Shane around, telling him to touch the plug, to rock it with the heel of his palm, to fuck himself with it, making him change the angle again and again until they found one where every cruel, driving twist had the blunt tip of the plug nuzzling into his prostate, making his cock leak messy blurts of precome, enough to drip off the tip and dribble onto the floor. Then, he’d told Shane to stop, to find something to ride and keep his hands to himself. Shane had dragged his foam roller into bed and straddled it, legs nice and wide and hands resolutely at the small of his back, grinding down and rubbing against the pressure, shameless.

And all that was before they’d even turned on the video.

By the end—the end that he can hear fast approaching, hollowed out and a little tinny over the phone’s speakers—Shane had been on his knees, face smooshed and hidden in the pillows as he fucked himself with the plug, wet, and sloppy, and loose enough that Ilya only had to coax the slightest bit for Shane to slide a finger in alongside it. Then another. Rozanov had been urging him towards a third when Shane had finally broken, coming in one long, wrenching spasm, his gasps smothered and silent against the bed.

Shane’s not surprised Ilya remembers it—it’d been pretty memorable for Shane, too.

“You can barely see me,” Ilya says, scrubbing through the video, Shane’s moans now coming in a scattershot remix. “Is all Hollander, Hollander. What is this? You like jerking off to your own face? I think there are easier ways than this.”

“You’re such a fucking asshole,” Shane hisses, making another swipe for the phone, but Ilya slaps his hand away.

“Me? You want to fuck yourself and I am the asshole?”

“It’s not that—God, can you turn that off?” The video mercifully cuts off and silence swells to fill the space left behind. “I don’t want to fuck myself.”

“What, then?” Ilya glances at the phone and snorts. “Running tape to perfect your form?”

“Fuck you.” Shane manages to snatch the phone this time, brings it protectively to his chest, ready to fend off a counter attack. “I just like watching it, okay?”

“It?”

Shane grips the phone so hard he hears a worrying crack from the case and has to ease off, tucking it away in his pocket. He can’t meet Ilya’s eyes when he finally mutters, “What you do. To me. The way I get when you tell me what to do. How—how I act.”

It only takes a single step forward for Ilya to be in Shane’s space, tipping Shane’s chin up until he has to make eye contact, then sliding his hand down to loosely cup Shane’s neck. “How do you act, Hollander?”

“Desperate,” Shane whispers, then swallows, Ilya’s grip tightening a little bit more.

“And?”

“Needy.”

They’re closer now, swaying a little more into one another with every breath, caught together in the same, inescapable tide. Ilya’s hand loosens, slides to curl around the nape of Shane’s neck, then up, until his fingers tangle in his hair. He yanks and Shane gasps, his head jerking with Ilya’s grip.

“And? What else?”

The pull on his hair stings, but Shane doesn’t fight it. He gets the same sense of clarity that comes when he’s in a game, all the moving pieces suddenly aligning and showing Shane what the path forward will be before it appears.

“Like a—like a slut. You make me act like a slut.” Shane licks his lips like he’s laying out bait, holding his breath until Ilya leans in and takes it.

The kiss is slow, like Ilya’s testing him, feeling around for the edges of Shane’s control to see how easily he can peel it away. Turns out it ripped itself clean off the minute Ilya touched him. Shane groans, his hands lift, wrapping around Ilya’s shoulders and grabbing fistfuls of his shirt, trying to pull him closer. He parts his lips eagerly at the first teasing lick of Ilya’s tongue, goosebumps blooming up Shane’s arms when Ilya slides it inside.

It’s not enough. Shane surges forward, his restless hands grabbing, cupping, running over the swell and bulk of Ilya’s muscles, no purpose left but to quiet the desperate need driving him. He can feel Ilya’s cock against his thigh, presses into it until Ilya’s hips roll in a slow grind and Shane’s knees are buckling before the idea of Ilya’s cock in his mouth hits his conscious mind.

The kitchen floor is hard, definitely not the right place for this, but waiting for even a second longer is unimaginable, a million times worse than slamming his long-suffering cartilage against the tile. He tries to drop, but doesn’t get far.

“Hey, stop, stop,” Ilya says, grabbing Shane under his arm and hauling him up. He leans in, resting his forehead against Shane’s and mutters, barely audible, “Fuck.”

Uncertainty twists through Shane and coils into a raveled, writhing mass that settles low in his stomach. “What’s wrong?”

Ilya pulls back, his hands slowly sliding away, lifting, and finally, gone. “I can’t fucking think when I touch you.”

“Join the club.” Shane forces out a shaky laugh and reaches for Ilya again, but he steps back.

