thanks to coughsyrop for help with the russian translation.

consider this my contribution to the my moon my man montage

i blame broken social scene for this

see the end notes for content and squick warnings

At the start of every hockey camp, the coaches distribute reading material—highlights from the Hockey Canada rule book, all inky and speckled and thrice-photocopied, the kind of detritus that usually lives at the bottom of a boy's duffel. Shane painstakingly hole punches every piece of paper and files them in a neat red duotang for safe keeping. On the inside of the folder, he also glues a cut out picture of Saku Koivu from the 1999 cover of the Voyageurs magazine. Koivu looks broad, blonde, and handsome, all stoic and neat with his white teeth in tact. At home they have two tapes of Koivu's game highlights from the past few seasons, one of them that lives permanently in the VCR. He is Shane's favourite player.

When the other boys catch a glimpse, they become distraught with laughter. Tyler’s booming voice cuts through the chorus of the stinking, overfull locker room. "Is that your spank bank, Hollzy?"

Matt yanks the duotang out of Shane's hands. "Oh my God, Koivu isn't even the gayest thing about this. Look, he highlighted the handouts."

"What colour highlighter? Pink?" Tyler's jaw is open, the slack, amused default position he holds when he's on a roll. He puts his hand on Shane's shoulder, as if consoling him.

Dustin is next to snag the folder, scratching at the cutout. "Hollander, I thought you would be jerking it to Paul Kiraya or something. Isn't he your same kinda Asian?"

"Koivu's hotter, right?" Tyler is touching his ribs, a bit too rough to tickle, a bit too soft to hurt. "Probably has a bigger dick."

Shane bends and bends and bends, but he can't contort himself into the right position for this. His mind is whistlingly empty, like it had been when he had to write a speech for his grade six class last year, which he memorized perfectly, and still forgot every word of when it was his turn to perform.

He finally breaks at the neck, vocal chords severed. Everyone lets out a gleeful hoot as Shane shoves the last of his gear into his bag and escapes.

Tyler is the one to call after him, all cruel sympathy and master of ceremony. "Aww, Hollander, come on! I've seen Matty's posters at home, too, I know he wants to get frigged in the butt by Tie Domi. You're not alone, bro!"

The best defence against a bully is to ignore them, his dad's adage, is a nonstarter at the best of times, but here it's the wrong move entirely. These boys are not his bullies, they are his friends. So this moment of silence quickly metastasizes and kills Shane's summer.

The free time in locker rooms, on benches, in the backs of carpools—these moments are as good as elimination rounds. You need the confidence to raise your voice, to interrupt the flow, to land a killing blow on someone else, lest it falls onto you. It gets lonely in the empty space where the punchline lives.

He's invited to Dustin's birthday party at Great Wolf Lodge near the end of the summer, though Yuna is the one to relay this information to him, and Shane never sees an invitation. Shane goes almost the whole day without talking, wasting time by holding his breath underwater, in the shallow end of the pool with the moms and little sisters. His own mom watches from the deck on a lounge chair with a book in her lap, concern clinging to her like the smell of chlorine. 

"It's just not funny sometimes, when they chirp me," he explains to her on the elevator ride up to their room that night. Everyone else is going to play Gran Turismo On Dustin's new PlayStation in the entertainment centre, but Shane had not really been invited to join.

Her frustration is familiar, like how she sounds when Shane won't eat the potatoes that touched the barbecue sauce.

"Shane, you just have to laugh with them. And give it back to them, you know?"

"But that's mean."

"We just can't take everything so seriously all the time."

He doesn't know why she says we.

The following year, Shane gets accepted to a good development program out of Kingston. Every week, as they make the two hour drive on the lonely highway, Shane practices holding his breath in the backseat. One minute. One minute and forty seconds. Two minutes and five, then for as long as it takes his dad to load the next disc of the audiobook into the car CD player. Shane exhales his desperate, clawing breath slowly, without making a sound.

There's a boy named Devin in the goaltending program. He wears his red-cheeked shame with a veneer of comedy when Shane scores on him, again and again.