“I need to go. I have a flight,” Ilya says, and the dizzy excitement drains out of Shane with every step Ilya takes toward the door.

“Wait, please—” Shane follows, hovering next to Ilya as he slips his shoes on. “We can figure this out.”

“No time.” Ilya keeps his eyes on his shoes as he laces them up. “Maybe next season.”

Shane’s mind is racing and he can’t shake the feeling that if they leave it like this, that will be it forever. “You said you’re playing Ottawa tomorrow,” Shane suddenly blurts. “I have an apartment there. It’s vacant right now; I can meet you there after your game.”

Ilya hesitates, fingers freezing on his laces, halfway through a bunny loop. He finally shakes his head. “I’ll be busy, I think. Team will go out, probably.”

“In Ottawa?” Shane scoffs, and Ilya only answers with a shrug. “After, then. I’ll wait.”

“You’ll wait,” Ilya says, a mean edge in his voice now. “With or without blindfold?”

A still shot of the hotel room flashbulbs in Shane’s mind, drying up the words and the spit from his mouth. There’s a moment, brief, but so stark in its intensity where Shane imagines the darkness, the confusion and hurt as Ilya sat and listened to the sound of Shane dressing and the click of the door as he left.

“With,” Shane says, soft, the way something fragile should be delivered. “If that’s what you want. If that’s what it takes.”

“Hollander,” Ilya sighs, but Shane doesn’t let him finish. He lunges for the console by the door and roots around in the drawer, fishing out a pen and an old piece of junkmail. He quickly scribbles the address, his number, and the door code and thrusts it at Ilya.

“I’ll be there all night. Just—think about it, okay?”

Ilya finishes tying his shoes and leans back on bended knee, eyes going first to the envelope, then to Shane’s face. He frowns, then huffs and snatches the envelope out of Shane’s hand.

“Fine,” he says. “We will see.”

There’s no stopping the smile that spreads across Shane’s face. “Okay,” he says. “We’ll see.”

The Ottawa apartment only has queen beds, because Shane never intended to sleep there himself. He’d bought it six years ago, after all of his aunties and uncles came out for Christmas and his mom almost went insane having the house stuffed to the rafters with everyone underfoot. It’s nice to have a place to stash family during the holidays, but besides that, Shane doesn’t really have any use for it.

Now, stripped naked and laid out on the bed in the biggest room, slipping a blindfold down over his eyes, Shane has plenty of fucking use for it.

He pauses, glancing at his phone on the bedside table. No new texts from Ilya, but it’s only seven-thirty. The game won’t be over for another thirty minutes, at least, and that’s if they don’t go into OT.

Of course, given that it’s Ottawa, Shane’s not too worried about that.

Time thickens into a smeared paste. With no way to check, it’s hard to tell if the seconds are passing one by one or in clumps, or if they’re passing at all. Shane’s been up since five, his day filled with packing and logistics and the airport, and it’s easy to drift off now, comfortable in bed, wrapped in the dark behind his blindfold.

When he startles awake, everything is too fuzzy to guess at how long he’s been out. He scrambles up onto his elbows, blearily straining his ears for some sign of whatever might have woken him—a door shutting, maybe, or a floorboard creaking—but there’s nothing. The apartment is silent, the walls and carpets in the building too thick to let sound travel in from the other units. Shane almost wishes he had bought in a building with cheaper materials, so something could filter in and he could get his bearings, because right now it’s like floating in a mist, no landmarks anywhere.

Shane’s worry is never silent, but the whole morning it’s been soft, a hum at best. Now, it starts buzzing, louder and louder, resonating with the whisper of doubt at the back of Shane’s mind. The refrain he’s been trying to ignore since he shoved the address into Ilya’s hands.

Because maybe Ilya won’t come.

Maybe, he’ll let Shane wait here, all night and finally even the playing field.

Maybe that’s exactly what Shane deserves.

The thought makes Shane curl, wrapping his arms around his knees and pressing his forehead to the tops. He breathes in four, holds, then lets out eight. And again. And again. It helps settle his heartbeat, but not the anxious whirling that spiked it in the first place. He doesn’t know what time it is, doesn’t know if the game is still going or over hours ago. He should take off the blindfold and check, maybe see if Ilya’s texted. Then, at least, he could know if there was still any hope to be had, except—

Except Shane said he’d wait. Blindfold on. However long it takes.

A frustrated groan tears its way out of Shane from somewhere deep. He knocks his head against his knees three times, like maybe that’ll open it up and let the worry spill out and stop festering. Ilya is coming. Shane has to—mostly does—believe that. He’s coming and Shane said he’d wait, so he’s going to wait.