"You know it's bad to take steroids if your balls haven't dropped yet, eh? Like, they're gonna get stuck up there, Hollander. Have they dropped yet? No way, eh?"

Shane is quick this time, prepared. "Kinda sounds like you wanna look at my balls, dude."

He feels the breath of every teammate’s laughter, twelve tiny gusts of wind that give him a little chill. He makes his face unserious. Devin pretends to suck an invisible dick.

Oh yeah, Hollander, I want your raisin balls so bad. Shane laughs; Your mom already sucked on them last night. 

And just like that, something clicks. Shane is at the back of the bus, looking at a blurry video of a woman doing anal on Devin’s flip phone. He’s sitting in the hotel room, on the bed, in a pile of other boys, taking the valiant first sip of someone’s warm Mike’s Hard Lemonade. He’s nodding and carefully agreeing when his friends complain about Wei Huan’s accent after practice. He’s letting someone pull his pants down at the party, in the group photo. He’s laughing, face crinkled up into a tight squeeze.

One day in grade ten, Shane’s friends are over watching the new Jackass movie in the basement. Shane goes to collect the pizza they ordered, and his friend Taylor yells up the stairs, “Bring me some ranch, faggot!"

“No! Say please, dick,” Shane yells back down to him. 

Yuna is sitting at the kitchen island with a stack of bills and a legal pad. She pauses to look at him, says very quietly, “Jesus, you boys and your language. I don’t think I like the way—” 

Shane shuts the refrigerator door hard, sets the bottle of ranch down on the counter with a thud. “Oh my God, mom. It's a joke. Like, don’t make it a big deal.” 

She looks at him for a few seconds, her flash of exasperation cut short by a blankness, blinking and staring until he raises his eyebrows at her. Then she returns to work with a wave of her hand. He scoffs. She snipes at him to shut the basement door on his way down, both of them brimming with a frustration that ties them together painfully by the middle. 

Somewhere in his room, somewhere forgotten, Shane still has that red duotang full of his Koivu pictures. He thinks about it sometimes, when his hands are whispering under the sheets, and his eyes are closed, and can let his face relax into the pillow, and let his breath come as fast and as hard as he wants it.

***

Lily:
When are we meeting
I’m so fucking horny 😛
Quick one before game???

Jane:
Fuck no
After  

Lily: 
Ughhhhh 

Jane:
You still have the security code from last time?

Lily:
👍

Jane:
I should be home by 12. Just let yourself in
If you make a back door joke I'm changing the code

Lily:
☹️

***

Boston are playing like rats tonight. They’re sore from Tuesday’s shutout in Toronto and some kind of organizationally approved fire has been lit under their asses. Two high-sticks to his jaw in the first five minutes of play has Shane imploring the refs to do something. All he gets out of it is Marleau in the box for a minor that’s met with a swift call against Comeau, and then it’s a boring four-on-four slog.

On his next shift, Shane tracks Rozanov across the play, a black and yellow gnat in his eyeline. He only lets him become a person when he’s close enough to touch. He only lets him become Rozanov when they actually do touch, slamming into the boards.

Four minutes left in the period, and Rozanov gets him behind the net after he dumps it in, a crush and clatter against the glass, battling it out with matched pressure. Rozanov earns the puck and spits something evil at Shane in Russian. That fission when their eyes meet is insane foreplay, like always. Shane is riled up and bull-huffing to chase after him, but his linemate is already intercepting, scooping the puck, and Shane has to gun it to the blue line to make the play.

The TV time out hits too soon, and Shane skates down to his end to make nice with the ref after a tense ten minutes. He’s still catching his breath when his goalie says, "Hey, Hollzy."

The boom and clap of pop music feels especially loud in the barn tonight, and Shane almost doesn’t hear Dutkevitch until he's skated a little out of the crease to join Shane. “You know what he calls you?”

“Huh?” Shane glides toward him, bent at the knees. Through the mask and the music and the roar, it’s hard to decipher Duty's heavy accent.

“Rozanov,” he says. “When he hit you, he calls you faggot. Just did before whistle.”