Shane counts out a minute using his heartbeat to anchor the seconds, and his breath to anchor his heartbeat. One minute is as easy to count as two, then as easy as ten. The repetition is a balm, the same way it is in training, a relief to have the world boiled down to such simplicity as again and again and again. For a while, it even takes his mind off the weight of the fabric over his eyes, and how easy it’d be to slip it off.

Just as easy as it would’ve been for Ilya, when Shane had been sucking his cock at the hotel. He must have been tempted, must have realized how flimsy a promise a blindfold was, how little it would take to break it. Shane twists his hands in the sheets by his hips and keeps counting.

There are three thousand six hundred seconds in the next hour, and zero Ilya Rozanovs.

Maybe Ilya got into an accident. Maybe he lost the address. Maybe he’s been blowing up Shane’s phone, waiting for an answer this whole time.

He should look. He wouldn’t have to take the blindfold off all the way. He could hold the phone close and pull it up the littlest bit up, only enough for a quick peek at the screen. That wouldn’t count, would it?

Shane lets go of the sheets and sits on his hands.

He’s starting in on his next thirty-six hundred when his mind starts to wander further than Shane can reel it back and a new possibility emerges: maybe the reason why Ilya hasn’t shown up isn’t that he’s not coming; maybe it’s because he’s already here.

Something electric zips through him, raising the hairs on the back of his neck. Shane’s breath is the loudest thing in the room until he cuts it off, and is left with the same ringing silence that always surrounds him in the first few seconds after a hard hit. He’s sure he would have heard the front door open, as dialed in as he is to any sign he’s not alone. There’s no way he would’ve missed that…right?

Shane is used to being watched. It’s part of the gig, even when he’s not on the ice. Whatever part of his brain is supposed to tingle when there are eyes on him has long since atrophied, but he tries to flex it now, searching for that barely remembered itch.

There’s a shift, like the room suddenly pressurizes, molecules being displaced to make room for something more. Shane’s breath hitches, mouth dropping open a little, like maybe if he tries hard enough he can taste Ilya on the air.

He could be in the doorway, eyes dragging over Shane’s body, splayed out and helpless on the bed. He’d be able to see Shane’s cock start to thicken against his thigh at the very thought of Ilya watching him, of having him near. How long would he stay there before coming closer, his socked feet silent in the plush carpet. Shane’s heart kicks up, rhythm rising so rapidly from baseline that it leaves an ache in his chest, or maybe that’s the frantic hope that his fantasy could be real.

“Ilya?” Shane asks, his whisper sounding loud in the overwhelming quiet.

There’s no answer, but there, so close to the edge of Shane’s awareness that it could be a trick of his imagination, he hears something. A brief, rasping drag, like a jacket being shrugged off someone’s shoulders, or maybe just Shane’s foot catching the duvet against the sheets when he shifts. His hand drifts up to the blindfold, fingers brushing the edge before he catches himself and freezes.

He needs to know. He needs to see if Ilya is looming above him, watching his dick curve up against his belly, fully hard and already starting to leak without even being touched. If he’s not, if he’s alone in this room hard for the ghost of his own longing, Shane thinks he might suffocate under the weight of his disappointment.

And if Ilya is there—how could he blame him? How could he dangle himself like that and be mad at Shane for biting?

It takes a long, shivery breath and three tries for Shane to finally let his hand drop down to the bed, but he does. His chest feels concave, like everything inside of him is collapsing under the push and pull of his hope and fear, and the realization that whether the blindfold is on or off, Shane has no control over what’s going to happen. Ilya is either here, or he’s not; the only thing Shane can do is exhale and let go—

—and then gasp, a searing lungful of the purest shock he’s ever known, as a hand settles, heavy on his chest.

“Look at you,” Ilya says and the cloudburst of relief startles a sob out of Shane; he has to squeeze his eyes shut behind the blindfold to stop them from welling over.

“Ilya.” It comes out a croak, like Shane hasn’t spoken in weeks instead of hours. He lifts his hand toward Ilya’s voice, needing to touch, craving his own tangible proof that he’s really there.

“Down,” Ilya snaps, and Shane’s hand falls into place like it’s magnetized, his cock kicking against his belly, telling on him with the wet dribble of precome it leaves behind. Ilya laughs and swipes a finger through it, wiping it briefly—too fucking briefly to be anything close to satisfying—back onto the head of Shane’s dick. “Good boy.”

The moan that slips out of Shane is completely involuntary and wholly pathetic, but he can’t care. Not now. Not when Ilya is finally here.

“Please,” Shane says and Ilya gives a vague little hum.

“You have been waiting long?” Another too-soft stroke over the head, feeling like the very tip of Ilya’s finger. Shane whines, his hips squirming in small circles, trying to chase Ilya’s touch without lifting off the bed.

“Ilya—”

“Answer the question, Hollander.”

“Yes.” Saliva floods Shane’s mouth, his body already primed and pumped to give Ilya anything he wants. “Since—since the game started.”

Another evasive hum as Ilya drags his hand up to Shane’s chest, idly cupping and squeezing his pecs like he’s kicking the wheels on a car. “You keep yourself busy?”

“I—“

“Is a long time to wait. Maybe you got bored, went on your phone, acted like a slut for men you don’t know.”

Heat pours across Shane’s face and down his neck, almost painful with how oversensitive his skin is, every nerve ending throbbing together in one eager, impatient ache. He shakes his head hard, not trusting himself to open his mouth without whimpering.

“No?” Ilya asks and Shane shakes his head again until the warm wrap of Ilya’s hand around his throat stops him. “That is only for me?”

“Yes.”

“And what if I don’t want it?” Ilya’s voice is flat, like he’s beaten the life out of it. “What if I leave, right now?”

Fear creeps in at the edges of Shane’s need and he swallows to feel the pressure of Ilya’s grip. “Please,” he whispers. “Please don’t.”

Ilya’s hand shifts, slides around until two finger points are pressing firmly against Shane’s hammering pulse.

“I will ask you a question and you will tell me the truth. You remember?”

Shane answers with a single, uncertain nod.

“Are you sorry?”

The question, and the way Ilya asks it—quiet and careful, like he’s breaking a rule and trying not to get caught—sizzles the fog off of Shane’s brain. He tentatively lifts his hand again, and, when Ilya doesn’t stop him, Shane gently touches Ilya’s hand, curls his fingers around the side of Ilya’s palm in a half-hold.

“Yes,” Shane says, giving Ilya’s hand a soft squeeze. “I’m sorry, Ilya. I am so, so sorry.”

Ilya’s hand disappears, and for one awful moment Shane thinks that’s it, that he’s ruined it. Then, the bed dips—first next to Shane’s hip, then beside his head, like Ilya is bracing himself on one hand and leaning in—and Ilya’s there, their mouths inches away.

“Show me,” Ilya says, and kisses him.

He tastes like the far end of a long night, all stale spit and beer and cigarettes, but Shane opens eagerly for Ilya. He meets the slide of his tongue with a long, low moan and shudders into the sharp nip of Ilya’s teeth on his bottom lip. The blindfold is driving Shane insane. It’s like every sensation is magnified beyond his ability to parse it, his nerves drowning in the white noise of too much. He wants to rip it off, wants to see Ilya, but he hasn’t been given permission and, more than anything, Shane wants to be good.

When Ilya finally breaks the kiss, Shane’s head is spinning. He pants at the ceiling, reeling, and then it’s like Ilya’s mouth is everywhere: kissing down the slope of Shane’s neck, licking a hot, wet stripe along his jugular, teasing the hard points of Shane’s nipples between his teeth, back and forth, until they’re so sensitive Shane’s gasping at only the hot brush of Ilya’s breath.

“Ilya—please, I can’t—”

“Shh,” Ilya says, and then makes that order impossible to follow by wrapping his hand around Shane’s cock and giving it a long, slow stroke.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Shane hisses, digging his heels into the bed and writhing to get more of that delicious friction, but Ilya is a goddamn menace. Every time Shane moves, Ilya is ready with the counter, giving him just enough to drive him crazy without ever getting close to satisfying.

“What’s wrong?” Ilya asks, his smirk hanging off his words. “Something you need?”

“You—you fucking know.” Shane twists, bucking his hips, but Ilya laughs and takes his hand away entirely, only to replace it with the hot, spit-slick slide of his mouth.

Shane throws his head back, yanking hard at the duvet beneath him to keep from flying off the bed entirely. Ilya’s not teasing anymore, hands dropped heavy onto Shane’s hips, holding him in place while he bobs his head in a relentless rhythm. His tongue has to be double jointed, the way it moves, swirling and flicking and dipping into the slit on every upstroke until Shane’s keening.

There’s no way he can last; fuck, it’s a miracle he didn’t come the moment Ilya touched his dick. Shane is living on borrowed time right now and he grabs at Ilya’s shoulders, half-heartedly trying to pull him off as Ilya takes him deeper, letting Shane’s cock flirt with the back of his wet, clenching throat.