This information has the effect of snapping Shane into a standing position, a hard reset. He looks across the ice, to the bench, where Rozanov spits gatorade in a spraying arc across the boards. Fucking careless, messy, foul.

“In Russian?”

“Yeah, when he got you on the boards, he says пидорас. Is what this means. Thought you want to know."

Shane nods to him, settles into the right reaction. "Fucking prick."

"You get him back for that, yeah? They are a fucking mess tonight."

“Yeah, don’t worry. I got it. Thanks for the heads up, man.” 

***

Shane tries to be quick in the post-game, but they have a new chatty TSN reporter, desperate for good soundbites, and too verbose. Shane justifies the loss with the canned answers, holds his real analysis close to the chest for his next meeting with Theriault.

He showers fast and alone, speedily digging two soapy fingers into his ass with his back turned to the wall, in case anyone comes in. But he's one of the last out of there, just men in suits and cleaners left lingering in the offices.

He checks his messages in the silent seal of his car. There's a slew from the team group chat. Comeau has taken a screen shot of Hayden's recent wedding anniversary post on Instagram:

gil.comeau19
Soffffft

pikehayden
i'm the sensitive type comie. that's why ur sister loves me

jjbiz
😂

Shane laugh reacts to Hayden's message, closes out of the chat and opens up his conversation with Lily.

Jane:
I'm on my way

Lily:
You have nothing to eat in your house
Hurry the fuck up

Shane starts the car and means to get a move on, but he pauses again, peering into his phone one more time. He google translates the word faggot to Russian. A robotic voice recites it to him, flat and affectless. He tries hard to remember the sound of this word, if he's ever heard it come out of Rozanov's mouth before tonight.

He drives home in a distracted fit, confused by his own feelings about it. He searches himself for the hurt, the anger, the humor, even. He finds only anticipation, his heart pounding in his dick the whole way.

***

Rozanov is kissing him into the wall before Shane even kicks his shoes off. It's been three weeks since they've had a taste, and it’s intense. And also a trip to be greeted at the door by Rozanov in his own apartment. He could say, Honey, I'm home. 

Shane just shoves him off and says, "What the fuck was that game, Rozanov?"

His shrug is predictably irritating, "Yeah, I know. I know. But, ehh, Toronto kicked our asses and we are in Tampa in two days. Coach wants to send a message. Fix the bad press, like, you know how it is."

"It was fucking disgraceful." Shane crosses his arms, which does nothing to stop Rozanov from crowding him, tugging him around the middle, pressing his whole body against Shane's whole body.

"Yes, I'm not proud of it. But was fun, no?" Rozanov bends to tug down Shane's sweats, hot palm slipping inside his briefs on the way up. He looks up at Shane with wet eyes and a chippy smile. “You love being pissed off. I know it gets you rock fucking hard, Hollander."

"Shut up," Shane says, but it's so half-hearted. He goes lax, spreading his legs, gulping as Rozanov gets his hand all the way back behind Shane's balls, feeling around. Shane doesn't mean to whimper.

Suddenly, he's hoisted off the ground and thrown over the end of the sofa. And it takes no more than two and half minutes nudging and pushing and stretching for Rozanov to get inside him with a hurried, "I'm not fucking waiting, come here."

"Yes, yes, yes," Shane says through his teeth.

It's good immediately, undeniably, no need to focus, or even touch himself. Shane maybe should have tried begging Rozanov for a blowjob first, because it would take no effort at all to just tense up and let it happen now. It's been too fucking long and it's too fucking good, pleasure that's absolute and begs for Shane to bear down and disappear inside of. He's contemplating this when he feels Rozanov's hand slide into his hair, whispering, tsking, "Oh, you take it so nice, yeah, пидорас."

Shane feels the novel spark of recognition. It sits heavy in his gut, sinking toward his groin. How often does he say it, when they're fucking like this? How many times has Shane been this for Rozanov?

"Yeah," Shane whispers. He arches deeper into his position to offer more. He repeats, "Yeah. Da."