“Please, I don’t,” Shane says, toes curling as he tries to hold off. “Not yet, not yet—”

Ilya pops off and Shane’s wracked with the strangest mix of despair and relief, before he growls, “Too bad,” and swallows Shane down, not stopping until his nose is buried in the hair at the base of Shane’s dick. He swallows again, a perfect squeeze around the crown of Shane’s cock and Shane’s gone. He clings hard to Ilya’s shoulders and spasms, helplessly trying to fuck up against Ilya’s mouth as he empties himself down his throat.

The bones in Shane’s body turn to liquid and his brain crumbles into dust. He barely feels Ilya slide off, only registers the whisper soft kiss Ilya presses onto his hip, and the warm puffs of Ilya’s breath against his thigh where he’s pillowed his cheek. He does hear the warm, pleased gravel of Ilya’s voice, though, when he murmurs, “Good, Hollander. Very good.”

Warmth flickers inside Shane’s chest at the praise, fighting through the buzz of his body trying to reset to baseline. Ice creeps in at the edges, though, when Ilya shifts, until the press of his skin is gone, and then getting off the bed altogether.

“Wait,” Shane pushes up onto his elbows, head pointed straight ahead though he’s not quite sure where Ilya is anymore. “Is—are you leaving?”

“Funny,” Ilya snorts and there’s the sound of fabric, some shuffling, and then his hands are around Shane’s ankles, jerking him hard enough that Shane sprawls out onto the bed. “Turn over. On your knees.”

Shanes goes, moving so fast his fast twitch muscle fibers might be pushing the limits of biological ability. He scrambles up onto his knees, arms folded in front of the headboard, a shiver climbing over his skin now that the sweat on his body has cooled. His cock is soft but already trying to rally, hot shocks of interest teasing the edge of painful this soon after coming.

He’s expecting a finger, or maybe a drizzle of lube poured directly down his crack. What Shane’s not expecting is Ilya to spread his cheeks and run the flat of his tongue right over his hole. Shane’s mouth drops over, cheek smushed into a pillow as he lets out a startled moan. Without thinking about it, his back drops into a deeper arch, tilting his ass up into such a shameless display it’d make Shane blush if he were capable of any thought other than more.

It’s a thought Ilya seems to share, given how eagerly he licks into Shane. He circles around Shane’s rim, softening him up, until he’s drenched with spit and Ilya’s tongue can slip past the tight, furled clench. He’s rethinking his stance on the blindfold, too, because with his vision gone, Shane realizes how loud Ilya is. So much louder than over video, like every slurp and suck and smack is in surround sound. He’s making other noises, too, Shane realizes. Small grunts and groans, like he can’t get enough, like he needs to lap up every last bit of Shane he can. And it’s—Shane washed up so he knows it doesn’t taste bad but—it’s ass. He’s not winning any Michelin Stars with what he’s serving down there. And yet, here Ilya is, going at him like Shane’s his last meal.

Eventually, Ilya’s movements mellow out, shifting out of the frenetic, eager hunger into a warm, languid sweetness. Shane’s legs are still holding him up somehow, even though he feels limp and boneless, every muscle in his body reduced to goo. And then Ilya starts working the tip of his finger up alongside his tongue.

“Oh—fucking Jesus,” Shane pants. He turns his head and bites down on his own wrist, but the pain only ramps him up more. He grinds against Ilya’s finger—fingers, now—slipping in and out of him. Ilya’s tongue is gone, but Shane can hardly miss it, not with the way Ilya is spreading him open, getting him wet, so fucking wet. There’s no way all of that came from Ilya’s mouth. He must have brought lube with him, Shane thinks, because the bottle Shane brought is still on the nightstand. Then, Ilya sides his fingers out, and when he fucks them back inside Shane, the angle’s changed, and they skitter over Shane’s prostate and Shane doesn’t think much of anything for long, long seconds after that.

“That’s right, Hollander,” Ilya says, muted under Shane’s reedy moans. “Feels good, yes? Is what you wanted?”

“Yes,” Shane breathes, arching his back harder, wriggling, trying to get Ilya’s fingers where he needs them.

“Better than toys?”

“God—”

“Is enough for you? I can fuck you like this, make you come only with my fingers, if you want.”

“No, fuck, please, please no.” The words trip out of Shane in a rush, not even a thin gloss of pride left to hide the begging. “Don’t, Ilya, please—”

“No?” Ilya rubs hard, then, and Shane kicks like a reflex, a wet no hiccuping right out of him. “What, then?”

Shane reaches, groping behind him for Ilya, gets the firm grip of Ilya’s hand on his, the tangle of his fingers, and then Ilya’s pulling his hand up and pressing it hard enough into the small of Shane’s back that he gets the message to leave it there when Ilya lets go.