Rozanov pauses, cock still buried. His hand turns into a caress on the back of Shane's neck, a question, and a humility there. Shane rolls his hips in case words fail.

Rozanov gets it, starts back up again, answering Shane with sharp, knowing thrusts. They're translating each other perfectly tonight.

Shane folds himself smaller, lowers his head to the couch cushion and takes it loudly and recklessly. Does it normally echo like this in Shane's apartment? Have they cleared the space of every solid object? The stretch is so that Shane will be reddish and tender inside and out when it's done. His cock nudges against the leather under him, drooling and jerking and denied, but the constant drag of Rozonov against his prostate is buzzy and liquid and promising.

He'll like the feeling afterwards, if Rozanov is in one of his moods, of that irritating tongue on his swollen hole. It's almost like Shane can feel the aftershocks now, before they've even gotten into their rhythm, but imagining the end is part of the frenzy; Shane's orgasm is in the room with them, up in the corners, on the ceiling, waiting. Rozanov notices, too.

"You're going to come so fast, you want it so bad."

"Fuck, yeah, don't stop." Shane keeps mouthing the words after he's said them, don't stop. Don't stop.

"No, you need it, ah? Look at you. Shit, Hollander. You have a needy fucking hole." He picks up the pace, bruising, fucking through the cracking sound of their skin colliding. Then, "Needy fucking faggot."

Like a slap, Shane absorbs it, and a moment later he's coming so hard and so suddenly that his arms collapse under him. The squeeze of muscle is powerful and precise, like his body is trying to break the word in half, break himself in half. The dirty, wet proof shoots up to stain the couch below him, his own chest, his chin, and it hurts, and it's so fucking good.

Shane is still squeezing around his cock when Rozanov trips into heavier, harder hits, grinding so deep inside Shane it feels irresponsible. But Shane is out of his mind, orgasm all confused and endless, like he has summited to the top, only to slip off the sharp slope of this sex, and down into a crevasse. And there's no way out but up.

Shane gets a hand on his cock, finally, finally, and he's still hard. He tells Rozanov, with concern and humiliation, "Oh, fuck, I'm gonna come again, oh my god."

Rozanov bores into him, and this time it's all burning, a bright lactic sting in Shane's thighs. A charlie horse stalks around the edge of his exertion—he should stretch out his leg, get it down on the floor, maybe, but he can't move. Rozanov has his hip between massive thumb and finger, holding him in place, not gently. Shane is right there, the crisp atmosphere of a second orgasm tingling on his lips. His whisper is hoarse and ugly, out of his mouth. "Please, please, please, again, again, again."

The hand in Shane's hair pushes down until his wet cheek feels glued to the leather, come smearing under him. Rozanov keeps fucking him, slower now, trying to last, based on how hollow and huffy his breathing has become. He lets it all go, dropping lines of perfect poetry in Shane's ear. First in Russian, and then in thick, unthinking English:

"You want this come so fucking bad. Yeah, faggot, you love it. This faggot pussy loves it, fuck, you want it?”

"Fuck, I want it, I want it, yeah, yeah, yeah." Shane sounds like a different person altogether.

Rozanov gives it to him, grunting as he burrows in and seizes up, curling over Shane's back, his mouth wet and groaning in Shane's ear.

Shane slams his fist over his cock until everything blurs, and this time he surfaces with less violence. He comes again, mindless, gasping, completely perfect. He is nothing, no one, just a pulse, just a spasm. He is exactly what Rozanov sees in him. It is a feeling so essential, he knows he'll jerk off thinking of this moment for the rest of his life.

Rozanov pulls out slowly, hissing and groaning in a higher octave than he probably means. He tears off the condom, doesn't tie it, the absolute fucker, lets it fall to spill out on the floor, making it Shane's problem. Always Shane's problem.

He flips Shane over, heaving him up with his forearm like crowbar under Shane's heavy, boneless mass.

Shane opens his mouth easily, Rozonov doesn't even have to tell him, and he cleans the messy, softening cock that's fed to him. It tastes of a shame so salty and unctuous, Shane feels guilty for loving it. The most indulgent post-game meal of his life.

Rozanov’s voice sounds shaky, overtired and cracking as he climbs back onto the couch. "Holy fucking shit, Hollander."

It's washing away now, sense creeping back in, and the feeling of watching himself from above, like his mom in the bleachers, through the glass.

Rozanov hovers over him, limbs shaking, and Shane holds his breath for as long as he can stand it. He only makes it twelve seconds before Rozanov sinks down onto him and forces the exhale, his heavy arms sliding up through the mess.

They stay still for a while, Rozanov eventually matching his breathing. "Jesus, Hollander, that was—"

Shane can't stand to let him name it. He reaches inside himself for something to give—something as good as he's gotten. He has nothing, just an uneasy laugh, a finger to point. "Kind of fucked up?"

He expects the usual barrage of bullshit, the self-aggrandizing, self-aware goading. For Rozanov to just lean into it, be the rat fuck he's supposed to be; You came first, so who's the sick one here?

But Rozanov doesn't do that. He just nudges Shane's cheek and kisses him, back of his hand brushing hair from Shane's damp brow.

"I, ah, I'm sorry for what I said." Fingers now raking through Shane's hair. "You are not—I don't really mean it."

Shane isn’t sure if he believes him. Maybe everyone who has ever said it to Shane has meant it, on some level. Maybe he has never really convinced anyone that he was laughing with them. Maybe especially Ilya Rozanov. 

Shane shrugs. "It’s fine. Just, like, heat of the moment, right?"

Rozanov doesn’t seem satisfied. He leans in, fierce and dead serious. "That was fucking unbelievable, Hollander. You are…fucking unbelievable. Fucking perfect.” 

Shane nods. He’s not going to cry. He’s not. 

Rozanov kisses him again, hot and slow and so wet, with that openness that only comes from coming. Shane turns into him, a few tears sliding down his temples and into his hair, covert enough to ignore. And Rozanov is moving him where he wants him, leg pulled up over Rozanov's hip, the two of them asking a lot of the couch as they roll and sway.

They kiss until it gets heavy again. Rozanov pulls back and nips at Shane, soft and sweet. He takes Shane's wrist in a tight grip. He moves it to his own hip, and nestles in, getting closer than ever. Rozanov keeps moving Shane's hand, pressing it into his ass, into the crack. Shane breaks away from their kiss to hide his face in Rozanov's chest.

"Is okay," Rozanov says.

Shane drags his middle finger through the hair and the damp, and and presses it right against Rozanov's hole, kissing him as deep as he can.

Rozanov bites him. Let's Shane pet. They squirm and make-out for a while, half-hard as the night starts to buckle under the weight of the day, the crash incoming. But it feels nice, touching Rozanov here. Shane could chirp him like this, could start laughing, could call him what he is, what they both are, but he won't dare to. It doesn't feel like a laughing matter. He wants to fall asleep like this. At some point, he does.

***

He wakes up alone and cleaner than he was when he went under, the throw blanket slipping off him as he sits up in the dark. Lights still off, he answers his yawning stomach with three glugs of a readymade smoothie in the refrigerator light. Squashes the unreal spark of hope that wonders if Rozanov is waiting for him in bed. All he finds is a wet cloth in his bathroom hamper. The used condom has been cleaned up and dropped in the trash, which he finds touching, somehow. 

He’s tender and fucked out and too cloudy to feel the ache. 

Shane dives into his cool bed and blinks at his phone screen, where he finds email notifications and an alert from his security system noting that the door was locked two hours ago. There’s a text waiting for him from Lily, which Shane assumes is some parting undercut, some familiar joke, the only method they have for managing the blinding hot reality of what they do together. He can still smell Rozanov on his fingers.

Lily:
87 Gate House Rd, Chestnut Hill, MA
For next time
No hotel. Come to my house
Want you in my bed 
❤️

cw: homophobic slurs, homophobic bullying, racist bullying, homophobic slurs used during sex. also, for those who care, some very minor ilya assplay.