“You want something else?”

“You fucking—ah!”

The sudden stretch of a third finger shoving in next to the other two strangles the insult before Shane can get it out. His eyes are wet, leaving damp smears on the pillow when he rubs his cheek against it.

“If you want something, you need to ask nice, rude boy,” Ilya says, and lays a single, stinging slap on the swell of his ass. It’s not vicious, not half as hard as Shane knows Ilya’s capable of, but the brief slice of pain cleaves Shane right open and lets the last, stuck bits of his need pour out.

“Your cock,” Shane all but slurs. “Want your cock, Ilya, please.”

“Like this?” Ilya asks, breath gone shaky, and Shane almost unravels at the press of his thick, blood-hot cock against his ass. He rubs it over the spot he spanked, then rubs the head against his own fingers where they’re buried inside of Shane.

“Yes.”

“Tell me where.”

“Inside me,” Shane says, and then Ilya’s fingers are gone, leaving only a hollow, hungry ache that punches a helpless sob out of Shane’s chest. It’s unbearable, but Ilya only makes him wait through the crinkle of a foil and the click of a cap, before he’s back, notching the head of his cock against Shane’s hole.

“Breathe,” Ilya says, and Shane wants to laugh because how the fuck is he supposed to do that when Ilya’s stolen all the air in the room. He doesn’t get a chance; Ilya wraps his hand around Shane’s wrist, still obediently held in the small of his back and presses into the give of Shane’s body. Ilya’s cock is slippery, Shane wet and open, but even still there’s a heartstopping moment where Shane thinks it won’t work, that Ilya’s too big or his hole is too small, but then the resistance eases, Shane opens up, and Ilya slides inside.

It’s—Shane doesn’t know. Every nerve ending in his body goes absolutely haywire at the same time, going from the depths of not enough to the very edge of too much in a heartbeat. His free hand slams against the headboard, the heel digging into the padding using every inch of leverage he has to shove back onto Ilya’s cock. The fucker isn’t moving, just holding there, balls deep inside of Shane, holding so hard onto Shane’s hips and wrist that he knows he’ll come away with bruises.

“Fuck me, you gotta, you’ve—please,” Shane blurts, knees slipping under him as he tries to grind into against Ilya. He can’t imagine what Ilya must think of him right now, arched like a cat in heat, panting on his first cock, but he doesn’t fucking care.

Rozanov jerks forward, a clumsy stutter of his hips like he can’t control himself, and a low, strained groan that sounds like it’s forced through bared teeth. “Hold still,” Ilya snaps and Shane tries to listen, but his body has clearly decided getting dick needs to be an autonomic function, moving without any real permission from him.

It doesn’t take much more to snap the thin thread of restraint Ilya is clinging to; Shane wriggles, lets loose a needy, half out of his mind whine, and Ilya’s giving Shane exactly what he wants. He pulls out slowly, until Shane’s squeezing desperately around the tip of his cock. Before Shane can panic about how to keep him inside, Ilya yanks, dragging Shane back by the wrist in a deliciously brutal, gut churning thrust. Then another, and another, the wet slap of their skin ramping up like a slow clap

“You are—so fucking greedy,” Ilya growls, making low, almost pained noises with every snap of his hips, like he’s the one getting cored open. “Always more, more. Never fucking enough, is it?”

No words come when Shane opens his mouth to answer, only a bubbling burst of breath, like someone’s shook him up, popped his lid, and let everything inside Shane fizz right out.

“Is it?” Ilya demands, and Shane thrashes when the angle suddenly changes, the mattress next to Shane’s knee dipping like Ilya’s stepping on it, like he’s got his foot up on the bed.

He goes harder and fuck—fuck—Shane is, Shane’s drooling on the duvet now, and not just from his mouth. His cock’s swinging between his legs, each bed-rattling drive forward sending it smacking maddeningly against Shane’s belly, sweating so hard salt is dripping into the corners of his mouth

Ilya hits him again, another meaty slap to the same cheek, grabs a palmful and squeezes. “Is it, Hollander?”

“No!” Shane finally manages to gasp. “It’s not—I need—I need—”

Then, with a feeling like Shane’s soul is being ripped from his body, Ilya pulls out, lets go, every contact point between the two of them severing. Agonizing seconds stretch out like years as Shane flounders under the loss, moaning piteously and trying to get his arms to take his weight again so he can—fuck, he’s not sure. Something. Anything that will get Ilya inside of him again.

He balances on one arm and reaches back, expecting nothing—Ilya’s left, he’s left him like this and it’s fair, it’s fair, it’s going to kill Shane, but it’s fair—but fingers twine with his and gently squeeze.

“Like this,” Ilya says, guiding Shane to turn until he’s on his back, legs splaying wide as Ilya settles between them, bends them until Shane’s folded into himself and Shane can feel Ilya’s breath on his face. “I want to see you.”

“Me, too,” Shane whispers, heartbeat thumping hard inside the lump he’s choking on. He reaches up and touches the blindfold, but doesn’t move it. “Please, Ilya. Let me see.”

There’s no warning, color and light and Ilya bursting into Shane’s line of sight as the blindfold is unceremoniously shoved up and away. Shane blinks, trying to force his eyes to adjust faster, finally clears away the wet blur smearing Ilya’s face and Ilya’s—

Ilya’s looking at him.

The air in Shane’s chest goes sticky, clinging through his exhale like he’ll never get rid of it. There’s a little pinch between Ilya’s eyebrows, two tallymarks Shane’s never been quite close enough to count. Helpless to stop, Shane reaches up and trails the pad of his thumb over them, watching, fascinated as they ease and disappear under the touch. He wonders what parts of his own face Ilya can see now, if there are pieces even Shane might not know are there. If there might be something here they’ve kept secret, waiting for one another.

The thought is driven out of his head a second later by the sweet, dragging slide of Ilya’s cock. It’s so much easier already, Shane fucked soft and loose, taking Ilya in with nothing more than a weak clench and a thready, startled cry. Ilya presses Shane back, bending him almost double and shouldering under one of his legs, until they’re tilted just right. Shane’s eyes keep trying to close, threatening to roll back every time Ilya glides over his prostate, but Shane forces them to stay open, hungry for every twitch of Ilya’s expression.

Ilya’s not going nearly as hard now, but the drag is worse, the lube gone tacky on the condom. There’s an insane urge to tell Ilya to ditch it, to go in him bare, and Shane’s stomach cramps a little with how bad he wants that, how scared he is that this is his only chance to get it. He bites hard on his lip to stop himself from begging for it, until he tastes copper.

It’s still a close thing; the only thing that stops the words from wiggling out from between Shane’s teeth is Ilya’s hand sliding into the sweaty space between their bodies and wrapping around Shane’s cock.

“Holy—shit,” Shane gasps, digging his heel into Ilya’s back, jerking in the tug of war between his need to push against Ilya’s thrusts and fuck up into his strokes.

“Come on,” Ilya says, breaking off to lick a trail of sweat off Shane’s arched neck. “In my fucking hand, rude boy, do it.”

For a moment, Shane thinks maybe he’s too far gone, maybe Ilya has fucked him into a place beyond human endurance and he’ll be stuck like this, hard and wanting and spiraling up and up and up forever. Then Ilya swipes his thumb right under the crown of Shane’s cock and the lynchpin’s pulled; Shane falls apart, spilling messy and frantic into the tight tunnel of Ilya’s fist.

“Oh, fuck,” Ilya groans, and Shane’s nothing more than a puddle of nerve endings, can’t do anything but lie there and take it as Ilya speeds up. He’s still gripping Shane’s softening cock, little pulses of his palm sparking shocks in his balls that leave Shane whimpering, have him pawing at Ilya and squirming under the pressure building in his throat, behind his navel and—

“I can’t.” Shane shakes his head even as his cock starts to harden in Ilya’s hand. “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t—”

“One more, Shane,” Ilya says, so sweetly for the way he’s torturing Shane. He peppers Shane’s face with kisses, dropping them each time he bottoms out. “You’re so good, you can give me one more.”

Shane’s nodding even though it still feels impossible, but his body’s apparently on Ilya’s side. He doesn’t get all the way hard again, but Ilya bullies his prostate until he’s leaking and shaking, flinching with razor edge intensity. When Shane finally tips over the edge, he fucking wails, his cock spurting a weak dribble of come, pulled, it feels, straight from the marrow of his bones.

The moment Shane goes slack, Ilya pulls out. He lets Shane’s legs drop into a fucked out sprawl and shuffles up on his knees, stripping the condom off and tossing it who the fuck knows where.

“Look at me,” Ilya says—begs, really—and Shane drags his eyes up from watching Ilya’s hand flying over his cock, to his face. Ilya’s mouth open and eyes wide like he can’t believe it, his free hand planted on Shane’s hip.

There’s no coordination left in Shane to do anything other than stare, and lick his lips, and murmur please, but that’s all it takes. Ilya hunches forward and groans, hips jerking in shuddering half thrusts as he comes in hot stripes across Shane’s belly.

They pant together in the aftermath, wordless as Ilya finally tips, flopping onto the bed beside Shane like someone’s cut his strings. Shane’s body is still a buzz of overlapping sensations, but as his heartbeat starts to settle, things start to separate out into distinctly identifiable brands of gross. Sweat gone cool and clammy on his skin, lube still slick and slimy between his cheeks, Ilya’s come pooling sticky in the valleys of his abs—and Shane can’t bring himself to give the meagerest shit, because Ilya is next to him, their sides pressed together in an unbroken line.

He’s fading fast, systems shutting down one by one, drained of any reserves he has. Before he slips under, though, he feels Ilya shift, and then he’s getting tugged against his warm bulk, one of Ilya’s arms wrapping around his shoulders and pulling him close.

“Mm?” Shane manages, which feels like a Herculean effort. Actual words are way beyond him.

“Shh,” Ilya says and strokes a hand through Shane’s hair and it’s the easiest order Shane’s ever followed. He closes his eyes and drifts off.

Shane doesn’t dream. He doesn’t stir at all until he wakes hours later to the sun streaming onto his face through a gap in the curtains, and the bed cold and empty beside him.

He reaches out, lays his hand in the mussed blankets where Ilya had been hours before. It’s not a surprise, Shane reminds himself. It’s not a surprise. This is what happens after a hookup. Shane invited Ilya over for sex, Ilya came over for sex—what did Shane expect to happen after that? Ilya to spend the day with him? Hang out in fucking Ottawa?

This is how things were supposed to go. Shane got everything he wanted last night. He’s happy.

Or, content. Sated, maybe.

Whatever the word is, it doesn’t matter. There are more important things to worry about. Shane turns away from the unnamed, roiling swell in his chest, focusing in on the easier, categorical sensations in his body. He tests them with a slow stretch, a roll call of twinges sounding off from head to toe, the deepest ache centered in Shane’s ass. It’s not bad, though. It’s the kind of soreness Shane associates with a good, hard training session, the kind that makes him feel proud of what his body can do.

Now, though, every little shift reminds Shane of last night. Of Ilya’s hands and mouth and how he’d felt inside of him. Which would be great, if—

Shane sighs and rolls, reaching for his phone where he’d left it on the nightstand.

Dead. Figures.

He levers himself to his feet with a tiny groan. The cleaners are due to roll in at eleven and Shane wants to make sure he’s on his way well before then. He’d slept so hard last night that it feels like late morning, but when he snags his watch off the dresser and checks he’s relieved that it’s only nine. Plenty of time. He fishes his charger out from the bottom of his bag, plugs his phone in, and gingerly walks to the bathroom to shower.

The mess isn’t nearly as bad as Shane’s expecting. His stomach’s a little flaky and his pubes need a good rinse, but given the state he was in at the end of the night, it’s clear Ilya must have wiped him down before leaving. It’s a nice gesture. Shane wishes he’d been awake for it, if only to have any idea what the fuck Ilya meant by it.

Shane scrubs his skin until it’s pink and twists the faucet off hard enough the pipes kick in the wall. The shower is clearly not a good place to linger; too easy for his mind to wander.

It doesn’t take long to pack once Shane’s dressed—not like he brought a lot with him. He shoves the lube and condoms in the bottom of his dopp kit, piles his dirty clothes on top and zips up.

The only things left to grab are his charger—which Shane wraps in a neat little coil and tucks away—and his phone which is—-

Which is not his phone.

It looks like his phone, same brand, same color case, even, but the lock screen is all wrong. Instead of the lake, it’s the fucking cup, buckled into the passenger seat of some sport’s car. Not hard to put two and two together, there.

Shit. Did Ilya mix them up? Maybe his phone had died, too, and he’d grabbed Shane’s by mistake. They’re not identical—Shane’s case is thicker—but in the dark, trying to slip out without waking Shane up, it’d be easy enough to make a mistake.

Shane sits down on the end of the bed and frowns down at the phone. He hesitates, then swipes up on the screen, eyes widening when it unlocks.

Unless…unless it wasn’t a mistake.

Fingers gone clumsy as his heart knocks hollowly against his ribs, Shane opens up a new text and starts typing his number into the recipient field, grinning helplessly when a contact pops up halfway through—Neil. Shane types and deletes a good dozen messages, flopping around through different options, ranging from casual chirping to heartfelt and overeager, before finally landing on something simple. He hits send and waits, but not for very long at all.

Chapter 9: Hotfix

Chapter Summary

An epilogue

Chapter Notes

As always, keep creator style on for the best reading experience. Also, the chat box scrolls so make sure to read all the way down!

One year later.

Works inspired by this one

[Restricted Work] by Lexi_Leckstar